in five days

In the last five days I have:

-Hosted an American-Armenian friend whose language skills betray the second part of the title but who’s dinosaur shirt and blue tights screamed the first.

-With said friend*, munched gobs of fresh fruit in the crumbling form of an old bathhouse at the 1000 year-old ruins just outside of town.

-*Commited to hitching back from said ruins.  Surprised at the first takers: a couple bouncing along in their horse and buggy.  The metal shell of the the buggy had clearly held manure not too long ago.  But what’s a little manure between friends?

-*Made incredible beer-batter pizza which became less incredible the next morning after sitting in a freon-spewing fridge.

-*Hauled spewing fridge outside.

-*Took an old bus out to Gyulagarak and hiked the remaining three miles to the famed Dendropark.  Collapsed, after the 90degreeF hike, on a bridge that held us over a stream.  Munched more fruit. Napped.  Awoke to an invitation from a family of Armenian strangers to join in their picnic.  Gabbed in Armenian.  Grabbed at khorovats, homemade sourcream on grilled peppers, homemade-baked clay-oven bread, and vodka shots.

-*Learned after talking with Strange Family, that we’d actually spent the entire afternoon on the bottom of the mountain on which, half a kilometer up, was the real Dendropark.

-*Enjoyed the real Dendropark for all of thirty minutes before it closed.  It was kind of amazing.  An Alice-In-Wonderland-Meets-Jurrasic-Park kind of garden with sections of roses becoming all the sudden a dense, blanket of barely waving ferns under tall, weepy pines.

-After said friend took off for Lake Sevan, met New Sitemates (!!!!!) and their organizations at the river near Agarak.  Swam.  Khorovatsed.  Danced.  Swam some more.  Got a sunburn (first, maybe only, of the summer).  Let sunrays, water, and new-and-year-old friendships wash over me.  Felt damn good.

-Directly after river time, helped landfamily clear the garden.  IE, hacked away at 7 foot weeds for a few hours with a scythe.  A SCYTHE, people.  Grim reaper style, even.

-Next day celebrated landsister’s 5th birthday with more khorovats, more dancing, more new and old friends, more carrying around landsisters on shoulders, etc.

-Discoverd, with New Sitemates, that my town’s park turns into a carnival at night with lights, ferris wheels, cage rides, and lots of the best ice cream ever churned.  Met. More. People.

-Woke up the next day to texted announcement that My Friend Completing His Peace Corps Service and Therefore Leaving in a Week (MFCHPCSTLW) would be coming into town for a visit.

-Finished Season 9 of Friends.  Mourned the fact that you only watch Friends for the first time one time.  Made commitment to treasure the yet unseen 10th Season.  (I know, I know.)

-Welcomed MFCHPCSTLW and made way back to 1000 year-old ruins to hike the gorge peninsula on which they stand (factoid: Lori Berd, in-post known as ‘the 1000 year-old ruins’, stands on the point on which two sides of the gorge form an elbow.  The elbow was chosen by some really old dude as a secure location for the silk-etc merchants to build an outpost on the Silk Road.  The secure location was later conquered by the Turks.  And the Persians.  And the Georgians.  And the Mongols.)

-Munched on fruit again in the 1000 year-old bathhouse, this time with MFCHPCSTLW.

-Hiked down into the gorge to the 1000 year-old bridge.  Felt like I was in Lord of the Rings.  Checked for hobbits.  Found discarded vodka bottles.

-Ran into Armenian friends who pointed out to us an area in Gorge River (actual name of the river) in which stirred warm water.  Investigated.  Swam in ice cold water.  did not believe.  Investigated further.  Found warm water along with warm waterfall.  Hoped it was natural-spring warm and not sewage warm.  Disregarded fears. Enjoyed swim while staring in wonder at the close canyon walls.

-Attempted to hike Gorge Elbow.  Found what seemed like miles of stinging nettles.  Figured that Turks and Persians and Georgians and Mongols probably didn’t have to deal with stinging nettles.  Nettles probably only developed sting in the last 1000 years.  Or maybe I should just never be expected to conquer anything.

-Turned back for home. Walked in the rain.

-Made killer pasta.  Died twice while eating.  Filled tummy to brim.

-Woke the next morning to eyes glued shut by eye-boogers.  Blamed river water.  Thought the gluing-phenomenon was actually kind of cool.  Enjoyed cracking eyelids apart.

All-in-all:

Visitors hosted: 4
Surprises yeilded by my town:  6
Khorovats eaten: 3
Town pride: a lot
Overall happiness: pretty dang high.

Read Full Post »

bill nye for adults, daisies, more puppy photos, etc.

You know when you email someone you haven’t seen in a while, and you have one million things to say.  You end up writing something that sounds so disjointed but filled with all the things you would try to bring up in conversation when you saw them.  This is one of those kinds of emails, to you.

1. The Clooker should NOT hack up a lougie in front of my window. So we’re clear.

2. I just read/listened to this interview done by an Armenian newsite with one of my fellow PCV’s. It’s wonderful and makes me wonder what I would say about living in my little town.  But if you read this often, you know that interview would likely include the landfamily, the water schedule, head-cheese, Sanity and the Chicken, and something on chocolate-chip cookies.

3. I’ve been cooking. Not only am I eating so many bean burritos I could shoot myself to the moon (too much?), but I am perfecting a pasta sauce that is currently ranking “Fairly Delicious”.  I’m hoping to reach “Damn Good” by the end of the summer.

4. I’ve been hiking. I told you this already, actually, but I say it again to say that I’ve got some killer pics of the surprisingly-photogenic Spring Chicken.  Once you finish reading, feel free to slide into a that-is-just-too-adorable trance.

5. I’ve been listening to Radiolab. Y’all, this is Bill Nye, the Science Guy for adults.  I generally clean or cook while listening to this podcast, and almost always have to stop and collect my jaw that’s  dropped on the floor.  I just finished the latest “Famous Tumors” and despite being totally freaked out by the Tasmanian devil face tumor that is a CONTAGIOUS CANCER, I kept listening and almost wept by the end of the tumor story that led to all-together touching moment with the daughter of Henrietta Lacks, the woman who’s tumor cells provided the basis of a cure for polio, the first cell cloning, and an unbelievable amount of research into EVERY DISEASE EVER.   When you can start by totally grossing/freaking me out and end with me having to sit down to collect my emotions, you are one of my favorite things.  (If you really do check this out, please listen to “Lucy”.  Blew. My. Mind.)

6. I’ve been taking pictures. See:

From left: SC, Gita (landsister), Kristi (neighbor), Meri (landsister)
All of the above: adorable.  And the youngest, Gita, is the least afraid of the puppy.  She carts her around, reminiscent of a tiny cousin of mine.

From left: Davit, Liana, Arman
All of the above: coworkers, counterparts and three major reasons why my life in Armenia is awesome.

The beginning of a good hike. Please note the abandoned bus of that previous hiking post (linked above).

And now, what you’ve really been wanting, the puppy photos, because really, Spring Chicken bounding through daisies at dusk = GOLD.

The Chicken surveys the area.  (Please note: I have never seen so many daisies in my entire life.)

The Chicken bounds.

The Chicken bounds again.  And stretches out her tongue some more.

The Chicken is tuckered out.

The Chicken contemplates life.  Also daisies.

The Chicken wants you to know she loves you.

Uvsyo.

Read Full Post »

in full up-swing

If you’re keeping up with my ol’ blog, you may have noticed some roller-coastering.  Well, folks, we are in full upswing now!  Clearly there was the I Can Make Refried Beans Discovery.  And really, there’s so much more.  Observe:

It’s Sunday afternoon. I clip Spring Chicken onto the leash and walk out under a blue sky and a full-on summer sun.  Back in Texas, leaving the house at 2pm on a June day means hopping from one air-conditioned building to the next.  But here in North Armenia, 2pm is perfect, a balmy 76 degrees.

I meet a couple of friends in the center of town, a single woman and her daughter who recently spent her senior year in an American school in Jersey.  She packs her Northface backpack with camera, fruit and water, adding similar contents to my bag, and we head away from the center.

We walk to the very corner of town, a neighborhood where the daughter grew up.  She recalls playing king of the mountain on a small mound on which now rests an old bucket and the skeleton of a gas-powered oven.   We head out to a dilapidated bus that sits rusting at the beginning of a field; we take pictures where the driver’s seat used to be, happy to be headed no where in particular.

We cross a large water pipe, walking along its length.  I fall, sliding off into the mud.  We laugh and then notice a rainbow in a rupture’s spray.

We walk for a half a mile in a field of daisies.  Spring Chicken bounds along causing ripples in the flowers as her blond body bobs among them.  The mother shows me a small growth of thyme hidden on the edge of an old stream bed.

We hit the edge of a ravine which coincides with the forest’s last slide down the mountain.  The sudden height and shade of pine trees signals a crossing over.  The daughter finds a small path, a critter’s run into the undergrowth, and we make our way along it pushing away branches and leaves.  Just when we can hear the quiet rush of stream water, the daughter hits a fork, deciding finally to take a small muddy leap instead of scratching her way through brush.  The mother decides on the thick brush route.  Just as I pack Spring Chicken into my back pack, preparing to climb down over steep mud, both mother and daughter encounter patches of banjar, stinging nettles.  The daughter, sitting mostly in mud, methodically picks away at the nettles before her.  The mother decides to continue on through the brush onomanopoetically.  Her cries reinforce my decision to jump to the mud, and I encounter only a bit of banjar.  The daughter says the stinging is “good for you”.

The girls take a moment to remove their socks and dip their re-shod feet into the stream.  We walk in the water, the girls lauding it for it’s clarity and drinkability.  I remove Spring Chicken from the bag, hoping she’ll enjoy the cool and wet.  She doesn’t, clinging doggedly to the muddy edges before finally falling in and dashing to the other side.

We finally take up a steep grassy incline.  We sit down among flowers and short grass, warming with the sun on our backs.  Spring Chicken disappears to chew on her find, an old bone.  We take out a bag of strawberries and eat until our fingertips and lips are fully red with juice.  I write some in my journal.  We lay in the sun.

We walk home along a dirt road.  The mother teaches me how to spot patches of wild herbs, and we fill a gallon-size ziplock bag with forest mint and thyme.  We’re greeted at the edge of town by sun-thrilled boys running along a stream, half naked and full of summer.  An old man carrying some long branches tells us a story I don’t understand; I laugh anyway.

When we get home, we set out our shoes to dry in the sun and lay out the herbs on tourist maps of our town.  The heat under my skin feels like my whole body smiling.  I eat slowly, a plate of pasta and Lori cheese, a cucumber, herb and tomato salad, some thyme tea.

I sleep so very well at night.

Read Full Post »

ways running in north armenia is different from running in west texas

For the first time since summer ’08, I ran yesterday.  Back in the late college, early work years I ran.  If I wasn’t running, I was doing yoga, playing racquetball or tennis.  I moved around back then.  I think these days I just creak.

I told myself after leaving West Texas, that I’d run in Panama.  The island wouldn’t let me, demanded instead that I simply lay on the beach and then move to the hammock.  I told myself I’d run in Kolkata.  The anti-American rhetoric blasted from the neighborhood temple wouldn’t let me.  I told myself I’d run in my Peace Corps training village.  My laziness wouldn’t let me.

So finally yesterday, I ran in Armenia.  I have concluded already that running in Armenia is much different from running in America.

Mind you, running from a pursuant such as a fire-breathing bloodhound or a mace-wielding court reporter would likely be the same here as in the good ol’ USA.  Running for recreation your health, that non-descript sort, really is quite different in my VERY LIMITED experience.  I’ll give you what I observed on Day One.

Ways running in North Armenian is different from running in West Texas

1.  Terrain. Back in Texas I lived across the street from a well lit, smooth and even, clearly-marked-by-the-mile running track.  Here in Armenia, I live on a street that is mostly mud.  The parts that aren’t mud are made of puddle.

2. Community Involvement. Back in Texas I got very little recognition for my running.  At most, I would hear the occasional, “Saw you running,” from a friend, possibly a car-horn honk.  Here in Armenia, The American Running is a community event.   Apparently I can contribute to the flexibility of necks here;  I’ve never seen necks stretched so far to see something so insignificant as a guy putting one foot in front of the other.  Granted, I’ve never seen an Armenian run.  Not once.  So one morning when the American comes by at seemingly break-neck speed (what? 5mph?), with a beet red face, huffing like a steam engine, perhaps that’s something to brighten up a calendar with.

I hear reports of village running in which villagers literaly bring the family out to see the runner huff by.  This was expressed by another PCV in the form of a complaint.  I’m hoping that if I generate this kind of community involvement, that perhaps I can get them to cheer for me, maybe even throw flowers!

3. Lack of social elevation. Running in West Texas brings prestige.  I, for one, know that I never ran just to be healthy, and I certainly didn’t run because it was Such A Blast.  I don’t enjoy pushing myself.  I’m not a Mountain Climber kind of guy, more of a Lay In A Field Watching the Clouds Float type, I’d say.  While, “I want to be 80 and able to get around on my own if I can help it,” was my general (and really true) public explanation of my running, I know that I enjoyed the prestige.  I ran because I was then recognized in a new group, an unspoken class: People Who Take Care of Themselves.  I was someone who had Learned From History, someone who’d paid attention to “Supersize Me”, etc., and had taken the noble resolve to make sure I was going to live down America’s larger-than-life stereotype.  I was Taking Care of Myself.

Running in Armenia does not bring prestige.  As an American here, I already stand apart.  Also, no one runs here, as I said, so I’m not joining any kind of zeitgeist by taking to the road in my Nikes.  Yes, I can get recognition for running, but I’ll get the same kind of looks if I stand on the corner juggling hedgehogs.  Neither is really done, and neither really elevates me socially.

4.  Cleaning up. Exercise in America comes with a shower.  That cultural tidbit is rather awkwardly delivered to us starting in Junior High.  However, as you grow older and you can afford your own personal shower, being clean is almost the reward.   Many times I’d get through a hard run thinking, “It’s alright.  Very soon I’ll be fresh and clean, eating a burrito and watching an episode of The Office.”
You may recall my water situation here in Armenia.  My lack of running water means that I either get up before the Lord (you know Jesus be sleepin’ in), or I run in the evening and sleep sticky and smelly.  Yes, I know, I know.  Don’t be lazy.  Plan around it.  But why don’t you consider your commitment to running if YOU could only take a shower during the first chunk of YOUR workday (10am-1pm)?  Imagine that sometimes the water for no reason just doesn’t run out of the spout.  Imagine that not only are you running and showering, but then you are mopping, doing dishes and handwashing all of your laundry.  Yes, I know, people in the world have survived much, much harder routines.  I will be the first to admit that I have eaten from the bourgeois silver platter.  But I know for sure that trying to figure out when I’m going to run based on when I’ll be able to shower next does not make the enterprise more enticing.

________________________

Whine, whine, whine, complain, complain complain.  Really, running yesterday was really nice.  I’m going to go ahead and do it again.  And maybe even some more after that.  Til death do us part, if Running will still have me.

Read Full Post »