Hey Amerikatsi- A Peace Corps Volunteer in Armenia

Alaverdi Sanahin and Haghpat: Cross-post with www.armenia-hayastan.com

2012-04-22T08:25:00.001-07:00

The operator of the Alaverdi-Sanahin cable-car has a slight memory problem.
[When was the ropeway built?] I ask him
[When was it built? What did you have for dinner last night?]
[I don't understand. I'm sorry, my Armenian isn't very good.]
[What did you eat for dinner last night? I'm 65 years old. I can't remember what I had for dinner last night. How can I remember how old the ropeway is?]
[But is it safe?]
[Of course it's safe. I remember how to drive it.]

Unlike the slick, newly opened cable-car in Tatev, the Alaverdi-Sanahin cable-car in Lori Marz is a daily commuter. Its windows are scratched and cloudy, its paint worn and the operator must step out at each stop to keep the car from swaying on its single carrying cable. But for a princely sum of 140 drams (~40 US cents) for a roundtrip, about 1/20th the price of the Tatev trip, the cable-car is an essential connection between the town of Sanahin, located on a clifftop overlooking the Debed River and the mining city of Alaverdi located in the valley floor.

The Alaverdi #2 Cable Car and the town's copper mine

After overflying the river and rising up along a vertical cliff face, the cable-car deposits commuters and tourists at the bottom of Sanahin. It's a 15-minute walk out to Sanahin's twin tourist attractions: the Mikoyan museum, dedicated to the life and careers of Artem Mikoyan, the legendary fighter jet designer and Anastas Mikoyan the Soviet apparatchik; and Sanahin monastery, a 10th-century monastic complex and UNESCO world heritage site.

Haykush Mikoyan and the MiG-21

I'm an airplane nut, so I couldn't help but visit the Mikoyan museum, where I had the pleasure of meeting Haykush Mikoyan, the museum's curator and niece of the Mikoyan brothers. The centerpiece of the museum’s collection is Artem Mikoyan’s most successful fighter, the MiG-21.This particular jet, Haykush explains, was built in Tbilisi, little more than an hour’s drive away. Appropriately, a family of wasps has taken up residence in the right aileron. The museum itself houses a collection of flight suits, books and aircraft models. The first floor also houses artifacts relating to life in Sanahin, including a medal presented by Soviet authorities to Mikoyan’s parents for having five children.

Artem’s brother Anastas Mikoyan occupies a corner of the museum. He had a storied career as an unusually long-lived Soviet apparatchik with a close relationship to Stalin, Khrushchev and Brezhnev. Photos show Anastas cavorting with dignitaries and revolutionaries ranging from Latin American guerillas to Ford engineers. His official GaZ car is preserved in a glass case outside.

Tourists explore Haghpat

After I've got my fill of aviation history, I head up the hill to Sanahin. Its archways, domed halls and grottoes are majestic in the light of the Spring day. From Sanahin, it is possible to see its sister monastery, Haghpat, across the gorge. Haghpat and Sanahin share majestic medieval Armenian architecture, blending secular and ecclesiastic styles and featuring intricate khachkars, the cross-stones that are a central feature of Armenian art. Although most travelers will choose to take a taxi or marshrutka down the hill, through Alaverdi and back up the gorge, intrepid travelers can choose to walk the 6-kilometer hiking trail between the two. I personally choose to ride the cable-car a second time and return to Alaverdi to catch a taxi. [It's a beautiful walk and it can be done in a few hours,] says my driver [but you're too fat.]

Reddit Questions and Comments

2012-04-07T02:45:00.000-07:00

I got some pretty good questions about Peace Corps from folks on reddit. Here are their questions and some of my responses:

[–] from c------------- sent 9 days ago

Hey! I just found out I'm going to Armenia in May. I'm really excited, but obviously I have a lot of questions. Do you know if most of the volunteers are in cities or remote villages? I'm hoping to go to a decently sized city. Also, how did you get an apartment? I told my recruiter I would prefer living alone, but I wasn't sure if there's any breakdown on how many people live in apartments vs with host families? Do you know if they prefer people to live with host families, and if so, do you have to argue your case at all to get an apartment?

Also, is there anything you wish you'd packed but you didn't? Not so much clothes, I think I'm okay there, but like comfort things? I'm going to buy a Kindle before I leave, and some adapters for my computer/camera, but then is there anything else you wouldn't have thought of packing, but just randomly want? Like Woolite?

How much longer are you there? I feel like I'm stressing so much now trying to get everything together, so I'm really excited to just get on my way. Any answers you can give me/other advice you think would be useful would help a lot. Thanks!

[–] to c--------------- sent 9 days ago

Congrats on getting your nomination. I'm an A18 TEFL leaving in August, so I may or may not get the chance to meet you.

Some volunteers are in cities, some are in villages. It's about 50/50. At some point during PST you'll have an interview with your program manager. Tell them then that you would prefer a city to a village. If you're CYD pretty much all the placements are in cities. Regardless, you'll have to live with a host family for 3 months during PST, then for 2-3 months at site. Yerevan is the only real city in Armenia, and no volunteers are assigned there. Gyumri, the 2nd biggest, is about 100,000 people but is really just a giant village. At least it has a park, good supermarkets, some outdoor cafes and pizza delivery though. The volunteers there also live in nice apartments.

That said, there are some villages that are very beautiful with good housing options.

The real division ends up between the South and the North (somehow it always comes to that). Getting to Yerevan from Syunik Marz takes 5-8 hours of uncomfortable marshutka travel on mountain roads. If you're assigned to the South, don't expect to see people in the North and vice-versa. But the Southerners tend to have a good time partying it up with each other, while Northerners are more likely to go to Yerevan and do their own thing when they need some R&R.

Everything is going to be very intense for the first few weeks of PST, then the first few weeks at site. Your highs will be higher than normal, your lows will be rock-bottom. Peace Corps tells you to exercise or do yoga or something for this. Other volunteers get together in groups to have a few drinks and blow off steam. I think there's not really anything you can do except keep calm and carry on, but it just helps to know that things will even out over time. The first 12 months, you're basically running a mental and emotional marathon. It took me until December to start to feel competent in Armenia and Armenian, and then until July to feel like I really knew what I was doing. The second year is much more calm.

[–] from m-------- sent 11 days ago

Hi! I am very interested in joining the peacecorps and I saw your reply to someone's post about your experience. I was just wondering if you had any incite on the application process as well as any pitfalls you noticed during your experience. I am a junior in college, have farming experience, am fluent in spanish, and have been grooming myself for a the last couple years to gain experience for this kind of thing. I would love any advice or wisdom you might have gained along the way.

Thanks! m---------

[–] to mannyrabbit sent 10 days ago

Hi M----------,

It's pretty hard to condense two years of work and personal life, struggles, failures and successes into a reddit reply. The best thing I've learned is recognize when I need to do something myself because Host Country Nationals (HCNs) will not be able to, and when I need to find an HCN to do it, because they can do it in 2 minutes, when it would take me 2 hours of frustrated yelling and screaming. A few months ago I wrote a blogpost on "what I've learned" after 1.5 years http://www.heyamerikatsi.com/2011/12/what-i-have-learned.html

[–] from m----------- sent 10 days ago

thanks a lot! You're blog had some good incite. However I am curious about your placement. Were you placed there by yourself or with other volunteers? Also, is the work you do for PC something that was outlined explicitly in your training, or were you left to use your discretion in finding out what help was needed in your assigned area? I haven't really heard a lot about that aspect so far. thanks for taking the time to get back to me.

[–] to m----------- sent 10 days ago

I was placed in a village, in a school as a Health Education volunteer. The other school in the village got a TEFL (Teaching of English as a Foreign Language) volunteer. It turned out that what my school also really wanted a TEFL, so I switched to doing TEFL. After a year, I moved to the village just north of mine, which didn't have any volunteers, and spend my time spread between them. I also got the village just south of mine to apply for a volunteer, so now there's a little cluster of three of us, spread out over three villages. Some PCVs live in cities or regions where they're in walking distance of each other. I live about 2 hours from the capital, which is full of foreigners, and about 2 hours from the country's second city, which has about 100,000 people and 5 PCVs. The country I'm in (Armenia) is about the size of Massachusetts, so you're never that far from another American. But PCVs in Mongolia or the Philippines might be a day's travel from another Westerner.

Also, you mean to say "insight." To "incite" is to agitate people, e.g. "the unjust killings incited a riot."

[–] to m---------- sent 10 days ago

sorry to grammarnazi you, it was just getting to me.

[–] from c---- sent 11 days ago

I am actually very interested in this idea and wanted some "first hand experience" kind of feed back. I just spent a few years being homeless on the street and on people people's floors/couches and what not,; I realize this is nothing compared but I have a new understanding and urge to help and I'd like to know more. Firstly, do you sign a "contract" making it so that you have no choice once you decide to join? Secondly, How do you provide for yourself once you get to the location? Thirdly, is there any choice in where you end up going? Lastly... do they drug test? ( I feel ashamed for asking but I cannot deny my past.) Anyways I was just wondering and am genuinely interested in helping people and traveling and experienceing other cultures and locations. Thank you for your time.

[–] to c----- sent 10 days ago

Hi C-----,

You're free to leave the PC at any time. If you decide to leave, you'll be on a plane back to the states within 72 hours.
PC gives you a monthly living stipend for the country you're in. Mine is roughly equivalent to what my school's principal makes. If you stay at your site and eat local food, it lasts you pretty well. If you go to the capital and go to bars, clubs and restaurants, you can blow through it in a weekend.
You can't pick the country you want to go, but you can indicate which region you prefer. You'll probably get sent somewhere else though. One of the first tests of PC is seeing if you're flexible enough to go anywhere in the world.
They do a basic background check, and ask you if you've used drugs in the past. If you've got felony convictions or a pattern of misdemeanors, you're not likely to be accepted. If it's truly in the past, they'll likely accept you. A PC recruiter would know more.

[–] from c----- sent 10 days ago

Thank you so much for responding! Honestly, I would go anywhere, I love traveling. No felonies, yes drug drenched past but that is behind me; What kind of work do you do in the field? Are you feeding people or building things or what? I just want to make a positive impact on this planet while I can.

[–] to c------ sent 10 days ago

My primary project is Teaching English as a Foreign Language (TEFL). I work in a village school teaching 3-12 grade, working with the local English teachers. I've brought a bunch of books and computers to my school through donations so the kids have more resources, and worked with an NGO to get a grant to hire teachers who actually speak English to work afterschool with motivated kids in the region. Last summer, I worked at a bunch of camps (Environmental, Boys Leadership, English Language). This summer I'm helping my former host family start a homestay on their organic farm so they can make some money and get free labor while their son is doing his military service.

[–] from c------ sent 10 days ago

That is amazing, props for your effort in making this a better place for people to live. Do you need a degree of any sort to teach english to people? Or do you just have to speak english? Also, what other things do people in the PC do?

[–] to c------ sent 10 days ago

You need at least a bachelors, preferably with experience teaching. I was assigned as a health volunteer, but my site really wanted an English teacher instead. I sortof learned it as I go along. Since, unlike the local teachers, I speak English [as a native], know how to use a computer and have access to English language books, it's a big improvement to the school's English language teaching. Check out the PC website for all the different programs.

[–] from c----- sent 10 days ago

That is fascinating! Thank you so much for talking to me.

[–] from i-------- sent 11 days ago

Hey, I'm pretty interested in the Peace Corps. Rough conditions don't bother me much as I was preparing the join the Marine Corps for a year and 3 months till I had a revelation in life and couldn't see myself killing, or being part of it; which led to my resignation two weeks ago. I'm not sure what I want to do yet but Peace Corps came up a few times. I was wondering if you could shed some light on to how I could go about signing up. what are requirements and what to maybe expect.

[–] from L-------- sent 11 days ago

Can you pick where you want to go? Where were you sent? What language(s) did you pick up? What're the conditions of where you are now?

[–] to L-------- sent 10 days ago

Hi L---------,

You can't pick the country you want to go, but you can indicate which region you prefer. You'll probably get sent somewhere else though. One of the first tests of PC is seeing if you're flexible enough to go anywhere in the world.

I applied right out of college, because I wasn't sure what I wanted to do, but I wanted to travel and get some experience working outside the US. I said I was happy to work anywhere in the world, as was assigned to Armenia as a Health Education Volunteer. When I got to my site, it was pretty obvious they really wanted an English teacher, so I switched to TEFL. I speak Armenian pretty fluently and so now I'm switching to Russian, which is more useful [outside of Armenia]. Two years of work and personal life is pretty hard to sum up in a single message. If you're interested, my blog is at www.heyamerikatsi.com.

[–] from L-------- sent 3 days ago

Wow, that's pretty damn awesome. I tip my hat to you sir. What happens at the end of your, uh, rotation? Are you given the choice to stay/go home? Do most people go home, or stay? Oh! How were you taught the language, how long did it take for you to pick up the language, and what did you do until you had? I'm 18 and a senior in high school, and I've taken 5 years of Spanish and French each, and 2 years of Russian on top of that. I speak French fluently, I'm from Quebec (French Canada) and being pretty gifted at languages, a big part of going on a Peace Corps trip would be picking up another language, so thanks for any answers :)

[–] to L--------- sent 2 days ago

After about 1.5 years, if your projects are going well, you can extend for up to two years. Of our group of 50 volunteers, about 5 have decided to do so (most for one year). After PC, many volunteers go to grad school (there are some PC/gradschool programs out there) and some enter the job market. Many use it as a way to jumpstart their careers in international development or domestic non-profits.

I started learning Armenian in June, was given 10 weeks of intensive tutoring in-country, then was sent to site in August. By December, I had a breakthough moment where I realized I spoke the language well enough to take care of myself and solve problems on my own. It involved a taxi ride from Yerevan-Tbilisi and a forgotten library book with $80 US tucked between the page. The solution involved patiently but aggressively munching on a pomegranate. By next June, I was totally comfortable with any and all daily situations. Last December, I gave an interview to a TV station and embarrassed myself miserably tripping up on the word for "Environmentalism." It's Bnapahpahanakan, fyi. And the trick to pronouncing it correctly is to say it so slowly that it takes a full 45 seconds. Last week I gave a 5-minute talk to a group of young professionals, and did quite well using very simple vocabulary and wordplay.

Ultimately, if you're already tri- or quad-lingual, learning another language becomes much easier due to physiological changes in the brain, even if the language is Swahili, Geogian or an indigenous Mayan tongue. Did I mention you have to be prepared to learn a language that's spoken by only a few hundred thousand or few million speakers, who only exist in a small, landlocked country? Because you do.

So if that hasn't scared you off/or has gotten you incredibly excited, I have to ask a question that may burst your bubble: Do you have US citizenship? You don't need to be a native, there's a swede and an aussie in our group, but you do need to be a citizen. You sound like a great candidate so I hope you are. If not, the Canada International Development Agency (CIDA. Very Canadian name, BTW) is very highly respected worldwide and I recommend you check out http://www.acdi-cida.gc.ca/acdi-cida/ACDI-CIDA.nsf/eng/NIC-5492333-HQE

"I'm thinking of dropping everything and joining something like the Peace Corps"

2012-03-27T11:12:00.000-07:00

On the website reddit, a user posted that he was 33, single and in a dead-end job working at a gas station. He was thinking of dropping everything and joining the Peace Corps and wanted to know what it would be like. The following response received 834 upvotes:

I'm a Peace Corps Volunteer right now. Let me tell you a few of the things you've got going for you right this moment and aren't even thinking about:

Within 30 seconds of where you are sitting right now, there's a sit-down toilet next to a tap that delivers clean, drinkable water and/or hot water suitable for showering.
That gas station you manage is corporate, which it's heated in the winter, air conditioned in the summer, well lit, resistant to earthquakes, keeps out bugs and won't kill you if it catches on fire. You don't have to worry about any of this yourself, except for calling a repair man if something gets out of hand. When you call, he'll come quickly and be able to fix the problem.
When a customer comes in, 99% of the time he or she is speaking to you in English. If someone doesn't speak English, that's their problem. When you go to the bank, the post office, any government office or any store, you speak English.
You've got a credit card in your pocket, and some cash. If you want more, there's an ATM where you work. You regularly come into contact with poor people, but no one so poor that they can't afford food, or are dying of an illness that is treatable through handwashing, mosquito nets or inexpensive medication. You almost never encounter a malnourished child.
You probably own a car. It's not new, or the fanciest car in your town, but it's probably got airbags, anti-lock brakes, seatbelts, windows that open and close. If you don't own a car and use public transport instead, you ride in a clean bus, train or aircraft that is well-maintained, regularly scheduled, and probably built in the last 15 years.
When you want to buy food or medicine, you know that they're clean and of decent quality. Your favorite foods are easily available to you. You have the choice of going out to a restaurant or cooking for yourself. There are a variety of restaurants within 30 minutes of you, as well as full-size grocery store where the shelves are always stocked with a tremendous variety of merchandise.
Your family and friends are easy to reach and get in touch with. You have shared experiences with them and they understand your life and what you're going through.
When you walk in the street, no one stares at you because of the color of your skin or the way you're dressed. No one singles you out to ask for money or what you're doing. If you need to ask someone directions, they understand you and don't look at you like you're from another planet.
If you think you can give these up for two years, which means past the point where it becomes fun and entertaining, past where it's aggravating and to the point where it's routine, then you might want to think about the Peace Corps. If what you want is just a change of pace and an expansion of your worldview, look into travelling for a bit, or go to a site like WWOOF.org or coolworks.com. If you'd like to make a 2.5 year commitment to working in very poor conditions and learning a language no one's ever heard of, then look at the PC website and r/peacecorps.

Link is http://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/re9ca/reddit_im_thinking_of_dropping_everything_and/

How to Tell if You're an American...

2012-02-02T08:19:00.000-08:00

This piece was written by Afghan-American writer Tamim Ansari. I'm reading his book "Destiny Disrupted," right now. It's a history of the Middle East (or, as he calls it, the "Middle World,") written from an insiders perspective, but for Westerners. The writing is simultaneously accessible and thoughtful. I highly recommend you all read it.

His website is http://www.mirtamimansary.com/

Does America have a culture? I don’t mean “Kulcha,” as in high-flown symphonies and ballet, but culture, small c, a distinctive flavor, that je ne sais quoi that a group of people emanates by virtue of all its shared attitudes and styles.

Some say no. America, they say, is a patchwork of immigrant flavors from other places with nothing of its own. Or they allow that America has distinctive indigenous cultures but say they differ from region to region: there is Cajun culture, Yankee culture, California culture, but no such thing as American culture.

To which Mark Rosenfelder, linguist and master of the Metaverse website, retorts:

“Fish have also been known to doubt the existence of water.”

He’s right: the distinctive flavor of any culture is hard for its own members to perceive, because culture is more than a national costume and official celebrations. It’s a subtle web of understandings and assumptions that people may not know they share because, from the inside, most of it seems trivial and obvious. For example, if you’re American, you probably hold these truths to be self-evident:

Thin is more attractive than fat. (Many cultures would disagree.)
Nodding means yes. (In Turkey, I learned to my chagrin, nodding means no.)
Upon reaching adulthood, people move out of their parents’ house. (Not in Korea.)

And the list goes on. If you’re American, there are certain things you just know—or assume—or expect…that at least one other world culture finds less than obvious. Or untrue. Or incomprehensible. For example:

If you’re American, you know that…

In general, everybody goes to school till they’re about eighteen. Past that age, it’s a choice. Before that age, a kid who isn’t in school is a “dropout.”
A man who is still living with his parents at thirty is probably failing at life.
Adults work, because everybody must earn their keep.
It’s normal to die of old age. But to die of an illness is a tragedy, because illness can be cured. If doctors fail to cure an illness, they have done something wrong, and there’s probably a lawsuit in there somewhere.

The Holidays

You can’t expect to get much done between late November and early January because that’s “the Holiday Season.” (In western Europe, a similar expectation holds for August.)
In America’s Hoiday Season—whether or not you’re a Christian—you give and get gifts, go to more parties than usual, take time off from work, travel, and connect with family. Or feel bereft because you don’t.
In other holiday news, you are aware of Superbowl Sunday, even if you don’t care about football.

It’s the economy, stupid.

You assume that any product is available: it’s just a question of money. Shortages mean higher prices, not empty shelves. You never expect to go to a shoe store and find no shoes.
Haggling is not a part of shopping, unless you’re at a flea market or buying a big-ticket item. Instead, shopping involves studying the posted prices and making decisions. You can choose among many brands for any given product.
None will be the government brand. The government doesn’t make stuff.
You can recite any number of advertising slogans, though you’re not proud of it. You can recount the plots of several television commercials too. You believe that advertising influences a lot of people, but it doesn’t have much effect on you.
Nonetheless, there are ads you like and ads you don’t. In that way, ads are like pop songs.
The job title “teacher” sounds low-status to you. (In many cultures, it is a term of highest respect.)
“Lawyer” sounds powerful but possibly unethical. (In Muslim cultures it sounds just a bit more prestigious than “clerk.”)
“Politician” sounds tricky.
“Poet” provokes the follow-up question, “But what do you do for a living? (In Russia some poets are like rock stars.)
You don’t know how much money any of your personal friends make. It would be impertinent to ask. But you do know how much some celebrities make—especially athletes.
If you are given five seconds to name ten famous people, at least half of them will be athletes or entertainers.
Paying a little bit extra for better service in the private sector seems reasonable: you call it a tip. Paying a little bit extra for better service in dealings with a government agency seems unreasonable: you call this a bribe.

You are what you eat

Breakfast refers to a particular set of foods. These include eggs, toast, bacon, cereal, and citric juices—but not soup, pasta, or fried fish.
Lunch, by contrast, is anything you eat around noon. A restaurant may advertise “breakfast any time!” but never “lunch any time!”
Dinner is the big meal of the day, and you eat it in the early evening. It would be strange to serve dinner after 11 pm. (In Pakistan, I found, it’s common.)
If a meal includes meat, that’s the main dish. (In many Asian cultures, a rice dish will be the centerpiece, meat a side dish.)
You expect to eat something different for dinner every night. A perfectly valid reason not to choose spaghetti, steak, or tacos would be, “I had that last night.”
Dogs and insects are not food.
On a road trip, you’re attracted to places that advertise “homemade food,” even though you know it will never actually be home-made.
You think pie is better in small town diners, even though this is rarely true.
You know what a diner is.
When you stop at a diner or any other ordinary restaurant, you expect to see sugar, salt, black pepper, ketchup, and mustard at your table, but not chili powder, malt vinegar, or chutney.
You never wonder if the water served at a restaurant is safe to drink.

What manners to mind

Certain rules of etiquette are so basic, they don’t seem like choices, and you don’t remember learning them. For example:

If there is only one other person on a bus, you don’t sit next to that person. (In an Arab country, you very well might.)
In conversation with an acquaintance, you don’t stand closer than about two feet. You don’t touch the other person. (In Italy, you might.)
If someone compliments a garment you’re wearing, you don’t feel you have to give it to them. (In Morocco, you might feel you ought to.)
Of course you can walk side by side with a man. So what if you’re a woman? What kind of question is that?!!
If you go on a date, your mother won’t come along.
If you’re invited to someone’s house for dinner, you don’t expect to spend the night. You would feel weird if the host suggested it. (In Afghanistan, it’s almost inevitable.)

Speaking of entertainment

As an American, you have, at some point, complained about TV. You’ve expressed disgust at what junk they produce nowadays. Yet you can name and describe at least ten shows and rate them from best to worst.
You cannot name ten operas. You have probably never complained that they don’t make good operas anymore.
You think of football, baseball, and basketball as major sports. Even if you know nothing about baseball, you know that “three strikes” means “you’re out.” Even if you know nothing about football, you’ll probably never ask, “How come they call it football? They don’t really use their feet.” (If you’re European, you might.)
In England this summer, I saw the following lead paragraph from the day’s leading sports story. If you understand it, you’re probably not an American:Resuming 180 runs adrift on 264 for seven after only 14 overs were possible on Saturday, Australia had hoped to frustrate England for as long as possible with Shane Warne setting his sights on a maiden Test century. But Warne and Australia’s resistance were blown away by a stunning burst of three for six in 29 balls by seamer Simon Jones, who claimed Test best figures of six for 53.

But is it art?

You expect that a story will have good guys and bad guys. (For counter-examples, look at recent animated movies from Japan.) It will probably have a happy ending. If it has a sad ending, it’s a literary story. Or pretentious. Or European.
You recognize Charley Brown but not Mafalda. (She’s the most popular cartoon character in Latin America over the past thirty years.)
You know about superheroes: they’re normal-looking characters with unusual powers who fight crime and injustice wearing masks and tight-fitting costumes, all the while maintaining secret second identities as normal, everyday human beings. There are so many versions of this story it’s fair to call this an American myth.
Another fictional character familiar to you is the loner with his own code of justice. In the Old West, he appeared in small towns wracked by lawless violence, cleaned them up, and rode away before anyone could find out who he really was. In big, grimy twentieth-century cities, he was a private detective in a cheap suit who got beat up a lot and earned little reward for his work but kept at it anyway, adhering to his private code in a corrupt world. You understand why such a character is a hero.

Deep thoughts

“Moving on” is the healthy response to unpleasant incidents. (American reverence for “moving on” is brilliantly dramatized in the great American novel, Huckleberry Finn.)
“Living in the past” is bad. The proper thing to do with the past is to “let it go.”
“Living for the future” is good.
Living in the present is okay in moderation. (Buddhist cultures, by contrast, consider it noble though difficult.)

Of course, American culture, like every other, is made of big stuff too. The Bill of Rights. The Broadway musical. The blues…but this bottomless loam of petty self-evident truths is an indispensable part of who we are. It adds up to what others see as American about us when we travel. And it is also, I submit, an invisible web that binds us as a people. It doesn’t make us agree, but it lets us understand what we’re disagreeing about, and that is what makes conversation possible—a capacity we must never relinquish.

Unexplored Armavir

2012-01-18T12:18:00.000-08:00

I've started contributing to an Armenia Tourism Blog. A version of this post will appear on www.armenia-hayastan.com

I live in a village near Armavir Marz, which for a long time seemed like the most boring region of Armenia. Sure, it has Echmiadzin, the historic center of the Armenian Apostolic Church, but that’s so far to the East of the Marz that it’s practically a suburb of Yerevan, and everyone treats it as such. Other Marzes have stunning mountains, placid valleys, deep forests, serene lakes and historic cities. Armavir Marz starts as a swampy and treeless plain along the Arax river, which forms its Southern and Western Border, then turns into a rocky, treeless plain that slopes upwards towards Mt. Aragats, the tallest mountain in Armenia (which is, of course, in Aragatsotn Marz). The best the region could boast for natural beauty was that it has an excellent view of Mt. Ararat, because there’s nothing else to get in the way. Except, of course, for the 4 smokestacks of the Metsamor nuclear powerplant, which can be seen from nearly every corner of the Marz. “Surely,” I thought, “There’s nothing out here that can bring in tourists.”

Armavir Marz: Good Sightlines

But I found out that I was wrong! Armavir Marz boasts not one, but two excellent and under-discovered museums, both of which are only a short drive from Echmiadzin and Yerevan: The Metsamor Archaeological Site and The Sardarapat Museum and Memorial.

The Sardarapat Museum and Memorial is the site of a last-ditch battle in 1918 between the nascent Republic of Armenia and the forces of the Ottoman Empire, who wished to reclaim Yerevan, Gyumri (then Alexandropol) and Tbilisi. The Armenians won, ensuring the survival of the nation and the people. Memories of the battle were soon eclipsed by the arrival of the Red Army in 1921 and the establishment of the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic. But in 1968, a memorial was erected, accompanied by an ethnographic museum.

On the November day I visited, the grounds of the memorial were completely empty, which certainly added to the monumental feel of the Soviet Architecture. It took a full ten minutes to cover the distance from the memorial to the ethnographic museum, during which time I saw no other people. I did, however, note a plaque, a bronze copy of a proclamation by the Senate of the great state of New Jersey memorializing the Battle of Sardarapat.

New Jersey Recognizes

The Memorial

When I got to the museum, the staff quickly turned the lights on for me. I was impressed. It had obviously been recently renovated. Someone turned on a new flat-screen TV and popped in a DVD with a program about the architecture of the memorial and the museum, which is built like a caravanserai. The museum exhibited clothes, weapons, pottery and artifacts of daily life, including a working loom. In the central courtyard is an exhibit dedicated to the battle, showcasing the weapons and tactics used.

A looming presence

Manos

As I was walking around, I suddenly heard English voices echoing through the stone corridor. I raced up to the second floor. There was a small group of tourists from Finland! I listened to the rest of the tour, then introduced myself to the guide. Over tea and apple slices in front of the electric stove/space heater in a back room, she told me she was an English teacher at a local village school who moonlighted as a tour guide on weekends. We exchanged numbers, then I began the long walk back to the complex’s entrance.

The Metsamor Archaelogical Site is located near the village of Taronik, about 10km west of Echmiadzin. From the Bronze Age until the 17^th century AD, the area was a thriving urban center. Its residents produced and traded gold, obsidian, ceramics and other valuable commodities that were dug up during excavations in the 1950’s, 60’s and 70’s.

At the Metsamor Museum, you can see the ruins of ancient observatories and factories, as well as artifacts bearing the marks of the empires that rose and fell around Armenia: Babylonian Cuneiform Seals, Assyrian Bulls, Hellenistic Vases. When I visited in January, I was the only guest.

[[Jana, come out, there’s a man here!]] I heard one of the staff call to the other.

[[What?]]

[[There’s a man here, a foreigner!]]

[[Does he speak Russian?]]

[To me] “Paval Ruskie?”

[[No, I speak English and a little Armenian.]]

[[You have to buy a ticket. Would you like a tour?]]

[[How much is it?]]

[[300 dram for the ticket, 1500 for the tour in Armenian, 3000 for the tour in English]]

[[I’ll take the English tour please]]

And so I got a tour from Ashot, a stout, sturdy scientist and archaeological expert who spoke some English, and Mariam, a pretty young student and translator from Echmiadzin. Mariam’s cellphone kept ringing,[1] so many times Ashot conducted the tour in Armenian, which my taxi driver dutifully listened to in between checking his watch. Mariam was off her cell when Ashot took us to the padlocked iron gate to the basement.

“Our greatest treasure here is” said Ashot

“Here are our greatest treasures” said Mariam

The only light came from the display case, which housed a skeleton lying in a fetal position, surrounded by jewels and accompanied by three skulls, each with a hole in the side of their head.

“Rich man.” Said Ashot

“He was a rich man, buried with his servants” said Mariam.

The next room was also dark, with light coming from glass cases holding jewelry made from gold and precious stones, as well as the museum’s treasure: a frog made from precious stone, marked with cuneiform that noted it weighed precisely one shekel, about 8.5 grams.

After coming out of the basement, I walked the grounds with Ashot while Mariam stayed warm inside. We picked up ceramic shards from the dirt. He gave one to me.

[A gift.] he said.

[1] Armenians must answer a ringing cellphone. It is the law.

It was funny at the time.

2011-12-19T20:52:00.000-08:00

"There's four of us, plus luggage," I said, "so we'll need a big car. An SUV, like a Bolero or a Scorpio."
"Okayokaynoproblem, tomorrow, ninethirty, big car from farmhouse to Mamallapuram."
The next day we woke up at the farmhouse in the countryside an hour's drive from Chennai where Roopa's family had housed us for her wedding. It poured rain. I sat on the porch, watched the puddles grow and tried to learn some Tamil from the woman who had slept on a cot on the porch, watching the house and taking care of it. She spoke no English, so it was quite fruitless, but I learned that "Chair" was "Tchair" and "Tani" was rain. At 9:30, the rain stopped. At 9:45, the car pulled up. It was a Tata Indigo, the ubiquitous five-seat midsize Indian sedan.
"This is a small car, it won't carry us"
"Qualis problem." Said the driver.
"What is a Qualis?" I asked
"Yeh Yeh, Qualis."
"So there's a Qualis problem?"
"Yes, yes, problem Qualis."
"But what's a Qualis? Where's the SUV?"
"No no Qualis."

"Well guys, it seems there's a Qualis problem," I told the group.
"What's a Qualis?"
"We'll find out, I guess. Maybe it's something on the road, like flooding from the rain"
"Or a protest"
"Or a landslide."
"There's supposed to be a wild elephant somewhere in India that's attacking cars"
We got into the Indigo with three small ladies, one extra large dude, three extra large backpack and one ginormous rolling suitcase. It was cramped in the back, but I had shotgun, so that didn't really matter. We got rolling, on the lookout for bandits, landmines, man-eating tigers and other potential Qualises. Half an hour later, we pulled up behind a green SUV I didn't recognize. I read the name plate.
"Is that a...
....Toyota Qualis?!"
"Yes, yes, Qualis, Qualis problem, problem engine Qualis," said the driver.
"Oooooh, there was a problem with the Qualis? With it's engine?"
"yes yes yes."
We cracked up. For the rest of the trip, any problem was a Qualis. The Internet cafes being closed on a Sunday when Adrian needed to figure out her next move was a Qualis. The roach the size of my fist in the bedroom of the houseboat was a small Qualis I quietly resolved before before Sofya could see it and turn it into a major Qualis. The mysterious holes that appeared on the soles of Andrea's feet were a small Qualis.
"Maybe they're polio?" she asked "What's yer Qualis? P-p-p-polio worms?"

What I have learned

2011-12-13T23:55:00.000-08:00

I'm in India now taking a two and a half week break from Armenia, writing this at an internet cafe in Chennai where I'm going to a friend's wedding. Traveling through India has given me a chance to reflect on what I've learned in the last year and a half in Armenia. Although the countries are vastly different, many of the ways of life are similar.

I've learned to pack the clothes I'll need for three weeks worth of relaxed and dressy occasions in climates freezing and tropical. Then I've learned how to repack that backpack into an effective daypack. I've learned which combination of flashlights, multitools, cell phone chargers, water purification tabs, medicines, toiletries, heatpacks and towels will be most useful and minimal in weight.

I've learned how to find a good prepaid SIM card with a data plan in a foreign country (Go to a guy on the street, not an official phone store. Stick with him until everything works.)

I've learned to be a pretty fair shake a negotiating prices, and have evolved excellent technique at taking taxis. (Find out what the fare should be from a local, don't negotiate beforehand, when you arrive, step out of the taxi and pay the correct fare. If possible, get a local to give the taxi driver directions.)

I've learned what to rely on locals for, and what not to rely on them for. Many of the things they believe impossible are merely uncomfortable or unusual.

I've learned to find local transport routes, food and places to shop.

I've learned to conduct conversations necessary to transfer information without either of the parties speaking the same language.

I've developed sang froid for traffic near-misses that used to stop my heart when riding in buses. I've developed an apostolic compulsion for wearing seatbelts in taxis. (See October 2010)

I've learned when that situations requiring direct, forceful action are rare. Far more common are situations where waiting and watching are required. Standing around munching on the local munching nut (sunflower seeds, pomegranates, betel) can often yield excellent results. When direct, forceful action is required, I've learned to be direct and forceful.

Just a typical day in class [Video Post]

2011-11-21T06:35:00.000-08:00

9th, 10th and 11th graders in a conversation class unit on clothes roleplaying "fashion model and journalist."

Another example of American Cowboy diplomacy

2011-11-05T11:36:00.000-07:00

I think it was Teddy Roosevelt who said "Speak softly and carry a small child"

The Fruit-a photo post.

2011-10-30T10:25:00.000-07:00

Peaches and Plums

Sunflower Seeds being sold in situ

No distinction is made between wine grapes and eating grapes

One of my favorite pictures from Armenia. I showed it to an Armenian, and she said, "but the Plum is really more a Georgian thing you know."

April, and the apricots blossom.

The Fruit

2011-10-28T11:13:00.000-07:00

On one of the last warm weeks of summer, I was biking uphill on a country road, standing on the pedals of my steel-framed mountain bike when a car pulled alongside me. It drove uncomfortably close for 10 or 15 seconds, then the front passenger window began to roll down. I stopped, dropped my feet to the ground. A hand came out of the passenger window. It had a perfectly ripe peach in it. I took the peach. "Shnorakalutsiun" [Thank you] I said. The car peeled away. I ate the peach. It was delicious.

Fruit is a very important part of life in Armenia. Any halfway decent host will put out a plate of cut fruit for a guest. The pomegrante, and especially the apricot, are celebrated as avatars of the nation, considered to be a superior breed to any pomegrante or apricot anywhere else in the world. During Soviet times, under the command economy, Armenia was considered to be the Soviet republic best endowed with fresh produce that was rare in stores in Kiev, Leningrad or Bishkek. Today, with the exception of bananas and oranges of varying quality, all fruit in Armenia is locally grown and eaten only when it is in season. The country does not experience the "miracle" of modern produce supply chains. There are no strawberries in November, flown in from New Zealand, avocados from trees across the continent for making Guacamole for New Years parties or coconuts available for tiki parties in February. Indeed, during the winter, there's barely any fresh fruit in the country at all, except for in jams or at ridiculous prices at the nicer supermarkets in the capital. But come the spring....

The first, and most important fruit of Spring is the apricot, whose flowering in April marks the beginning of warm weather. For months, the quality of the apricot harvest is a topic of discussion at every dinner table. Was there too much rain? Too little? This Spring, my region saw a wave of hail which devastated the crop, causing a depression almost as acute as if a medium distant relative had died. The loss is not just culinary, it's economic. For a farming family, a strong apricot crop means enough money for heat, food and clothes in the winter. During those middle weeks of April, when the trees are covered in white blossoms, the season seems full of possiblities. They come in quickly towards middle of June, and quickly progress from green and hard to yellow-orange, astonishingly sweet and soft and oozing sticky juice. After eating them (it's really no problem to eat 8 or 10 at a setting), the seeds are cracked with a heavy rock to reveal a brown nut that tastes almost, but not quite, like a moist almond. By the middle of July, the apricots have become overripe and are boiled down for jams and juices. By August they are all but gone.

The first apples and plums will start to appear after the apricots, and will be eaten for the excitement of fresh fruit. But these are rather poor, sour, green fellows. Still, children will pick them and eat them for the thrill of it, enduring pursed lips and sore tummies. They won't reach their peaks until August and September, when the apples will be abundant, firm and fat and the plums will be deep purple and incredibly sweet, exploding with juice once their smooth skins are pierced. Sunflower seeds are chewed year round, but at the beginning of summer entire sunflowers are sold and the seeds can be eaten fresh. Of course, they must be checked to make sure that a little caterpillar has not burrowed into the shell, eaten the seed and decided to make it his home.

The middle of summer belongs to the peach, the best of which are sweet and juicy but somehow don't quite compare to the apricot. It's also when the best vegetables appear; cucumbers, tomatoes, eggplants, green beans, red, green and hot peppers. Lettuce is rare, but cabbage is common, usually made into slaws or soup. The standard Armenian "salat" more closely resembles an American slaw, consisting of shredded vegetables with some small pieces of meats or fruits in mayonaise. But fresh cucumbers and tomatoes are a part of every table, along with a knife for diners to slice them.

As summer starts to turn to fall, grapes are harvested, another opportunity for farmers to make money by selling to wine factories. The manufactured wine in Armenia suffered terribly during Soviet times and remains of poor quality. But the homemade wines poured into plastic Coca-Cola and Fanta bottles and kept for private consumption, shared with the neighbors or sold on the sides of the road make an excellent social lubricant. At this time, walnuts begin to fall off trees in green fleshy pods and are roasted to keep for the winter. I was also given a bag of pears so delicious it made me want to cry.

Now, as fall turns to winter, the Pomegrantes are the last of the fresh, fleshy fruits to be harvested. They will remain in markets at least until December. Apples can be stored to last until at least New Years. But the months of January, February and March will see no fresh produce and all Armenians will look forward to the Apricot blossoms in spring.

This is the Conversation

2011-10-18T01:50:00.000-07:00

Where are you from?

I'm American.

But are you Armenian? [i.e. of Armenian descent]

I'm American, clean American

But there are no clean Americans. What American are you?

American American.

Where are you from in America?

New York City

Are there many Armenians there?

Some.

I have a [cousin, friend, neighbor's niece, etc.] who lives in Californian. There are many Armenians there.

Yes, in Glendale?

Yes, in Glendale. Is it better here or there?

[shrug of shoulders]

Huh? Better there? Or here?

[shrug of shoulders]

But what are you doing here?

I'm an English Teacher.

Oh, an English Teacher, where?

If I'm in the region of my village:

In A_____

Which school? S____yan's?

Yes, A____ School #1.

If I'm anywhere else in the country:

In A_____, a small village near T_____

Where?

A small village, near T____, called A____

Oh., what do you get paid for this?

I don't understand

What kind of salary do you get?

I don't understand

Money? Money! How much money?

Normal money, a teacher's salary.

Are you paid by the school?

No, by my organization.

What organization?

The Peace Corps

What organization?

Peace Corps.

Oh, peace corps. Want a smoke?

No, I don't smoke, thanks.

[lights a cigarette] How old are you?

You tell me?

umm...23?

Nope

25?

That's right.

Are you married?

I'm not.

You'll marry an Armenian girl.

Maybe, if she speaks English.

Nevermind, she'll learn.

Commentary on the conversation:

I have the conversation, on average, about once a day. Some days I have it 5 or 6 times. The questions are simple and common, nevertheless they're a minefield of cultural differences and assumptions.

But are you Armenian?

I'm American, clean American

But there are no clean Americans. What American are you?

American American.

Race, Ethnicity and Nationality are, as any reputable late 20th or early 21st century sociologist will tell you, largely social constructs. "White" Americans tend to be blissfully ignorant of their racial and ethnic histories, and unaware of those around them, unless that person is obviously Hispanic, Black or Asian, in which case they are categorized into one of those excessively broad categories. For Armenians, however, "Belorussian," "German," "Swedish," "Italian," or "Jew" remain separate, distinct categories of ethnicity and nationality. The world used as a reference to a "pure" ethnicity is մաքուր (makur), which has connotations of both purity and cleanliness. [1] In America, associating these concepts with ethnic heritage is decidedly un-politically correct as it implies that a mixing of ethnicity is impure or unclean. I define myself primarily by nationality and consider my ethnicity rather vestigial. For me, the question is akin to "how large is your appendix?"

Yes, in Glendale. Is it better here or there?

[shrug of shoulders]

Huh? Better there? Or here?

[shrug of shoulders]

After a year, I still haven't formulated a response to this question that is both polite and truthful. I very directly ignore it.

If I'm anywhere else in the country:

In A_____, a small village near T_____

Where?

A small village, near T____, called A____

No one's heard of my village. Unless they have. In which case they probably know and are related to half the population of the town.

Oh., what do you get paid for this?

I don't understand

What kind of salary do you get?

I don't understand

Money? Money! How much money?

Normal money, a teacher's salary.

Most Americans aren't comfortable discussing their salary or the cost of their personal possessions with strangers. Most Armenians are.

Oh, peace corps. Want a smoke?

No, I don't smoke, thanks.

Almost all Armenian men smoke. A respectable Armenian woman does not.

25?

That's right.

Are you married?

I'm not.

You'll marry an Armenian girl.

Maybe, if she speaks English.

Nevermind, she'll learn.

I'm of prime marrying age.

[1] For example, to find out if water is good to drink or to swim in, one might ask "այս ջուր մաքուր է?" (Is this water makur?) and receive the response "հա, մաքուր է." (Yes, it's makur.)

September 11, 2011

2011-09-11T12:42:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, I was contacted by an alumna of my high school who is now a reporter for the New York Daily News. Our high school was (is) located about 400 meters from the World Trade Center. She had found a picture I took on 9/11 of students from my high school being evacuated and wanted to use it. She also wanted me to write something about it. In about an hour and a half between classes I wrote an article in the teacher's lounge of my school on a legal pad. When I finished the article, I found I was furious. Who was I furious at? Was I angry at the terrorists? You might as well be angry at a force of nature, a typhoon or an earthquake. The School Administration? They didn't do a bad job, really. Most of my anger at them was adolescent angst. The Bush Administration? They've been gone three years now, rejected by the American people and history. I suddenly realized I didn't know why I was angry. I had no reason to be. So I let it go. I transcribed the article to my computer and emailed it to the reporter. It was rejected by her editor. This is that article...

I was 15 years old on 9/11, a sophomore at Stuyvesant High School, and that was a good thing. Fifteen year old boys are immortal and invulnerable, at least in their own minds. So on 9/11, after seeing American Airlines Flight 11 hit the North Tower, I skipped out of class and walked around the school taking pictures. It would be another two or three years before everyone had a camera on their cellphone, and my camera was a hyped piece of 1990’s technology called the Sony Mavica. About the size and weight of a brick, it took 1-megapixel images and recorded them on a floppy disk. I had three disks with me, enough for about 30 photos. I wasn’t sure if I should take pictures of the burning towers, brilliantly framed through the floor-to-ceiling windows in my 9^th floor homeroom, or the reaction of the students at the school.

I took a picture of Julie, an inaccessible purple-haired punk with a safety pin pierced through her left eyebrow and a Powerpuff Girls backpack. I’d silently crushed on her since we’d sat next to each other in Music Appreciation on the first day of freshman year. She was sobbing in the 6^th-floor hallway. When she saw me taking her picture, she yelled, “How could you do something like that, Sam? How can you take a picture of someone when they’re like this?” I don’t remember the response I stuttered, but I do remember thinking, “Hey, she knows my name.” I deleted the picture.

I took a picture of Vlad, a self-styled Russian Mafia gangster who told stories of guns, speed and crashing BMWs on Brighton Beach Blvd. Even now I don’t know whether or not to believe him. In the picture, he’s wearing the uniform of gangstas and suburban wannabe gangstas-oversize sneakers, basketball shorts, a plain white t-shirt and a Yankee’s cap with a straight brim. He’s perched on a windowsill, the soft light from the smoke reflected on his face. I kept the picture.

I took a picture of Roman, a preternaturally cool and self-confident gay 15-year old. He’s alone in our empty English classroom. The teacher, in one of those miracles of the Department of Education, would show up 20-30 minutes late for class every day on an old granny bicycle, but couldn’t be fired. (I later heard she was reassigned to be a college advisor.) On that day, she didn’t show up at all, so most of the students left. Roman is sitting on a desk, watching the classroom TV showing what was going on 500 yards away. He’s wearing a T-Shirt that says, “I’m not a slave to a god that doesn’t exist, I’m a slave to a world that doesn’t give a damn.” A moment or two later, the first tower fell.

In Art Spiegelman’s oversize comic book, “In the Shadow of No Towers,” Spiegelman, drawn as his usual anthropomorphic mouse, shows up at Stuyvesant to get his freshman daughter. While arguing with the security guard, he hears the principal announce, “due to the terrorist attacks, students will not be allowed to go outside for lunch today.” I don’t remember that particular announcement, but it summed up the attitude of the school administration. Terror attacks, displacement, toxic dust in the air, trucks carrying rubble to marine cranes just outside the school walls; these things were merely bureaucratic obstacles to the efficient running of Stuyvesant High School, and should in no way be allowed to interfere with anyone’s college application or GPA.

So by October, after a few surreal weeks of Stuyvesant classes and teachers at Brooklyn Tech, we were back at school and nothing had changed. This was, I felt, for the best. “I mean,” 15-year old me reasoned, “shit happens, y’know?” Our school became the recipient of hand drawn posters from high schools in middle America, scrawled over with hearts, American flags and phrases like “Bomb Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Libya and Lebanon. Kill 10x as many civilians. Make the survivors pay reparations.”

I wondered about the students who wrote the posters. Did they really believe what they were writing or were they cynical teenagers like us? And we, the last generation of the 20^th century, were cynical. We had grown up watching Beavis and Butthead and listening to angry, flatulent young Eminem; we learned about oral sex from our president, and in the last election “Who would you rather have a beer with?” was a serious qualification for candidates. When enough people in Palm Beach voted for Pat Buchanan to throw the election to Bush, we shrugged because, hey, Shark Week was on.

We wore our cynicism proud, took 9/11 head on, made plane crash and jumper jokes. We groaned through pious early memorials: 6-month anniversary, last girder removed from ground zero, 1-year anniversary, the Republican Convention. We were horrified and embarrassed as the tragedy that happened in our backyard was hijacked to justify the war in Iraq, the Patriot Act and Guantanamo.

And then I went to college, and everyone around me had watched 9/11 on TV, and none of them lived with it every day for three years. My cynicism and bluntness made me a weirdo. If I told my 9/11 story in the dining hall, described the view from my homeroom’s window, watching the debris fall and trying to figure out if it was a girder or a jumper, the words on Roman’s T-shirt, everyone got quiet, stopped talking and eating, looked awkward. So I’ve stopped telling the story.

I’m 25 now, and a teacher. I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer, riding herd on classrooms of English students at a village school in Armenia. Last winter, at an ex-Soviet ski resort, I was having dinner with a group of other American 20-somethings. For some reason, one girl decided to eagerly recount her 9/11 story, the usual banal I-was-in-my-classroom-when-someone-came-in-and-said-there-was-a-terrorist-attack-and-I-couldn’t-believe-it. I sat, twisted my napkin, looked at my lap and waited until she was finished and the topic of conversation changed.

On 9/11/2001, I didn’t want to be anywhere except New York City, my home. But on 9/11/2011, I’m happy to be anywhere but. That cynical 15-year old, the one who can’t stand self-righteous piety from authority figures and wants to just get on with it is still within me. I have no interest in ceremonies or dedications. Maybe I’ll get together with a few other expat New Yorkers and drink a Manhattan, if we can dig up some vermouth and bitters. Most of all I’m glad I won’t have to see that offensive bumper sticker “9/11: Never Forget.” As if I ever could.

The Soviet Arcade Games of Gyumri

2011-06-27T04:07:00.000-07:00

In the Central Park of the town of Gyumri, once called Alexandropol, after the Czar, and still referred to as "Leninakan" by most locals, across the gorge from the Russian military garrison, and down the hill from the opulent restaurant owned by friends of the Mayor, is a small, square building with [Attractions - Games] written on the outside. Inside the building are a dozen Soviet-era arcade games and attractions. Give the middle-aged lady who works there 100 drams-worth about 30 cents, and she'll give you a Soviet 15 Kopek coin, enabling you to travel back to 1987 and experience the best in Soviet entertainment technology.

Today, a father and his young son are the only other people in the arcade besides myself and the attendant. The father helps the son shoot targets in "Snayper-2," a target shooting game, then the boy challenges me to race him. This is the only true video game in the room. I control one little car at the bottom of the screen, and the son controls another other. To move the car, I twist the wheel. I have to fully spin the wheel to move the car across the screen. I avoid hitting other cars on the road, and when I crash into them the little 16x16 pixel drawing representing my car goes red and gets a broken wheel As we're getting to the end of the race, the screen goes blank. The machine hasn't malfunctioned-electricity has gone off in the town.

"Snayper-2," a shooting game

Racing Game-the only true video game

"Morskoy Boy"-"Water War," a submarine shooting game.

15 Kopek coins

The airplane on the left is clearly modeled on the MiG-21 Fighter Jet

The guts of "Snayper-2"

"Morskoy Boy"-"Water War"

Adventures in Teaching

2011-05-26T13:34:00.000-07:00

The last two weeks of school, there isn’t much to do. I go to a party for the village boys who will go to the army. The old men sit around toasting with vodka, the old women serve the food, the boys dance together and the girls watch them shyly from behind curtains in darkened rooms. Some of the boys are my students. We dance the military dance, leaning back and slapping our palms together. The smallest boys I push over when we clap hands. The bigger boys are strong, and want to test me. We clap our hands together three times, then slap palms. Clap, clap, clap, SLAP. Clap, clap, clap, SLAP. Clap, clap, SLAP. The last one is the hardest and it feels like my palms are about to bleed, but another boy wants to challenge me. Clap, clap, clap-he feints away and laughs. From then on each boy gets two slaps and a feint, to protect my hands.

An NGO has agreed to give my school 2000 English language textbooks. The textbooks are beautiful English language-arts books that encourage critical thinking and practical language usage. An SUV from the NGO was supposed to deliver them, but it’s the last week of school and I want those books. “Don’t worry,” I tell them, “I’ll hire a truck from town, just pay me back sometime.”

I explain the situation to my school director. [Go see the mayor.] She tells me. The mayor is not in his office. He’s outside in the town square, wearing his usual sportcoat, standing under a tree with his buddies/aides. The school director has explained the situation. [You want a car?] he asks.

-No, I explain, a truck or a van. There’s 500 kilos of books there. It’s too big for a Lada, or even a Volga.

(A Lada is the standard Soviet-era car, about as sizeable and powerful as an ’84 Civic. The Volga is the Soviet luxury car, similar to a ’84 Chevy Caprice, but smaller.)

-Okay, he says, be here at 3 o’clock.

At 3:00, I’m standing outside the mayor’s office with Scott. A green Soviet panel van, the kind that’s used for everything from ambulances to prisoner transport, pulls into the town square.

“That’ll do nicely,” I tell Scott, my sitemate. But it’s delivering supplies to the town store. A man drives up in front of the mayor’s office in a tan Lada whose rearend has been replaced with a little camper arrangement.

[Come on, come on.] The driver says.

-Are you sure you can haul 500 kilos of books?

-Yeah, no problem.

-How much do you want for the trip?

-Just take care of the gas.

There’s two seats in the cab, and a gearshift.

“Well Scott,” I say, “better grab a marshutney and meet us there.”

-No, no, come, come, he can sit. Says the driver.

Scott squeezes in next to me. It’s the last day of school, the first day of summer. I’m wearing a sleeveless tee. There’s barely enough space in the cab for the three of us. I put one arm over Scott’s shoulders, the other over the driver’s.

“I can feel a wet spot on my shoulder.” Says Scott.

“Toughest job you’ll ever love.” I tell him.

We make our way to the village where the books are. By the time we get there, my left leg has fallen asleep from trying to keep my armpit off Scotty’s shoulder. The school’s assistant principal is on hand. She opens up the storage room. It contains shop machines, Soviet-era computers, hundreds of gas masks in green canvas bags and somehow, in the very back of the room hundreds of boxes of English language arts books with mailing labels from places like Michigan and Missouri. I grab a few of the bigger, sturdier looking boys hanging around the schoolyard and have them pass the boxes out the window to the driver waiting below. In 15 minutes, the little Lada is carrying thousands of books. We pat ourselves on the back. The Lada squats on its haunches. The driver and I get in. Scott stays behind.

The weight is almost entirely on the underinflated back wheels. The nose of the car wobbles as the front tires lose traction. The driver compensates by keeping a steady, creeping pace.

-You said 500 kilos, he tells me.

-Well, we have 2000 books. Each book is about a fourth of a kilo.

-This is more like 600 or 700. Did you bring the gas with you?

-Well, no, but I have money for the gas.

-Oh, that works too. We’ll stop for gas then.

We stop at a filling station and get out while the attendant refills the car’s propane tank, a cigarette dangling from his lips. In Armenia, most cars are modified to run on propane, which, for geopolitical reasons, is far more abundant and cheaper than gasoline or diesel. The fillup costs $6. I buy the driver a coke. [You shouldn’t drink too much of this,] he says, [it’s full of chemicals.]

We get back to the school, where I’ve asked the English teacher to round up some boys to help move the books to the 3^rd floor. I’m expecting a contingent of 10^th and 11^th grade boys eager to prove their strength. Instead, I’ve got two of the scrawnier 9^th graders and half-a-dozen 6^th graders. They go write to work, jumping in the back of the car and tossing out boxes.

“Kamatz-kamatz!” [Bit-by-bit!] I tell them,

“Kamatz-Kamatz!” they parrot, “Kamatz-Kamatz! Kamatz-Kamatz!”

The boxes are moved out of the truck to the school’s entrance, then from the schools entrance to the staircase.

“Kamatz-Kamatz! Kamatz-Kamatz!” say the boys.

I divide the boys into teams, each headed by one of the ninth graders. The first team carries the books from the first floor to the second, the second team carries them from the second story landing to the classroom on the third floor. A few boys playing in the schoolyard watch the excitment, then climb through an open window to help.

“Kamatz-Kamatz! Kamatz-Kamatz! Kamatz-Kamatz!” Say the boys.

By the time we’re finished, I’m panting and sweaty. “Thank you, guys,” I say. “Shorakatultsyun, akbarjan” [Let’s go to the store, I’ll get you ice cream.]

The boys and I head the store in the town square and pick out ice cream bars. Total cost for ice cream: $2.50. Total cost for moving 500 (or maybe 600 or 700) kilos of books to my school: $8.50

Conversations, translated from the Armenian

2011-05-19T13:55:00.000-07:00

Scene: A modest kitchen in an Armenian village. There's a metal pot of water a small propane stove, and a wife serving food. Scott, the American Volunteer, and his host father, a seasonally employed Armenian, sit around the table.
Father: Sam, did you know Scott is a Keri
Me: Yes, I know
Father: Do you know what a keri is?
Me: It's the mother's brother.
Father: And what about the brother of the father?
Me: That's a Haieryepaigh (lit. "Father's Brother")
Father: Ooooo "Father's Brother," aren't you a fancy karaghetsi (city boy). [he makes a limp-wristed gesture] Here in the village we say Horpay (Pa'sbro)
Me: Oh.
Father: Say horpay
Me: horpay
Father: Good job. Live long.

Scene: A small bodega-style establishment in the capital city, just outside the city center.
Me: I'll take mi haht (one piece/item) of ice coffee.
Storekeeper: Mi haht? say mek haht.
Me: Is mi haht wrong? I don't speak Armenian well.
Lady Customer: No, mi haht is fine.
Storekeeper: Yeah, but he sounds like a geurghetsi (villager)

You can't win.

A note on style...

2011-04-21T10:11:00.000-07:00

Because this blog deals with a lot of bilingual confusion, here's the style I use to give quotes in various languages:

"" Quotes are more or less the exact words in the original language as I remember them
"Barev," said the boy.
"Բարեվ," said the girl.
"Hello," I said.

[] brackets are translations of a foreign language. They may or may not be accompanied by the original language
[Hello], said the boy.
"Բարեվ," [Hello] said the girl.
"Hello," I said.

- dash captures the gist of what was said, if not necessarily the exact words or original language
-Hey, said the boy.
-Hey, said the girl.
-Hi, I said.

The Face of a Killer?

2011-04-21T09:59:00.000-07:00

Halfway along the ride to Yerevan, the marshutney from my village stops in the regional capital still referred to by its Soviet name so the driver can smoke a cigarette and wait to fill the empty seats in the van. A strange looking woman hangs out around the marshutney stop. Once, on a particularly long wait, I went out for a soda.
[Wow, look at you!] said the strange marshutney woman [Look how big you are! You're a real American, alright!].
-Yup. I said.
Today, I'm staying in the van with headphones in and my mind in a book. Mentally, it's a decent substitute for personal space, my own little nirvana where nothing can touch me. Through a pause in the "Legend" album, I hear someone shout "Hey Amerikatsi" (Hey, that's the title of this blog!) I take off my headphones. It's the strange looking marshutney woman. "Hey Amerikatsi!" she yells. I wave. She turns to her friend [That's the American! He rides this marshutney!...] she whispers to her. I put the headphones back in.
Behind me, a passenger asks, in English, "Where you from?"
I don't want to leave Nirvana. He asks again "Where you from? USA?" I take out one of the earphones and turn around. His face is the shape, smoothness and color of a brown chicken egg. I nod.
"Osama Bin Laden" he says.
okay...
"Osama Bin Laden hero."
"huh?"
"hero, Osama Bin Laden hero."
"I don't understand you. Հայարեն հոսում ես? [Do you speak Armenian]"
"Osama Bin Laden hero. I killed American soldiers in Afghanistan."
"Yeah, I don't need this."
I put my headphones back in and try to go back to nirvana. But I can't concentrate on my book. The guy has me freaked out. Sure, he's probably just a nutjob, but then how does he speak English? Plus he didn't understand Armenian. We're near the nuclear powerplant, what if he's a terrorist? But then why would he be on a marshutney? And he wouldn't want to give himself away. You shouldn't take this, man, you were there on 9/11, are you really going to let him get away with this? But you can't start throwing punches inside a marshutney. Maybe he's armed and dangerous. But you can't let him get away with this. Should you tell someone? What if he is dangerous? Shouldn't you do something? Shouldn't you show him you're not scared of him.
I reach into my bag and take out my camera. "This is what you'll do," I tell myself, "you'll turn around really slowly and calmly, smile, and take. his. picture. It's completely non-violent, but it'll freak him out, make him think he'll get in trouble. He's not going to do anything to you in the marshutney with all these people around."
I turn around slowly and calmly with a smile on my face and my camera out.
He's fast asleep.
I take a picture of him. The woman next to him looks at me funny. I realize she's a head taller than he is. And he's a little silly looking. Sortof pudgy with a plum-colored sweater. He doesn't wake up until we're in Yerevan. He gets out of the van. His pants fit loosely, and he carries a handbag with a flower pattern. He walks in a sort of stumbling rolypoly way to a city marshutney, and he's gone.

Daily Life

2011-04-09T06:36:00.000-07:00

At my school, students start learning English in the 3rd grade. As I was walking out of the village yesterday, I passed the home of one of my 4th-grade students and his 2nd-grade sister.
"Barev [Hello] Mr. Dolgin." They said.
"Barev Dzez [Hello, plural/formal]" I said
[[How do you say 'Barev' in English]] the little sister asked her brother.
[[ummmmm....'Hello']] he whispered back
"Hello!" They both yelled
"Hello." I said
They both broke down giggling.

On Nowruz, the traditional Persian New Year, Imogen and I find ourselves self banging along in a marshutney towards Garni, a pagan temple built by Greek and Roman immigrants, dramatically located on a Gorge. A few hundred Iranians and Armenians have gathered around. A group of Armenian boy scouts have arrived in uniforms with a Zoroastrian eagle badge. We follow them through a hole in the fence around the complex and pose on a rock outcropping overlooking the gorge.

When we’re finished taking pictures, we go back to the temple. The boy scouts are being forming a ring around the steps, linking arms to keep the crowd back. Three priests step out in ceremonial robes emblazoned with the Caucasian rose, a circular symbol of the sun and the infinite. I notice the same symbol tattooed on the neck of the Iranian in front of me, just below his right ear. They have daggers in their belts. A fire is lit in a brazier, and the names of the gods are called upon. Vahagan, Anaheit and Anuhei, the Armenian trinity. At the sound of each name, the crowd gives a stiff armed salute and chants “Hark!”

When I get close to the priests, I notice their clothes are adorned with Swastikas. I drink homemade wine out of a ceramic mug. When I drain it, I see the swastika in the bottom. These are symbols that the Nazis appropriated to form a mix of occultism and orientalism, just as the Masons took Arabic symbols and New England summer camps adopt the themes of Indians who haven’t been in those parts in 200 years. It’s still disturbing.

After the service, we sit on a portico of the temple eating the pieces of traditional Armenian cake that the boy scouts are handing out. I twirl a twig with new buds and shoot pictures of the crowd that’s now dancing around the brazier where the priest is sticking a dagger into the coals then pressing it to the forehead of worshippers. A Persian in a bright purple shirt comes up and asks me where we’re from in passable English.

America, we tell him.

“You are welcome, I’m very glad you are here, it is good to meet you.”

Imogen and I have been living here for months. We both speak passable Armenian, work in Armenian institutions, have dozens of friends, acquaintances and contacts in country and know dozens of bars and restaurants in Yerevan. But neither of us mind being welcomed by an Iranian tourist.

“Are you pagan?” I ask him.

“No, my family is actually Jewish, but we’re not very religious. I’m just here for the culture.” He says.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s good to meet you too. Have a good day.” And he is gone.

Berlin Wail

2011-01-14T06:48:00.000-08:00

The plan was simple:
Take the overnight train from Paris to Berlin, arriving at Berlin's Spandau station at 8am after a good sleep in a comfortable couchette. We'd meet Frauke there, have breakfast and a little rest, then be ready to explore the city.
Plan Failure #1: The overnight train to Berlin failed and was replaced with a bus. "And this bus will take us to Berlin?" I asked. "No," I was told, "The bus will take you to the border. Then you will change to a train to Berlin."
"Oh? How long will that take."
The French ticket agent shrugged. Eight hours? Ten?
Plan Failure #2: "I don't have Frauke's phone number. It's in my facebook account. Call Victorie, and tell her to go to a computer and message Frauke to tell her we'll be late."
Clement and I got on the bus together. We talked until the bus finished inching its way through Paris traffic and got on a highway. I took a sleeping pill and Clem took out a thick binder of World Bank studies on transportation economics in the developing world. The bus stopped. "We're in Germany" Clem said. "Did you sleep?" I asked. "An hour or two, what about you?" "That was fast, I couldn't have been out for more than an hour." "It's 4am." "Oh."
Germany was cold. There was snow on the ground. We were at the train station of a small city on the Rhine. "Mannheim Hauptbahnof [main station]." There was a Donor Kebab stand that was open. I bought one and a Gluhwine to wash it down with.
"So where's that direct train to Berlin?" I asked
Plan Failure #3: "There is no direct train to Berlin, not for another six hours," said the tanned German with a Hawaiian shirt, tribal necklace and flipflops. "Oh." I said, "Here, I'll show you how to get there." He took us to a ticket vending machine and printed a route taking us from Mannheim to Berlin with stops in Frankfurt and Hamburg. "Thanks," I said. Only later did I learn that officials of the Deutsche Bahn do not wear Hawaiian shirts, tribal necklaces and flipflops, especially not in December. Or maybe the sleeping pill just hadn't worn off yet.
We sleep on the train from Mannheim to Frankfurt and from Frankfurt to Hamburg, but by the time we get to Hamburg it is 8am and the train is packed with commuters. Clement and I find seats in separate cars. "Remember to get off at Spandau" I tell him. "We'll find an internet cafe and get Frauke's number from Facebook."
Plan Failure #4: I get off the train at Spandau. I look to my left. I look to my right. Clem isn't there. "Maybe I should get back on the train?" I think, when the doors close behind me and the train speeds off. Clement is not on the platform.
Plan Failure #5: When I got to France a week ago, I bought a SIM Card with 5 Euros of credit on it. To recharge it, I needed to register by sending a copy of my passport through the postal system. I sent it in the day before Christmas. It's now December 30th, and the registration hasn't gone through. The phone is now out of credit and I can't call Clement or Frauke. A text message comes from Clement telling me he's at Hauptbahnof, Berlin's central station, but I can't reply because I don't have SIM credit. Desperate, I wander through Spandau station to the information booth.
"English?" I croak at the information desk.
"Nien"
"Internet Cafe?"
The clerk nods at a fast food restaurant. I wander in. "Internet?" I ask the pretty 20-something cashier. "Oh yes, right there. It's a Euro fifty for half an hour, two Euro for an hour."
"A half hour please."
I sit down at the computer. There's no hookup for skype. I log onto Facebook and find this message from Frauke:
Hi sam, do not know whether you got my sms: Pleas do not get off the train in Berlin-Spandau but in Berlin mainstation. Will meet you there. Frauke
I type a reply, and notice that the space key on the keyboard doesn't work.
I log onto GChat. Only one person is online-Britt, a friend of Rain's who I haven't spoken with in a least six months. But she's a resourceful person with a good telephone voice who can understand the sort of predicament I'm in. I message her:

1:46 PM
me: BRITT!
areuawake!
1:47 PM
ineedhelp
andmzkezboarddoesnthaveaspacekez
Britt: hhaah
helllo
me: hi
Britt: what's up!
me: uhaveskyperight
1:48 PM
Britt: um, maybe
me: ok#
Britt: it's my mom's comp... slightly weak connection
i can try
me: ucanlogintomyaccount
Britt: but what do you nened?
log into your skype account?
me: usernameis-s------------
passwordis-XXXXXXXXXX
iminBerlin
1:49 PM
andsplitupfrompeople
ineedutocall2peopleforme
Britt: oh no! okay one min
me: tellthemiwillmeetthemat-hauptbahnhofstation
1:50 PM
thefirstguyis'clement'
Britt: yea yea
okay
me: his#is +33XXXXXXXXXX
1:51 PM
thesecondis'frauke'
her#is+49XXXXXXXXXXX
Britt: i'm talking to clement now'
he says he is there now
me: good
good
tellhimtowaitthere
ihavehisbag
1:52 PM
Britt: relay store (magazine store)
me: perfect
tellhimicangethistexts
butnotsendthem
Britt: ooh
he just hung up
are you going to be long?
me: nvm
Britt: i can call him back
1:53 PM
me: nah,aslongasheswaitinginagoodplace
Britt: he said that magazine store he is waiting
okay
i'll call the lady now
me: awesome
imataninternetplacewithoutskzpe
andwithoutaworkingspacekez
itsbeenatoughnight
1:54 PM
thanksforhelpingme
youralifesaver
tellFrauketolookforclement
he'saskinnyfrenchman
Britt: okay hahah im calling her now
me: inacolumbiauniversitysweatshirt
1:56 PM
Britt: she said she'll be there in about 10 min
me: perfect
iwillnowtrytofindatrainthere
tellhertolookforclement
andifucouldcallclementbackandupdatehim
1:57 PM
ThanksBrittIHeartU
givemylove2Rainwhenuseeher
youRock
peace!
1:58 PM
Britt: all the best sam!
she will look for clement there where he is
me: atTheRelay
Britt: love to you too !
yea, at the relay
me: happyNewYear!
Britt: i hope your day gets better !
same to you !
me: itcantgetmuchworse

The story ends happily. Frauke finds Clement, I find Clement, then we all go buy bread and sausages for breakfast, have a little rest, then go explore Berlin.
The End.

Editor's Note-The timestamps reflect the default of my Google Time setting, which is Caucasus Standard Time, making it ~11am in Berlin and ~5am in New York City.

Postcards from Georgia (Updated)

2010-12-07T12:25:00.000-08:00

Postcards from Georgia:
I arrive at the border in a Chevy minivan, a shared taxi carrying an Armenian doing business in Turkey, an Iranian doing business in Russia and three Armenians with no business but chainsmoking during the ride. There’s no line to leave Armenia, but the passport agent is busy with a long line of trucks from Georgia and Turkey headed into the country. They idle on the bridge over the small river that divides the nations. A fisherman stands in the middle of the stream in wading boots, casting for trout. On the Georgian side, a blonde border guard examines my passport. A woman in uniform is so incongruous here that I notice she’s cute, a serious-faced pixie with epaulets. She stamps my passport.
“Please look at camera.”
I look into a webcam and smile.
“Please do not cheese”
I break into a broad grin. “Aww, now you made it so I can’t stop doing it.”
She looks at my passport “You are smiling in this picture too.” She says, and points to my photo, taken 9000 miles ago at a New York City Post Office. “You are easygoing guy.”
“Usually am.” I say
“Welcome to Georgia. You can go straight through customs.” She says, and smiles.

The Marriott Courtyard and the Tourism office are across the street from each other in Freedom Square. The Marriott has better free maps of the city, but the tourism office has better free maps of the country.

For the first time in more months than I can count on one hand, I walk into a McDonalds, this one on Rostavelli street, occupying two floors of the corner of a historic building. I’m told it’s the classiest in the country. I realize for the first time that every McDonalds has the same distinct smell, hot grease and fries and plastic. It’s a smell I could recognize anywhere. I order a big mac, fries and a coke then take my meal upstairs to eat and watch Georgian women in miniskirts chase toddlers while their husbands flip through iPhones. I’d forgotten how soft McDonalds bread is. The preservatives, too, have their distinct flavor that I’d forgotten. After months of tough, freshly killed beef and chicken, I can’t even taste the meat. The fries are forgettable tools for carrying ketchup and grease. The coke is delicious.

My Couchsurfing host is an Indian medical student. I share the surf with Alex, a Chicago boy who came to Georgia to volunteer for four months in Teach and Learn in Georgia, a Georgian Government program that works like a mini-PC. Idealistic 20somethings from English-speaking countries are recruited to be placed in Georgian schools in Tbilisi and the regions (especially in the north, where the PC won't go because of the risks in the event of a war with Russia). They're given a week of orientation, no health-care and twice the salary of a Georgian teacher. It's this last point that has infuriated the opposition party, as has the rumors of one of the TLG'rs (or TnL, as I like to say) being gay. He's not, but that hasn't stopped the media from camping out in front of his house. Alex is friendly and soft spoken, and it’s his first time out of his little Georgian village in 4 months. We go out at night with three TnL girls, equally wide-eyed. “You mean you can just go into a bar without paying cover?” says one, from a farm near the Mississippi River, “Isn’t that stealing?” We make our way to an art gallery/bar. “I think this might be a private party.” She says, “We shouldn’t intrude.”
In the bar is a mix of expats and good music. An 8 year old gypsy girl with a teddy bear backpack dances with the customers. I meet an American journalist and her German friend, who has discovered Long Island Ice Tea has very little ice and no tea. Unfortunately, the German has been discovered by a short, squat 60-something Georgian man with eyes going in two different directions. He is holding her hand and telling her how beautiful she is in some sort of English, then naming bands he likes. I look at the American, then take the Georgian man's hands. “Your hands are so beautiful. And you have a very long life line. You must have lived for several hundred years.” The American gets the joke. “Oh, you have to read his right hand,” she says, “look at this love line. It’s very short. I think you’re not going to be lucky in love.” I pick the man’s hat off his head. “Look at this hat, I love this hat, it’s so beautiful. May I have it?” The German takes it out of my hands and put is backwards on her head and starts to dance. The Georgian is encouraged. He puts his hands on both of her cheeks and kisses her full on the mouth.
“That’s it buddy, you’re out of here.” I push the Georgian away, towards the bars entrance.
“Just one. Just one more.” He pleads. Out. push. Okay, okay, he leaves the bar.
“Well, I didn’t give him any tongue.” Says the German.

Chase and I hit the bathhouse, sharing a private room with a shower and a hot tub. Drinking Georgian beers in the steaming sulfur water, then cooling off by lying on the marble slab is the most relaxing thing I’ve done since my last spring motorcycle ride along the West Side Highway. We get a massage from a Georgian man who wears swim trunks in deference to our Americanness. I later find out that if I wanted a massage from a woman, I had to go up the hill to the older baths where drunken men stumble out and women check their makeup in mirrors in the alcove outside.

I take the train home, sharing a compartment with two ethnic Armenian women born and living in Georgia. I bring out bread, cheese, sausage and lemonade. They bring out chicken, vegetables and vodka. We make a few toasts, then I call folks at home for a Sunday-night catchup session. I’m on the phone with Sandra when people start running the hall “Durs Gna! Durs Gna! Passport Brne!” yell my compartment mates. “I have to go,” I tell Sandra, “they’re telling me to go outside and bring my passport. I also haul out my backpack and sleeping back. Never want to leave behind your towel and all that. “Djur! Djur! Brne Djur!” men are yelling. Bring water? Where? I’ve got a bottle of drinking water in my bag. I hop off the train. Flames and smoke are coming from the front. I run forward. The rear of the locomotive is on fire. Used fire extinguishers are piled around. Men are running up with buckets labeled ТУЛИТ -Toilet“Djur! Djur! Djur ka!” there is water here! There is no light. I pull my headlamp from my backpack then drop the pack on the ground. There is a small pond, little more than a puddle of water. Beside it is an Armenian man, trying to avoid getting mud from the pond on his shiny pointy black shoes. He’s smoking a cigarette with one hand, dipping buckets into the shallow water with the other. There’s a long line of men waiting for their buckets to be filled. I step into the mud and join him, but the water isn’t deep enough to fill a bucket. “Oh really.” I say, and step into the water up to my ankles, then pass up filled buckets of water.
The fire is soon put out and we stand around watching the locomotive and waiting for someone to say what to do.
“Thank you for helping save the train. You’re a real hero.” Says a distinguished looking man. “Would you like some dry socks? You shouldn't catch a cold.”
“No, I’ve got plenty in my bag, but thanks. I’m sure this only happens on the Georgian side.”
“Of course. They were going much too fast.”
We get back on the train. I change out of my mud spattered pants. Women come to my compartment to thank me and worry about my catching cold. The train limps back towards Tbilisi, the locomotive is changed and we start our journey again. I unpack my sleeping bag and get in my bunk, the rocking motion of the train sending me right to sleep. At the border, I wake enough just enough to hand the guards my passport from my pocket.
-Don’t bother him, let him sleep, I hear the other people on the train saying, he helped save the train, he’s a good boy.
I wake up in Yerevan.

Update:
Returning home, my host family quizzes me on the prices of food in Georgia. How much was bread? How much was this cheese? I bring them two kilos of mandarins, the fruit specialty of Georgia, sold by old ladies on the side of the road and in metro stations. I get good at doing 3-way conversions. 1 Lari for a kilo of mandarins is about 50 cents is about 150 dram.
-Which is more beautiful? the teachers at my school ask, Yerevan or Tbilisi
-They're both nice, I say.
-Say Yerevan, they say.
-Yerevan.
-Good boy, apres.
I return to school to find half the students out sick. My school director has placed crushed garlic in the classrooms to ward off disease and cancels my English clubs.
My host family tells me that the radio has announced that Saakashvili blamed the fire on an attack by a 13-year old Abkazhian terrorist. The radio also mentioned that an American passenger helped put out the fire. C'est la vie.

Video Post!

2010-10-16T01:05:00.000-07:00

This is how we do it.

Res Ipsa Loquitor

2010-10-14T08:41:00.000-07:00

Blog design update

2010-10-11T07:29:00.000-07:00

I just figured out how to replace my background picture on my blog. That's the sun setting over Turkey as I take the train back to my site. We're pretty close to the border here. Wander too far, and border guards from Russia will take you aside for a little talk. Since I don't speak Russian, and they don't speak Armenian, that's probably a bad idea. Go the other way far enough, and you'll meet up with the Azeri border guards. They'll probably speak Russian too, but they're not really interested in talking. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, and here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

Here's that picture, BTW

Crash

2010-10-05T11:12:00.000-07:00

6:06 PM

I’m lying on the floor of a flat on the 4^th story of a Soviet apartment block on S. street in Yerevan. The flat is owned by my friends Claire and Imogen, Fulbright Scholars, teaching English at Yerevan Universities. Claire has a bruise streaked with tiny cuts on her right cheek. Imogen’s head is wrapped in gauze slowly being soaked through with her blood. I’ve taken a tranquilizer and we’re looking at a laptop. On the laptop’s screen is a picture of a truck that has run off the road and crushed a small Iranian-made taxi. Three quarters of the taxi are mostly intact, but the area around front passenger’s seat has been crumpled. This morning, we were riding in that taxi. Claire and Imogen were in the back. I was in the front.

6:08 PM

“Am I alive?”

“Sam’s having his moment.” Says Claire

“I mean it. How can you prove to me I’m alive? Look at that picture. I should be dead. I could just be hallucinating this or be in heaven.”

“We’re alive, we know we’re alive and you’re on tranqs, so you can trust us.” Says Imogen.

“You were in the car with me. You can’t be trusted. We could all be dead together. Haven’t you seen Beetlejuice?”

They haven’t.

“The couple get home from the car crash, and they wonder how they survived, but it turns out they’re really ghosts and can never leave their house. But don’t worry, I’ll call Michael. He’s studied philosophy and is very smart, he can prove to me that I’m alive. Plus he gave me this carabineer.”

I dial Michael. He’s riding in a Marshutney. I tell him that he’s smart, that he’s studied philosophy, that I like the carabineer he gave me, and could he prove I’m alive.

“I can’t do that, Sam.” He says.

“I have no way of knowing whether or not I’m alive!”

12:25 PM

“You don’t have any metal in your head, do you?” Asks Dr. Anna, the Peace Corps’ doctor

“Actually, I’ve got three earrings.” Says Imogen. She takes out two easily, but the third is new. She goes to a mirror. Claire helps her unscrew the little ball. It falls into the sink and goes down the drain. I take the earrings in my hand. Imogen lies down on the CT scanner. We’re at the Nairi Medical Center, the best hospital in Armenia.

Dr. Anna and I retreat to the technician’s room. The bed that Imogen is lying on rises, then passes her head through the hole of a giant white plastic donut. I watch Imogen’s brain appear on the screen in two dimensional snapshots. Dr. Anna and the technicians speak in worried Russian. I can’t understand what they’re saying. I shouldn’t even be in the technician’s room, so I don’t speak, don’t ask questions, try not to show emotion, not to disturb the doctors. Imogen comes off the bed and is wheeled to Dr. Anna. I wait to hear if there is brain damage, cerebral hemmorage, skull fractures.

“Did you know you have a chronic sinus infection?”

9:34 AM

L. from the embassy is dressed for a fall powerwalk in a nice New England suburb. She’s wearing sneakers, a purple fleece and has a water bottle with the logo of her school. She was going to head out hiking when she got the call that there was an American having her head stitched together in the A. district hospital.

“The Doctor says it cost --,000 drams. Do you have the money with you.”

Last night at the ATM in Yerevan, I’d taken out my monthly paycheck, most of which goes to my host family for food. I pull four --,000 dram notes out of my wallet.

“Can I get a receipt?”

“They say that you’d have to wait for them to fill out all the forms.”

“Okay, I understand.”

I go to the doctor. I thank him profusely for saving my friend’s life. I shake his hand with my left hand. With my bruised right hand I slip him the bills. He doesn’t look at them. I ask him his name. I congratulate him on the recent wedding of one of the young residents at the hospital. He wishes me the best of luck and health.

We take Imogen down to the waiting SUV from the embassy. It’s pouring rain. The SUV quickly fills with Imogen and embassy people. Claire shows up with Fantas and Twix from the nearest store. We get into the car of Armen, the Armenian translator at the US Embassy who has been with us from almost the beginning. We beg him to drive slowly and carefully. We eat the Twix and drink the Fantas. It’s the first time we’ve been able to sit still since the crash.

“It’s funny,” says Armen, “I was just here for the wedding of the young doctor.”

8:24 AM

I help lift Imogen off of the litter and onto the hospital gurney, in the process recovering my precious Marmot 0 degree down sleeping bag which I’d been using to keep her warm. We wheel her into the A. district hospital, ride the elevator to the second floor. The Doctor is slipping on his coat. He removes the wrappings that the medic put on Imogen’s head at the gas station by the side of the road where we crashed. For the first time, I see the size of her wound. I involuntarily gasp. “Oh god.” The doctor orders me out.

I won’t talk, I tell him in Armenian, using vocabulary I usually apply to my students.

A gash has opened running from Imogen’s right eyebrow to the center of her head. The skin is peeled back, exposing her skull. It looks firm and solid, like blood-stained marble. The doctor swabs the inside of the wound with gauze. There’s surprisingly little blood flow. Later I’ll realize that’s because most of it has gone into her hair to clot and mat. The doctor takes a razor and shaves her hair around the wound, then he begins sewing. I watch for awhile, take pictures. Armen stands by, translates. The doctor says he’ll do a good job, she won’t have a scar, will be able to find a good husband. There was just a wedding here you know, one of the young doctors got married. A wonderful wedding, very pretty bride.

I check myself in the mirror over the OR sink. There’s clotted blood on my face and hands. It’s probably mine, but who knows. My arms are covered in blood and scratches from the glass. My right temple is bruised and my jaw aches. I crack it with a loud pop. Everything seems fine. No serious damage. I turn on the tap to wash the blood off. Nothing comes out. There’s no water today. One of the nurses comes over and pours water over my hands from a basin. I thank her.

8:00 am

Armen arrived at the same time as the Ambulance. “I’m from the Embassy,” he said. I wasn’t sure what to say. He spoke great English, but why would a guy in a track suit in a 90’s Lada be from the Embassy and randomly at a gas station on the way to Aragats at 8am on a Sunday? Can I trust him? Later I learned that he was on the Embassy’s emergency response team, that Claire had called them and that he had come directly from his home.

The doctor and his assistant coming out of the ambulance were central casting for reassuring doctors. He was thin, with steel gray hair and a dignified erect walk. She was young and pretty, but not overly so, with a shawl over her white nurse’s coat. Their ambulance was an olive green van with a blue flashing light, no heat, benches for seats, and a litter made of two poles and canvas fabric for a stretcher. The doctor removed Imogen’s t-shirt from around her head, examined her wound, injected her arm with morphine from his green metal medical kit. We bundle Imogen onto the litter and cover her with my sleeping bag. Armen helps lift her into the ambulance, then gets in with us. I decide to trust him.

We must go to Yerevan. I say.

We’re going to Ashtarak. It’s closer. We have to.

We must go to Yerevan, I say, and offer the young nurse --,000 drams. She looks away.

Later, I learn they are right, that Ashtarak is five minutes and Yerevan half an hour. She needs stitches right away and her bleeding controlled. Everything else can wait. My demand might have killed her. There is much I don’t know

7:35 AM

I’m doing everything at once. I call the Peace Corps Duty officer. “I’ve been in a car crash and I’m almost out of phone credit call me back.” I hang up. WHERE’S IMOGEN? I run across the highway into the gas station. Imogen is sitting on a bench against the stone wall. Her head is wrapped with her blue T-Shirt. “What happened?”

“Hit in the head” she mumbles.

“I want you to lie down.” I move her to a longer bench. She’s very heavy against me. I lie her down, give her my fleece jacket to keep her warm. “I want you to talk to me. Tell me about your pets at home.”

“My cat just died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, I…” The phone rings. “keep talking” I pick it up. “I’ve been in a car crash on the way to Mt. Aragats, I don’t know where I am and my friend has a bad head injury. I’m going to give the phone to an Armenian now so he can explain where we are. Please put SIM credit on my phone so I can make calls.”

“Okay,” the Duty Officer says. I hand the phone off to an Armenian and go back to talking with Imogen. By now she’s sitting up and lucid. This is good. Claire’s in the gas station too. She’s about to cry. I hug her. “This could have been so bad.” She says

“In six hours, you and I will have a good cry together but for now help Imogen.” I say

“Can you get my wallet?” Asks Imogen, “It should be in the car.” I run back across the highway to where the car and truck are mashed together. A crowd of Armenian men is standing around. I open the rear door and find Imogen’s wallet and keys in the back. My phone beeps in my pocket, letting me know it’s been recharged with money. The trunk is open. Inside is my backpack. I pull the sleeping bag out to give to Imogen. As I’m doing so, my camera falls out. I take it out, point it at the car and truck smashed together, but without really seeing them. Click.

“Please, brother no photo” Says an Armenian.

“DON’T FUCK WITH ME” I scream close to his face, in English. He hangs back with the others. This is no time to be polite.

7:32:43 AM

Breathe. Just breathe. You’ve been in a crash. You don’t know how badly your body is damaged. Right now, there’s no way you’ll be able to move anyway, so don’t even try. Just sit there and breathe until the shock passes and you can move.

7:33:14 AM

Okay, you can breathe, that’s good. Now’s the time to get moving. Open the door, get out of the car. Your door won’t open. Your door won’t open. Your door won’t open. Get out the back. Just slide. It’s pretty easy sliding from the front right to the back left. Out the door. On the grass in the highway meridian. You can’t see. That’s because you don’t have your glasses. It’s still dark. Feel around for them, find them. Your flashlight. It’s in your pocket from this morning. Use it. There they are, on the dashboard. The frame is bent, but they’re working. There’s Claire, she’s walking and talking, she’s okay. Imogen is hurt she’s saying. Got to call the Duty Officer. WHERE’S IMOGEN?

7:32:13 AM

Cruising in the left lane of the highway at 110 km/hr. Comfortable car warm against the predawn grey. Half asleep. From the right lane, a truck going 80 km/hr makes a left turn into the gas station. I can see he’s going to hit us, there’s no way to avoid it. Some inelegant thought like “We’re Fucked!” I might have articulated it, I might not. Crash.

6:12 PM

“How can I find out if I’m alive or not?”

“I’m glad Sam’s having his moment, this is good for him.” Says Imogen

“I know, I’ll call Saaqib. He’s my best friend, he’d never lie to me. He could tell me if I’m alive or not.”

I dial Saaqib in New York. I hold my cellphone and stand at the window looking at the memorial to the Armenian Genocide. He picks up the phone. I can tell from his voice that I’ve woken him up. It’s a good sign. I might be dead, but I know that Saaqib definitely is not. After all, he’s in New York. I ask him if I’m alive. He’s a bit confused. I tell him the story, quickly. I let him know that I’m probably alive, but I’ve taken a tranq and can’t really be sure.

“You’re alive, Sam” He says.

“Thanks, that’s what I needed to hear. I know you would never lie to me.”

We talk for a few minutes about the clubs and bars in Yerevan. I ask him about work, how things are going with girls. I tell him I got to go, but we’ll talk later, yeah.

I’m alive! I’m so happy!