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INTERSECTIONS: DISCOVERING THE REAL ARMENIA
By Liana Aghajanian
Glendale News Press
Sept 21 2011
CA
On a mild summer day, itching to get out of Yerevan, I took a Soviet
minibus known locally as a marshutka to the northern Armenian city
of Vanadzor. After weeks in the congested capital, Vanadzor's lush
landscapes, wide spaces and crisp air put me at ease.
Picnic blanket in hand, I walked past neighborhood backgammon games
in the middle of the street and trunks full of watermelons for sale
to a forested area where I was hoping to relax.
Instead, I ended up having lunch and several rounds of homemade
vodka with three local builders who had just finished installing
a khachkar, which is a stele that bears the image of a cross - a
yearlong stonecarving project that had found a home in a city known
for its Soviet chemical plant history and summer retreats.
Immensely proud of their city, they asked how I had ended up in
Vanadzor, better remembered by its Soviet name of Kirovakan.
"I got tired of Yerevan," I said.
"Well, there's no better place than Kirovakan," said Karen, a migrant
worker who regularly traveled to Russia in order to make ends meet
and the youngest of the bunch while he poured more of the potent
alcohol into my cup than I could handle.
Yerevan had started to make me dizzy after a month and a half. The
claustrophobia set in and urgency to see the picturesque landscapes
I had become so familiar with from afar nagged at me.
So I went to Vanadzor to have vodka with stone workers, and then
to Gyumri to talk politics with a 70-year-old shoemaker. In Sisian,
I attended a neo-pagan festival; in Goris, I met French and Italian
tourists and offered my translating services to a bed-and-breakfast
owner for two days, learning how to play backgammon and then having
dinner with his extended family, where the vodka, (mulberry, in case
you were wondering,) flowed as freely as the Vararak River that runs
through the city.
In Alagyaz, I was invited into the homes of Yezdi Kurds for coffee
and watermelon. In Ushi, I learned how to ride a horse. In Karakert,
I witnessed a mass baptism, where residents as young as 5 months and
as old as 55 became members of the Armenian Apostolic Church.
In the internationally unrecognized but de facto independent region
known as Nagorno-Karabakh, I was picked up by a family, taken back
to their house deep within the rugged Caucasus mountains, fed honey
straight from the comb, driven to the Amaras Monastery, the site of
the first school that used the Armenian script, and given a shopping
bag full of grapes to take back home.
By the end of summer, I was using Russian words while talking with
locals and eating a traditional yogurt soup called spas four times
a week - a dish I had refused to touch for most of my life back home.
Maybe it was my cultural background, the pull to discover a part
of me that I felt needed unearthing (though it's worth pointing out
that I have never felt more American in my life than I have in the
time I spent in Armenia). Maybe it was my luck in acquiring a few
great travel partners or the warm weather creating a near perfect
environment for feeling adventurous.
Maybe it was the gravity of a country roughly the size of Maryland,
almost completely reduced to smithereens over eons due to invasions and
invaders. A gravity to discover, to move beyond the bars and cafes of
its capital and muster up the courage to use crowded minibuses, not
worry about how much you stand out, and take rides with shockingly
hospitable strangers who want nothing more than to open up their
homes to you, even if they don't even know your name.
Armenia is tiny. It's rough around the edges. It's bleeding its
population as socio-economic conditions worsen. It has a slew of
problems too lengthy and depressing to go into here, and with Turkish
and Azerbaijani borders closed, it will not be borrowing a cup of
sugar from two of its four neighbors any time soon.
Despite all of this, Armenia offers the potential to explore its rugged
landscapes, but it offers more than that. It offers an opportunity
to meet the most generous people you will ever have the pleasure of
conversing (and drinking) with, an offer that many, including its
vast Diaspora, seem to pass up.
As tourism takes off in the South Caucasus, a serious attempt to
discover the real Armenia, beyond the night life or typical tourist
traps, without the cushy hotels and comfortable transportation,
will leave you buzzing for more.
A recent TimeOut article called Armenia "Europe's most underrated
destination" that "has a big heart." Experiencing its rawness and
discovering its crevices that remain hidden to most of the world has
definitely earned it a place in mine.
LIANA AGHAJANIAN is a writer and editor who has been covering arts,
culture and news in print and online for a number of years.
http://www.glendalenewspress.com/news/opinion/tn-gnp-0922-liana,0,3993091.story
By Liana Aghajanian
Glendale News Press
Sept 21 2011
CA
On a mild summer day, itching to get out of Yerevan, I took a Soviet
minibus known locally as a marshutka to the northern Armenian city
of Vanadzor. After weeks in the congested capital, Vanadzor's lush
landscapes, wide spaces and crisp air put me at ease.
Picnic blanket in hand, I walked past neighborhood backgammon games
in the middle of the street and trunks full of watermelons for sale
to a forested area where I was hoping to relax.
Instead, I ended up having lunch and several rounds of homemade
vodka with three local builders who had just finished installing
a khachkar, which is a stele that bears the image of a cross - a
yearlong stonecarving project that had found a home in a city known
for its Soviet chemical plant history and summer retreats.
Immensely proud of their city, they asked how I had ended up in
Vanadzor, better remembered by its Soviet name of Kirovakan.
"I got tired of Yerevan," I said.
"Well, there's no better place than Kirovakan," said Karen, a migrant
worker who regularly traveled to Russia in order to make ends meet
and the youngest of the bunch while he poured more of the potent
alcohol into my cup than I could handle.
Yerevan had started to make me dizzy after a month and a half. The
claustrophobia set in and urgency to see the picturesque landscapes
I had become so familiar with from afar nagged at me.
So I went to Vanadzor to have vodka with stone workers, and then
to Gyumri to talk politics with a 70-year-old shoemaker. In Sisian,
I attended a neo-pagan festival; in Goris, I met French and Italian
tourists and offered my translating services to a bed-and-breakfast
owner for two days, learning how to play backgammon and then having
dinner with his extended family, where the vodka, (mulberry, in case
you were wondering,) flowed as freely as the Vararak River that runs
through the city.
In Alagyaz, I was invited into the homes of Yezdi Kurds for coffee
and watermelon. In Ushi, I learned how to ride a horse. In Karakert,
I witnessed a mass baptism, where residents as young as 5 months and
as old as 55 became members of the Armenian Apostolic Church.
In the internationally unrecognized but de facto independent region
known as Nagorno-Karabakh, I was picked up by a family, taken back
to their house deep within the rugged Caucasus mountains, fed honey
straight from the comb, driven to the Amaras Monastery, the site of
the first school that used the Armenian script, and given a shopping
bag full of grapes to take back home.
By the end of summer, I was using Russian words while talking with
locals and eating a traditional yogurt soup called spas four times
a week - a dish I had refused to touch for most of my life back home.
Maybe it was my cultural background, the pull to discover a part
of me that I felt needed unearthing (though it's worth pointing out
that I have never felt more American in my life than I have in the
time I spent in Armenia). Maybe it was my luck in acquiring a few
great travel partners or the warm weather creating a near perfect
environment for feeling adventurous.
Maybe it was the gravity of a country roughly the size of Maryland,
almost completely reduced to smithereens over eons due to invasions and
invaders. A gravity to discover, to move beyond the bars and cafes of
its capital and muster up the courage to use crowded minibuses, not
worry about how much you stand out, and take rides with shockingly
hospitable strangers who want nothing more than to open up their
homes to you, even if they don't even know your name.
Armenia is tiny. It's rough around the edges. It's bleeding its
population as socio-economic conditions worsen. It has a slew of
problems too lengthy and depressing to go into here, and with Turkish
and Azerbaijani borders closed, it will not be borrowing a cup of
sugar from two of its four neighbors any time soon.
Despite all of this, Armenia offers the potential to explore its rugged
landscapes, but it offers more than that. It offers an opportunity
to meet the most generous people you will ever have the pleasure of
conversing (and drinking) with, an offer that many, including its
vast Diaspora, seem to pass up.
As tourism takes off in the South Caucasus, a serious attempt to
discover the real Armenia, beyond the night life or typical tourist
traps, without the cushy hotels and comfortable transportation,
will leave you buzzing for more.
A recent TimeOut article called Armenia "Europe's most underrated
destination" that "has a big heart." Experiencing its rawness and
discovering its crevices that remain hidden to most of the world has
definitely earned it a place in mine.
LIANA AGHAJANIAN is a writer and editor who has been covering arts,
culture and news in print and online for a number of years.
http://www.glendalenewspress.com/news/opinion/tn-gnp-0922-liana,0,3993091.story