In Love With Lastiver

This is a very late post but I've had this written for a while and decided it was time to share.

October means that my Facebook feed is flooded with status updates and memes concerning Pumpkin Spice Lattes (you're either for or against them), apple picking and pumpkin carving.

I wasn't missing fall in New England until this past weekend when I joined a group of fifteen Birthrighters, civilian Armenians and honorary Armenians (Go Armenia Volunteer Corps!) on a camping trip to Lastiver.

As our marshutka wound its way down into the Ijevan valley, I peered over my motion sick friends and out onto what could have been the backwoods of Connecticut.

I was excited to see trees that hadn't been planted in the last 20 years; trees that were rooted deeply in the earth and that spread their branches to the sky in a persistent effort to reach the sun. The metaphor of fall foliage resembling a fire is played out but that's only because it's an accurate description. The mountain side was ablaze with leaves that glowed from within and appeared to undulate from yellow to orange to red to russet brown and back.

"This is what my home looks like" I told my peers, most of whom are from the west coast and don't know the joy of crunching a particularly crisp leaf underfoot on their way to school.

I'm not a pumpkin spice kind of girl but my heart twanged for a moment there with the thought of home.

But really, what better place for me to be missing home than Lastiver? Nestled in the Ijevan State Sanctuary in Armenia's Tavush Province, Lastiver is really like a more dramatic New England, with bigger mountains and deeper valleys.    

Our group picked our way down a well worn path strewn with dried and shriveled skeletons of leaves. We scaled moss covered boulders and for a time I felt like I was walking that final scene of The Fellowship of the Ring where Boromir realizes too late that he has become corrupt by the one ring.

We had a few squabbles along the way but luckily nothing so serious as to require a bout of invisibility or a crossbow. Any disagreement we had was quickly resolved as one or both parties glanced around them and again realized the humbling beauty of our surroundings. You just can't stay angry when you're walking in a fairy tale forest. Even if you have been carrying several kilos of meat for khorovadz and three bottles of cognac for the fire. Yeah, we take our camping seriously.

After two hours of hiking the sound of running water reassured me that I had made the right decision by following my friends blindly into the woods.

I had been skeptical when I was told we would be sleeping in tree houses. I expected a hunting platform stuck in a tree. I was told we could rent sleeping bags, a prospect which was ominous to say the least. But I was more than pleasantly surprised to find, upon arriving at the campsite, small Keebler elf cabins perched on top of tree trunks fifteen feet in the air with sturdy, hand made ladders leading up to them. Later on in the evening I was even more pleased to find a clean and fluffy sleeping bag deposited in my cabin for me to crawl into.

Despite it being mid-October and not having brought towels or bathing suits, a few of us more adventurous hikers (or reckless depending on how you look at it) decided to take a dip in the frigid mountain stream that flowed past the campsite and pooled in areas just deep enough for us to submerge ourselves in. When I say take a "dip" that's exactly what I mean. The water was so cold that my muscles immediately seized up and the prospect of moving them quickly enough to actually stay buoyant became an impossibility. But I squeezed my friend's hand and bent my knees until I was up to my ears in ice water and then stood up and got out. I think that is officially the end of swim season for us here in Hayastan.

Upon drying off and bundling up, we set about collecting wood while others prepared the khorovadz and the rest built up the fire. There's something very satisfying about working as a group, even with the inevitable disagreements over how to execute the simplest tasks. I don't think a camp fire has ever been built without at least one person saying "No, you're doing it wrong..." And did you know that there is a wrong way to skewer meat on a stick?

If ever you get tired of your hiking buddy’s company, Lastiver is home to several affectionate and attentive dogs. They greeted us upon arrival at the campsite and didn’t leave our group until we hiked out the next day. The khorovadz we cooked may have had something to do with it, but I like to think it was loyalty that kept them by our side for the better part of twenty-four hours.

My nostalgia for home was placated by beautiful scenery, excellent company and the unconditional adoration of our canine companions.

It was unanimously agreed upon that this was the best weekend any of us had spent in Hayastan.

As much as I love Yerevan and enjoy the hustle and bustle of the city where I meet fascinating people every day, I have consistently found that I feel more at peace and connected to the country when I’m out exploring nature. Maybe it’s just easier to think when I’m hiking or maybe it’s just easier to feel confident in my abilities when I’m climbing over boulders, but I feel most Armenian when I am in the mountains.

On Creative Writing Club

Sometime after the first week of club meetings I stopped telling people that I “taught” creative writing in the villages. The truth is that you can’t really teach someone to be creative. All you can do is create an environment which fosters the growth of their creativity.

Every time we met, the kids would spend the first 10 minutes writing based off of a prompt I provided for them. Sometimes I would write with them, partially out of selfish motivations because I like to write, but also because I found that it encouraged them to do the same. Seeing me write, and often struggle, would give them some sort of push to put pen to paper.

They grappled with the idea that the text they produced wasn’t to be handed in to me. I wasn’t going to grade it or edit it. It was an exercise designed to get them in the mood to write. Even when I told them not to worry about grammar and just write whatever came to mind, they would still get hung up on the rules. I could see them agonizing over how to conjugate “to run” in the past tense (English is a bitch of a language at times, I really feel for them).

I found that beginning each club like this was a good way to get them to start thinking in English again and also to boost their confidence a bit. There’s something very satisfying about seeing yourself produce text in a foreign language. Even if it’s mainly nonsense, at least seeing the words come together to form sentences feels good. And that’s the first step to writing in any language, your own or someone else’s: just sit down and write.

The next ten minutes would be spent “Checking In” (thanks Public Allies).

We go around in a circle and everyone says how they are feeling in that moment. I encouraged them to be honest because if they’re having a shitty day, I want to know. Not because there’s something I can do about it, but because it lets me gauge their mood. Especially when working with teenagers, being aware of feelings is important.

The typical answer was “good” and it was often difficult to get them to think of a different way to express themselves. In a foreign language is easy to go to the words that you feel confident in, even if they don’t exactly express what you mean. I could be bleeding out of my eyes but in French I would probably just say “my eyes are red”. 

During Check In, everyone also must answer a question that I have posed. I usually tried to make it relevant to the subject at hand so if we’re talking about sensory detail I ask “What’s your favorite fruit?” Later I’ll have them describe the fruit using all of the senses. If the subject is characterization I ask “What’s your best quality?” Later I’ll have them point out the qualities of their protagonist and if they can’t that means they have a flat character. It’s a sneaky way of getting them to think about what I want to talk about before we even get there.

These were the two constants in every club meeting: Free Write and Check In. I still don’t consider myself a teacher exactly, but I had a lot of fun finding ways to incorporate lessons into seemingly insignificant exercises. Basically I liked to trick them into learning.

Last week I said goodbye to the kids I have been working with for the past two months. I bought them each one of those pens that can write in three different colors and a mini Twix bar. I bought the pen because it’s cool (and good for editing) and the Twix because I like Twix. I wanted to give them a parting gift but living on a volunteer salary is tough, hence: pen and candy.

I arrived early and arranged the treats on their desks along with a printed copy of our literary magazine; a basic compilation of all of their stories. I expected to have to talk over the sound of candy wrappers and munching. I was sure there would be sugar-fueled shenanigans.

What I experienced instead was two hours of them sitting in their seats, as usual, carefully reading the stories they had written and providing feedback for one another. Listening to my questions and offering insightful answers.

The Twix remained untouched.

“Eat!” I said, sounding more like my host-tatik than I ever expected I could. “Really, it’s okay, I brought them for you.”

They just smiled and said “We will Ms. Maral, later.”

I have never seen such self-control exhibited by high schoolers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such self-control exhibited by adults.

I was reminded of the Stanford Marshmallow Test. For those of you who aren’t familiar, the very brief explanation is that toddlers who were able to practice self-control and avoid eating a marshmallow for the longest (with the promise of receiving two later) grew up to have “better life outcomes”  in adulthood than the children who couldn’t help it and just gobbled up the sweet treat within seconds.

In truth, I was a bit mad that my students were so well behaved because that meant that I couldn’t indulge and eat chocolate in class. Only joking. Well, partially joking. I love chocolate.

The point being that even though my students weren’t toddlers, and have had much more time to learn self-control, I still find it incredibly impressive that they could sit for two hours while being stared down by a cookie covered in caramel and chocolate. I mean what are they, made of steel?

This being the last day of over two months of meeting with these kids, I shouldn’t have been surprised. I should have known they’d be better behaved than me. I should’ve known I’d be the toddler to bread down and sneak a bite when I thought no one was looking.

On Timing

I got a watch for my birthday. Six months to the day, the strap broke. It just sort of slid off my wrist like it was giving up. Exactly six months though. Coincidence? Yeah, probably.

I got one of those annoying “memories” from Facebook where they remind you of all the angsty pop-emo lyrics you used to post (don’t act like you didn’t) and pictures you took with friends you no longer have. Except this one was a status from four years ago when I was studying abroad in Morocco about how I felt like I had screws drilled into my spine from the aching that came along with the “flu” I had. “What a drama queen” I thought to myself. The next day I fell ill with the exact same symptoms all of which were not limited to achy joints. I’ll spare you the details.

I’m not sure what these things mean, but I’m sure they mean something. Maybe it means I need to be less rough on my watches. Maybe it means I need to pay more attention to my health. I’m not sure what the underlying message is here, but I am thinking more and more about the fact that timing matters. 

The Syntax and Semantics of Being Armenian

The past weekend in Artsakh reinforced for me the notion that has been lingering on the periphery of my consciousness since I arrived in Armenia: that syntax and semantics are vital aspects of Armenian culture and its maintenance.

You can easily dismiss this as the rambling theories of a girl lost in the midst of language and "the journey of self-discovery", but hear me out.

Artsakh was a province in Historic Armenia which for hundreds of years was disputed territory despite being predominately inhabited by Armenians and which now, due in part to the indiscriminate scribbling of borders which preceded the collapse of the Soviet Union, is a region whose "ownership" is contested by Armenians and Azeris. The majority of ancient Artsakh is now referred to as Nargorno-Karabakh Repbulic and is not recognized as an independent state. 

Though the name Artsakh is antiquated, we, Armenians, continue to use it. This is a purposeful and tactful use of language which we apply to many other aspects of our culture especially when it comes to geo-politics.

Armenians are in the practice of speaking things into existence; the idea that if I say something enough times it will become true.

Like if we say Western Armenia (which the rest of the world identifies as Eastern Turkey) enough times, eventually this land where our ancestors thrived for centuries, this land which is soaked in their blood, this land which is heavy with the dust of their bones, it will once again be “ours”.

We talk about Mt. Ararat with pride and fervor as though we could simply walk the few kilometers across the border and hike her slopes. We note that though she is not currently part of our land, she will be some day. Even though she isn’t. Even though she probably never will be again. (Ararat has two peaks, Sis and Masis, which are both male names but I continue to think of her as a female presence and will continue to refer to her as such.)

We avoid using the name Nargorno Karabakh and by continuing to use the name Artsakh when referring to NKR, we remind ourselves that the land is part of Armenia and part of our heritage. It is also a not so subtle reminder to others that we have not forgotten this fact and that they shouldn't either. 

As far as most Armenians are concerned, the free and independent Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh will always be Artsakh (Արցախ). Ararat will always be a part of Armenia just as Eastern Turkey will always be Western Armenia. This is a combination of obstinate Armenian pride and dedication to the syntax and semantics of our Armenian existence. 

As I write this in between lesson planning for Creative Writing Club, I feel the need to summarize my meaning in a way that is palpable to any reader or writer regardless of culture, age or proficiency. In guiding students in Creative Writing in a language that is not their own, I find that simplicity is best.

And so, to summarize: word choice matters. 

You know what? You should read this...

There are certain phrases which Armenians are very fond of. “Why not? (eenchu che?)” and “You know what? (keedes eench?)” are two I hear all the time.

This is because Armenians, as a people, nurture a healthy belief that anything is possible. They also always want to teach you something.

And you know what? I think this is great. I think that everyone should be more like Armenians. I think we should all try to be more knowledgeable and open to possibility, it could happen, why not?

Of course, as with any rule, there are exceptions. Armenians may be very open to possibility, but in many areas they are staunchly opposed to considering a new approach. Like sexual education and recycling. But I’ll save those elephants for another post.

My favorite expression by far is “tsavut daneem” which means “give me your pain”. It can be used as a greeting, “Hello Mary, give me your pain!” or as a means of expressing sympathy “Oh, what an ass he is, give me your pain.” It can be used as a toast in which all of the drinkers are giving and receiving each others’ pain.

“Tsavut daneem” denotes a certain predisposition for empathy that is uniquely Armenian. We have big feelings, and we understand this about each other, and want to shoulder each other’s pain if it means relieving the pressure for just a moment.

It also hints at our tendency to view pain as a tangible thing. Something to be acknowledged, and something that can be set aside when necessary. While viewing it in such concrete terms might be destructive to someone who finds themselves unable to simply put their pain on a shelf and walk away from it, if you practice enough you can at least find yourself some peace of mind, if only for a few moments. 

And if you can't, then you can call me and we'll have some soorj and talk about it, ցավտ տանեմ:

On Eating

I’ve started recording the phrases I use most often in Hayastan and they are as follows:

“No, thank you, I’m not hungry.”

“No, I already ate.”

“Ok, just fruit then.”

“No, no meat please.”

“The meat was very tasty, thank you.”

I usually have this conversation at least two times a day.

Feeding people is how old Armenian women show love. It’s how lots of people show love, but old Armenian women are especially good at it. And by good I mean aggressive.

From the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep, my host grandmother, is asking me if I’m hungry and, regardless of my answer, is feeding me. She becomes genuinely displeased if I refuse food and makes a point of telling me that it hurts her when I don’t eat.

Remember that scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding when Tula tells her aunt that her fiancé doesn’t eat meat? And her aunt makes a scene and then says “That’s okay, that’s okay… I make lamb.”? It’s like that. It does not matter what excuse or explanation you give an Armenian woman, she will find a way to feed you, even if it’s completely disagreeable to you. And that’s love. Forcing a vegetarian to choke down lamb kebab is love.

I had a nasty stomach bug recently and had no desire whatsoever to ingest anything, but had to eat to avoid passing out. I tried to explain this to my host medzmama.

“Please,” I begged her, “just some bread and water, really, no really, just bread and water, that’s it.”

“No meat?”

“No, thank you.” 

I’m sitting at the kitchen table clutching my stomach.

“No cheese?”

“No, thank you.” 

I can barely keep from crying.

“No fruit? You must eat fruit, you like fruit.” 

Her voice raises an octave every time she suggests something and with each octave her eyebrows inch closer to her hair line until they practically disappear. She looks like she wants to cry. She gives me a heaping plate of lavash, thin, flaky bread that comes in yards folded upon itself, and a cup of water.

“Ger.” She says listlessly. Eat.

I mumble my thanks and force lavash into my mouth. Before I can finish one sheet, she slides a plate of grapes and apple slices in front of me. She does it with a swiftness that suggests she thinks that if she does it fast enough, maybe I won’t notice and will somehow be fooled into eating the fruit.

Perhaps she is banking on the fact that, in order not to be disrespectful, I will not leave food on her table. Or perhaps she has figured out that I will be wracked with guilt if refuse her generosity. Whatever the reason, she is more than willing to manipulate me into eating.

She really loves me. 

Hair Cuts and Heels and Khorovats

The fact that I was able to go to a hair dresser who doesn't speak English and not walk out with a crew cut is a testament to the fact that, if my Armenian is not good, it is at least passable.

Even with my hair blown straight and cut into neat layers, I still am not half as put together as most of the women in Yerevan. It does not matter where they are going, they always have their hair curled or straightened, their faces made up with dark eyeliner and bright lipstick and heels so high that I've started making sure my hands are free when I walk down Northern Avenue so that I can catch them if their ankles give out.

Part of the reason I came to Armenia was to strengthen ties with my own culture, and to a certain extent I am doing that. I am learning about history, music and food which in some way or another are linked to my Armenian experience as a member of the diaspora in America. I stumble along to the Tamzara dance which I vaguely remember learning at Camp Hayastan. I shovel dolma into my mouth like my only purpose on this earth is to eat. I walk among the stones that the founders of our language, our religion, our society walked upon. I am surrounded by the culture and I love it.

In other ways I feel a certain culture shock because there are elements of being Armenian here that are entirely foreign to me.

I was raised by two strong Armenian women who taught me to take care of myself and not to expect anyone else to do my work for me. I am completely unfamiliar with the habit so many women in Yerevan seem to have adopted of pretending to be feeble or helpless because they think it's feminine and will attract men. They are anything but feeble or helpless. You try walking up Cascade in wedges with a purse you could fit a baby in without breaking a sweat. (This is not a euphemism, a woman who fits this description actually passed me going up the damn steps which, in case you were wondering, reach an elevation of 118 meters).

As a child, I learned an Armenian that is so starkly different from Eastern Armenian that I've started to think they may as well be separate languages. I expected a few pronunciation differences, perhaps some unfamiliar colloquialisms, but there are actual grammatical differences and a whole separate vocabulary. The Eastern dialect feels crunchy in my mouth, with sharp edges and awkward vowels.

Even the food is different, but it's similar enough that I can eat my feelings of cultural confusion. In the first few weeks of being in Hayastan I had Khorovats almost every other day. Armenians call Khorovats "barbecue" when trying to explain it to non-Armenians, but I find this to be misleading. It's grilled meat and vegetables and it's delicious. It's not drenched in sauce or falling off of the bone but it is juicy and flavorful and hormone free.

And on that note I am going to see if I can convince someone to feed me. You can't swing a dead cat around here without hitting someone who wants to feed you.

Mt. Aragats

During the first three days of being in Yerevan I went from being weary of drinking tap water to filling my water bottle from a pipe sticking out of the side of Mount Aragats.

It was a bold move, and a necessary one and I don’t regret it. I anticipate needing to make several such adjustments in the coming months.

Every day we have been here has been full of adventure and intrigue. This is often due to a combination of my mother’s extremely impressive international connections and our general fortuitous nature as a pair of world travelers.

Hiking Mt. Aragats was an excellent, if exhausting way to be introduced to the land, climate and people of Armenia. It is the highest point in Armenia at somewhere around 4000 meters elevation. We began at 3200 meters and made our way to the top from there. This might not seem very impressive but mountains are probably the last thing you should underestimate.

Our guide started us at a pace which I would describe as meandering. If you have ever walked with me you will know that this is not my style but I did not complain as I was acutely aware of how thin the air felt at only the beginning of our hike. It was at least a solid ten degrees cooler here than in the city and I knew that if I pushed myself too hard I might burn out before making it to the top.

And so we meandered.

Our guide had told us that it would take three hours to reach the peak and two to return.

No trees grow on Aragats, indeed nothing taller than a few bunches of flowers could be found in the way of plant life and so there was nothing to block my view of the top of the mountain from where we started. I was skeptical as I could see our destination clearly before me and could not understand why it would take so long to get there. I didn’t voice this feeling and kept it moving.

Soon I was sucking air in through my mouth and my heart was beating twice as fast as usual despite our sluggish pace. The sun beat down on us though I couldn’t feel the heat for the cool breeze that actually was giving me goose bumps. This would later give way to a nasty sun burn on my arms which I left uncovered, like a fool.

The mountain, like much of the surrounding landscape, is made of varying types of rock. Volcanic rocks, specifically, and in places where lava once flowed there are rocks that have been broken up and lie stacked upon one another which makes for very hard climbing. Every step you take could result in an avalanche of shards of rock.

Through the rocks poke the heads of dandelions that insist on growing despite the harsh circumstances. They are fed by snow melt, of which there are two dirty spits left on the mountain. The older flowers have petals peeled back, cowering beneath the relentless sun.

The peak, which looked so close at the beginning of our hike, does not seem any closer as I stop to drink water. I put my head down and hike farther, look up, and it still isn’t any closer.

The mountain is not to be underestimated.

In my mind I repeat the same refrain:

I’m a goat, I’m a goat, I’m a goat...

If they can do it, I can. The mountains and hills in Armenia are full of mainly sheep, but I prefer the random goats. They seem more resilient to me.

And all of a sudden I’m at the top.

I can see for miles in every direction and if I had any breath left, the view would take it. From this height everything is cloaked in a haze that gives the earth a surreal and dreamy appearance. The valley where we began is a spread of muted yellows and greens, the colors of the scrubby brush that covers the ground. Lower peaks seem like gigantic waves, frozen at the crest and ready to submerge everything below. Mountains in the distance are a misty blue that melt into the sky.

At the top of Aragats there is a silence so complete that when I close my eyes I feel like I’m in space. The air is clean and sharp and I breath it in deeply as I try to focus on the heat of the sun contrasting with the now cold wind.

This sensation lasts for about three minutes until our fellow hikers burst out into Armenian folk songs. I am then coerced into a circle where I mumble along to the national anthem, having forgotten half of the words.

The descent is almost more challenging than the climb as I have to fight the urge to just let all my muscles relax and tumble down the boulder garden that slopes down to our car.

I take my boots off as soon as we arrive at the car and struggle to regain feeling in my toes. I settle in for the hour drive back to Yerevan and am horrified when, after having driven only 20 meters we pull to the side of the road. I’m afraid I’m going to be made to walk again when I realize we’ve just come to fill up our water bottles at the aforementioned pipe sticking out of the mountain.

Once we rehydrate we are back on the road and I relax into my seat.

It isn’t far before we’re stopping again, this time for something much more vital than water. A boulder on the side of the road is painted with the word ‘honey’ in Armenian, French and Russian.

I find myself staring at a trailer parked next to twenty beehives, all humming with production. There are no other buildings anywhere in sight. The woman who ushers us into the trailer has blue eyes and blond hair, a combination I have never associated with Armenians but she is undeniably Armenian. If not from her language, then from the way she herds us like sheep, the way she insists that we sit around her table and eat, eat, eat and do we want tea? No tea? Oghi, then. And she brings out shot glasses and fills them with clear, mulberry liquor that she made herself, 61% alcohol, and you have to shoot it, and why are you sipping? Is something wrong? No need to sip...my blood, still rushing from the altitude and the hike is now saturated in oghi and I can do nothing but chew on some honeycomb and wait to be dismissed.

We left Aragats and the trailor with several kilos of honey and a nice little buzz.

Armenia At Last

I’m quite enamored with Armenia.

I’ve experienced a feeling here which I’ve had no where else in the world and it isn’t déjà vu but that’s the closest I can come to describing it in a word (or rather, two). It’s the feeling that I am in a foreign place and yet am vaguely familiar with a little bit of everything.

This happens with the language and the food but most notably with the faces. I keep seeing people that I feel I must know somehow. Like when you start to wave at someone across the street and then realize you don’t know them at all… I keep having that sensation of excitement of recognition and then mild embarrassment at having mistaken a stranger for a friend. Yet I continue to think that I know the people around me.

The dark eyes and thick eyebrows and long hair that I associate with looking Armenian surround me and it’s overwhelming and exciting and oddly comforting.

I can’t help but feel a surge of happiness when I look around and think: they’re all Armenians!

Growing up in West Hartford and working in Hartford the only Armenians I’ve encountered on a regular basis, aside from my mother and medzmama, were at church. I’ve attended various programs for Armenian youth over the years and it has always been exciting to meet other Armenians but it isn’t the same as actually living among them.

There has always been this notion that I have to go to where the Armenians congregate, like some type of queer watering hole where only Armenians hang out, in order to be with other people who share my culture. Now I don’t have to go anywhere, I don’t have to seek them out; they are all around me.

Kopreevcheetsa (Little Nettle)

We drove out of Plovdiv on our way to a Bulgarian folk music festival call Kopreevcheetsa.

We had booked rooms at a monastery which was supposedly 7km outside of town on a "manageable" road. Manageable is really a relative term, relative to your vehicle and relative to your perseverance.

The sturdy Opel (a German car which might be my next pick if I can find one in the states) bounced along at 20km an hour for quite a while. I watched the landscape shift from fields of sunflowers to mountains and back to fields again as we dipped into the valley. I vaguely wondered if our 3 cylinder car would make it back out of the valley but kept my thoughts to myself.

The road was lined with fruit trees, mainly plum and cherries mixed in among the blackberry bushes. As soon as we arrived, we dropped our bags and went to pick as much fruit as we could eat along the road. We picked our way to a cafe which looked out of place tucked, as it was, into the side of a mountain. A dog barked at us as we approached but it was really more of a formality as he was too lazy to come out of his dog house.

We drank beer and ate fried potatoes with cheese and I watched VH1 classics on the tv in the corner. How strange to be surrounded by the beauty of the mountain and still be absorbed by Queen and Macy Gray videos.

*********************************************************************************

The music festival itself was an amazing production with three separate stages and over 15,000 people in attendance. Located in the mountains above the town of Kopreevcheetsa, it felt like crashing a party for wood nymphs.

Though the music was exclusively Bulgarian folk, people came from all over the world to listen to groups of old men and women, dressed in the customary garb of colorful wool pants, skirts and blouses, sing and dance on the stages.

Off the stage festival attendees linked pinkies with strangers to create a long chain of dancers. Bulgarian folk dancing involves a lot of hopping and skipping in time with your neighbors and often back tracking a few steps before springing forward again. There is a leader at the front of the line, but as the line grows you sometimes end up far behind the leader or else across from her and are unable to follow her feet any more and must trust that your neighbors have got the right beat. It's like a very complicated game of telephone with your feet.

I've had to rush this post a bit as I have no been in Armenia for five days and am quite far behind on my entries so I apologize for leaving out several details and descriptions...

Ancient Artifacts And Abundant Arbors

Every building in Plovdiv has a grape arbor attached. This is beneficial not only because there is an abundance of grapes, but also of grape leaves so that we may never worry about a shortage of dolma.

Speaking of dolma, if I eat anymore I will need to throw my suitcase out the window and start draping myself in a bed sheet. Armenians can eat.

Last night I was told that when a group of Bulgarians get together they’ll have liters of liquor and one small plate of cheese. When Armenians get together they’ll have a table of food and a few sips of liquor. When you get Armenians and Bulgarians together, you’ll have a great time and never want for food or drink. Luckily my family is made up of Armenians living in Bulgaria, and exhibit both tendencies regularly.

Today, after eating only peaches and coffee for breakfast, we went out to explore Polvdiv and the surrounding country.

Plovdiv is the oldest living city in Europe, perching atop ruins predating the Thracians that once inhabited the area. You can hardly turn a corner without discovering some active or else abandoned archaeological site littered with the remnants of ancient civilizations. The city is set to be named “European Capital of Culture” in 2019.

After a treacherous drive up into the mountains we arrived at Assen’s Fortress which was built in the 9^th century and had since been repurposed and renovated and restored by each new conquering peoples. The walls inside are speckled with brilliant frescos that reflect the incomplete faces of mournful saints. Swallows have built nests in the corners of the alters and swoop and dive over head, ambivalent to the centuries of history they are pooping on.

A short and winding ride away is Bachkovski monastery where I slacked the persistent thirst I’ve felt for three days now with the mineral water fountain that bubbles up from the spring beneath the ground. Inside, visitors are clad in typical modern clothing, and due to the heat, many women wearing short shorts and tank tops. They must borrow pieces of cloth to wrap around their indecent shoulders and collar bones before entering the chapels. Monks wearing yards of black vestments shuffle back and forth, casting angry glances at girls who either don’t care or don’t know to cover up. 

In the courtyard I make friends with a sheep until my mother reminds me that he will be sacrificed and his days are numbered.

In the village outside of Plovdiv, the family has a plot of land where they have a small orchard of peach trees. Among the roots of the trees they’ve also planted potatoes which poke through the earth like little bald headed gnomes peeking to see if it’s safe to come out.

The corners of the plot are alive with the buzzing of several bee hives. Bees in Bulgaria seem smaller than American bees and the relatives laugh about how our people are bigger, our cars are bigger and now our bees are bigger too. I enjoy watching them work and listening to our cousin explain the process of harvesting the honey and wax. He tells me you can’t go into the hives angry or else the bees will know it and they will eat you (it’s a rough translation). I do believe he’s right about how the bees are very sensitive to the person who is collecting their honey. Think of every person you know who loses their mind and starts running around, screaming and swatting at the air the moment they see a bee. Doesn’t the bee seem to follow them? This has more to do with the fact that visually they are stimulated by the movement of your flailing limbs and screaming lips than anything, but I like to think it’s because they’re laughing at you. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.

Lost In Translation

We’ve been in Bulgaria since Sunday and I have spent a lot of time listening to other people’s conversations.

I don’t think it’s considered eaves dropping if you can’t understand what they’re saying.

As a child I lived in Bulgaria and spoke the language fluently. Now, as an adult, I can politely order coffee.

It can be frustrating not being able to understand what’s being said around me but in some ways it is relaxing. For the most part, once people find out you don’t know the language, they will leave you alone. For an introvert, this is a gift. Of course there are those people who will continue to speak to you as if you were either lying about not speaking the language or else will catch on if they just keep badgering you.

I’ve begun to piece together certain words from my incomplete knowledge of the Cyrillic alphabet. I can make out “hotel” and “café” and “cucumber” (the later because it is a staple in the Bulgarian diet and one of the few words I remember from my childhood here). 

Now, visiting relatives in towns outside of the capital of Sofia, I am able to practice my Armenian and I find that it comes much more readily than I had expected. I think it has to do with the fact that I’ve spent several days in relative silence and now that I have the opportunity to express myself, my mind is much more willing to call upon the words that are stored somewhere in the recesses of my brain.

That being said, there are some words which just don’t translate.

I sat today at lunch, stuffing my face with dolma (grape leaves, tomatoes and peppers stuffed with meat and rice) and listened to my mother talk to one of our elderly female relatives in Armenian. She was talking about a friend and the conversation translates roughly into this: 

Tanti: “Your friend is a woman?”

Mom: “A man.”

Tanti: “Is he married?”

Mom: “He’s…happy.”

It takes me a few seconds to process what’s been said before I start laughing into my dolma. Tanti is staring blankly at my mother who is looking at me half smiling and shrugging,

“I don’t know what the word is.”

I’m still giggling to myself as I think about the train of thought that brought us to this incomplete translation. Once I regain control I turn to Tanti,

“He likes men…I don’t think the word exists in Armenian”.

Tanti shakes her head “No, I don’t think it does…”

I still find this exchange amusing, although the reality is there is a somewhat depressing underlying message.

Language is influenced by many things, most especially by the culture of the people who speak it; so if a word does not exist, it is because there is no use for it.

With that in mind, what does it say about Armenian culture that we don’t have a word that describes people who are gay? Not only is homosexuality not accepted as a fact of life rather than a choice, it is not acknowledged as a state of being at all. How better to deny a person the freedom to be who they are then by denying them the language with which to express it?

I like to play devil’s advocate with myself when writing and that makes it very difficult to make my point sometimes. As I wrote the previous paragraph, the following thought occurred to me: I suppose the argument could be made that we don’t really need language to label people based off of their sexual orientation and maybe it’s more progressive to avoid it altogether. Maybe if everyone did away with these labels we’d all be more accepting of one another and you could describe a person based off of their character rather than who they prefer to sleep with.

However, I think that I could count the number of openly gay Armenians I’ve met on one hand, and I’m inclined to believe it’s because our culture and elders tend to discourage it. Then again, I haven’t really grown up with a lot of Armenians in my life, so maybe I just am ignorant and uniformed.

I’m sure that in the past few decades a word has come about for gay. I’m sure that this younger generation of Armenians is more progressive than the previous generations and more accepting of homosexuality, among other things. 

I was reminded of a YouTube skit called Lousine Lesbian Matchmaker to the Straights.  You can find it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dR9Ox3W9Gd4

Lousine comes out to her mother and as her mother tells her, it may take 100 years for Armenians to “understand this thinking”. I hope it doesn’t take quite so long. 

Wandering. Not Lost.

In a few days I leave the United States again, this time for five months, possibly longer.

There is something exhilarating about those last two words, and something terrifying.

I consider myself very fortunate to be in the position where I can move to another country, travel, explore and otherwise adventure, and then choose to either return to the comfort of my home or else stay and see where my path leads me. I recognize that this is a luxury not afforded to many and that I should take advantage of it. Endless possibilities await me, hence the exhilaration.

However, when I'm not distracted by packing or cleaning or lesson planning, I have a vague feeling of unease that sits in the bottom of my stomach and threatens to make me very ill should I choose to examine it too closely.

I will be leaving behind my family, my friends, the comforts of my home and the life I have built for myself here. I will be in a country that, despite having several connections to through my heritage, is still quite foreign to me. I won't have my phone, to which I have an unbecoming attachment, and I won't have my car, to which I have developed some bizarre and equally unseemly relationship with, given the fact that it is an inanimate object. Lately I have been thinking that I will be quite alone. Hence the feeling of terror.

There are days when I ask myself why I don't just settle down here, get a job and a husband (as so many of my peers seem to be doing) and go on living my life. Usually this question only lingers for a few moments before I go back to whatever I was doing. Because the reality is that I would be completely unhappy with myself. I know that at 25 I still have a lot of growing up to do. I still have a lot to learn and I've always found that the best way to learn is to stray away from what makes you comfortable.

I think back to this time, four years ago, when I was preparing to leave for Morocco on a semester abroad. I had similar feelings which dissipated almost as soon as I set foot on the ground in my new home, because it did become a new home for me. I was surrounded by caring and thoughtful people that not only made me feel welcome but taught me how to appreciate life in a new way. Often when I'm feeling sorry for myself I think back to them and am humbled.

I'm sure that my experience in Armenia (did I mention that's where I'm going?) will be equally as rewarding and enriching, if not more. There is a lot of history mixed up in the whirlwind of emotions I feel when I think of Armenia. I would like to think of it as some sort of homeland to which I am returning but the distance and generations between me and what is today Armenia are vast and complicated. It isn't quite the land my family fled 100 years ago.

These are just my pre-departure ramblings and I will do my best to keep a regular and accurate blog of my experiences. This is also my opportunity to do a little shameless self promotion and ask you, readers, to contribute to my GoFundMe account (http://www.gofundme.com/nvf1v8) to help fund my travels. Thank you so much to those of you who have already contributed and to those of you who bother to read all of this. Check in again soon!