On Taxi Drivers or Why You Shouldn’t Throw Stones At Dogs Besides The Fact That You Would Be A Terrible Person If You Did.

I could not have looked more like a tourist.

Standing outside of Dalma Mall, talking on my cell phone loudly in English, hailing a cab with my pepto bismol colored suitcase in tow. I was practically screaming “scam me”.

I was aware of this and had mentally prepared myself for the cab driver who picked me up to try and swindle me.

As I clambered into the back of his cab, he offered to put the suitcase in the trunk but I declined. My cheese was in there.

He took the longest possible way back to my apartment. “You can turn here” I told him in my sweetest and most helpful voice before he drove another block further than necessary to get to our destination.

He mumbled something, but turned.

As we came to a stop in front of the apartment, I waited for him to say something. I had foolishly not asked him to turn on his meter when I got into the cab. This was partially because I have still not learned the word for meter in Armenian (I know, I know, the shame) and partially because I am always interested to see how cab drivers will treat me as I'm clearly not from Hayastan.

He gazed out of the window, leaning his head against the sill and running his fingertips along the outside of the car.

“What’s the price?” I asked with awkward formality because I couldn’t think of how to say “How much is it?”

He continued to stare and said “3000 dram”.

There is a sound (I can’t even call it a word) which local Armenians make to express incredulity. It requires a lot of effort to make so you have to really feel strongly about something to bother making it. It’s somewhere between the sound a cat makes when it’s coughing up a fur ball and a howler monkey with a toothache. If you do not have a frame of reference for the latter, use your imagination.  

“Khree?”*

I made eye contact with him in the rear view mirror, arched my eyebrows and put on a bemused smile while letting the sound roll in the back of my throat. I had been waiting a long time to use this expression and was rather proud of myself for pulling it off. Because only locals use it, throwing it into this conversation was taking a risk. Clearly I was not a local and clearly I couldn’t speak Armenian properly. He could find my brazen use of “khree” to be either funny, cute, or seriously disrespectful. I pressed on.

“It’s not 3000” I told him, laughing.

He was still leaning as casually as possible but had a small smile on his face.

“Well what do you want then, aghjikus (աղջիկս)?”

The use of this word, meaning “my girl”, can be extremely confusing. It can switch from a term of endearment to one of unbelievable condescension in the blink of an eye. You might be asking for something and it gets tacked on to the end of the response to make you feel loved and safe. Or it can be paired with a rhetorical question to make a you feel small and stupid.

It really is an art, navigating the sea of colloquialisms that threaten to drown the meaning of a sentence in Armenian.  

They do this often, taxi drivers, and ask you to name your price if you don't like the one they suggested. It's sort of a game of calculations and because I'm not good at math I rely on my past experience and rough judgement of distance to play. He wasn’t going to admit that he had tried to take advantage of my apparent naivete, even though I had called him on it. I told him it was 1000 because that’s what I had paid in the opposite direction and to be honest that was probably too much. He chuckled and shrugged.

“Okay, 1000.”

I nodded and handed him the money. He was still smiling, watching me through the rear view mirror.

“Amusnats’tas es?” (ամուսնացած ես/ Are you married?”)

After spending enough time here, as a woman, you get used to this question, but still it caught me off guard. Was he really trying to flirt with me after trying to rip me off? Does that really work for anyone?

I laughed one final time, said “nope” and hopped out of the car.

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

There are several ways I could choose to react to this encounter. 

1. I could feel angry that someone tried to take advantage of me.
2. I could feel offended by the question of my marital status.
3. I could be proud of myself for dealing with the situation quickly and ending up with a result that was favorable to me.

I chose the latter and here’s why (besides the fact that c is always the answer).

One of my favorite quotes reads: “You will never reach your destination if you stop and throw stones at every dog that barks.” (Winston Churchill, in case you were wondering)

This idea works for me on many levels but the main two points that I take from it are that you need to pick your battles and that you shouldn’t let others opinions or judgements dictate your decisions.

This taxi driver was simply a barking dog, of which there are many in Yerevan (both of the canine and homosapien variety), that I couldn’t be bothered to stop and throw stones at.

I could explain how unethical it is to try and cheat people out of money, but I’m sure he knows that and I’m not his mother.

I could chastise him for being sexist and thinking that he has the right to ask if I’m married. To be clear, the question “Are you married?” is not necessarily the problem here, it’s the mentality behind it. The idea that because I’m a woman he, a perfect stranger to me, can hit on me in a completely inappropriate situation and further suggest that if I’m not married I should consider him (the man who tried to scam me, remember?) or his brother or cousin, as prospects.

This question is often asked with the best intentions; Armenians just want to help other Armenians marry Armenians. It’s preservation of our race, social Darwinism, if you will. I don’t believe in it, but I can’t hate on people who do. I don’t care to have someone try and match me up with another person based solely on the fact that we’re both Armenian, but I also don’t take offense to it.

The real problem for me is that Armenians seem to think that they can judge my character based off of whether I’m married or not. It’s to my advantage that most Armenians think I’m 16 at most. This has very much to do with my unkempt hair and my inability to wield a stick of eyeliner. If they knew I was 25 and dangerously close to 26, they would be much more concerned by the fact that I’m single. There is an assumption that if I’ve made it this far in life without getting married there must be something wrong with me. Maybe I’m loose. Maybe I can’t cook.

This situation occurs so frequently that I can’t stop and argue the point in my inadequate Armenian every time. I would never get anywhere.

This is not a dog I’m going to stop and throw a stone at.

I left the cab that day feeling proud that I had managed myself well and satisfied that someone had found my bluntness amusing. It gave me a boost in confidence and allowed me to go about my day feeling a little bit more at home in Hayastan. I believe that perspective is everything, and I chose to walk away and feel good about it, rather than bemoan the fact that someone didn't act in a way I felt they should. 

I can imagine a lot of people will find my aloofness to be either insensitive or else feeding into certain aspects of this society which could use a little shaking up. 

But for now, I’m happy to just not get ripped off on a daily basis. 

*After writing this I realized that my understanding of the expression "khree" was slightly off. People always say it when they are incredulous so I always thought of it like "whaaaa?" but it's more like "whyyyyy?". 

Slower Than Molasses in January

My mom always used to tell me that I was "slower than molasses in January".

I understood the concept that a solution as viscous as molasses would tend to move more slowly in the cold weather, but I didn't understand the frustration associated with the sluggish pace until I tried to make rum cake for a New Years Eve party. It doesn't matter how much of a rush you are in, if you are measuring out a teaspoon of molasses, you better be prepared to wait.

Everything becomes suspended in time while you wait for that drop to fall from the tip of your spoon into the bowl.

I just spent a month at home with my family. Time passed strangely as I prepared myself to move back to Armenia. I had a leisurely month of working from home, going for hikes and eating dolma. I had so much time. Then, suddenly, the final days of my visit were upon me and I found a million and one things that I hadn't thought of. I found myself thinking absurd things like “What if I can't find the right type of notebook that I like to write in in Armenia?” or “What if my luggage is overweight, I can't possibly get rid of a single one of these books.” I actually brought one single subject spiral bound notebook (in addition to my moleskin journal and a leather bound journal for stories) and over 6 books, one of which is hardcover, with me to Armenia. And a kindle.

You'll be happy to know that I have arrived safely in Yerevan with all my writing and reading implements intact, although I am still pining for my hardcover complete collection of short stories by Ernest Hemingway. It weighs more than some dogs of the dogs I saw women toting about in their purses at Zvarnots Airport.

The past 72 hours have moved like a scene in a movie where there is a half second shot of every moment in the protagonists day. They wake up and by the end of one minute you've seen every aspect of their day. Usually it ends with them in a very still and silent place, alone and usually looking desolate over the monotony of their life. The pace of movement is the same, and I do find myself sitting alone in the quiet kitchen at 3am but without the feeling of desolation. My life has become anything but monotonous.

I've lost track of how many times people asked me why I wanted to move to Armenia while I was at home. The questions was often accompanied with an inflection that implied that the idea of an an ex-soviet, poor, corrupt country that still lives under Russia's thumb couldn't possibly be a place one would want to live and that if one did want to live there, one was crazy.

Well, maybe one is.

I can't deny that Armenia is all of these things. But I can affirm that it is a country full of opportunity. Full of beauty and adventure and people who can say my name.

I know that I don't owe anyone an explanation, but I also know that when people have asked “Why do you want to move to Armenia?” I haven't always answered with the most articulate response. Because it is difficult to articulate. I'm often tempted to say, “because I like it” and leave it at that. Do I need another explanation? Do you?

The truth is that I am still figuring out the draw that the country has on me.

Certainly, being around Armenians is one of the biggest factors. “But Maral,” you might say, “you have Armenians at home, right in your kitchen!” And you're right, I do and I miss them.

Having friends from all over the globe who are always willing to offer a differing perspective is another factor. They might poke fun at me for being American but I get to correct their English so everyone's happy.

Perhaps the biggest factor for me right now is the element of the unknown and the uncomfortable. I have sought it out, this feeling of unease and anticipation, in order to propel me into my future.

As I sit here in my new kitchen, jet lagged and dehydrated, writing and trying to relax my mind so that I can fall back asleep, I feel the stillness of the air twist and stretch. I feel all the energy caught in the moment of that drop of molasses pulling and straining against a spoon rush through me and out of my fingertips. I feel the rest of my life waiting on the other side of this morning.