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POSTCARD FROM ARMENIA: SHOPPING LIKE A LOCAL, AND "SHNORHAKALUTYUN, FRANCE!"
NAZIK ARMENAKYAN
ArmeniaNow
22.06.12 | 11:09
By Sigrid Lupieri
ArmeniaNow correspondent
A man wearing khaki shorts and sunglasses was blocking my way. In the
cramped space between the meat deli and the shelves of neatly stacked
lavash, or soft paper-thin layers of fresh bread, my half-full shopping
cart and I came to an abrupt halt. A woman next to the khaki-clad
man was arguing with a harried-looking shop assistant.
"We would like Diet Pepsi," she told the sales clerk in English.
The assistant hesitated before picking out two bottles of an
amber-colored liquid. He held them, arms outstretched, in an almost
supplicant gesture.
"No. No. No. Diet Pepsi," the woman insisted.
I edged my cart around the couple. Tourists, I thought, shaking
my head.
Three weeks into my stay in Yerevan, I felt I was starting to blend
in. I consumed copious amounts of cherries and apricots and heartily
agreed with Armenians that their fresh and fragrant fruit is the best
in the world. And I no longer checked the weather outside my window
in the mornings-I already knew it was going to be sunny. And hot.
But most of all, whenever the opportunity arose, I stood and gazed at
Mount Ararat's ghostly presence looming over the horizon. An Armenian
friend told me the snow-capped peak looked different every day. Though
my natural cynicism led me to scoff at such sentimentality, I couldn't
help but feel a twinge, one evening, as I watched the imposing mountain
slowly transition into twilight shadows of faded blues and purples.
After someone stopped me in the street and spoke Armenian to
me-presumably asking for directions-I decided it was time to put my
Armenian-ness to the test. If I could get through an entire grocery
shopping expedition without appearing as a foreigner, I figured I
could call myself reasonably well-adjusted. Shopping list in hand,
I found myself at the Star Supermarket a block away from my apartment.
I stepped out of the summer heat into the cool interior of the store
and claimed one of the Lilliputian shopping carts-so tiny you have
to bend over to reach the handlebar. I strode confidently toward the
produce section and picked out several shiny, ripe tomatoes beneath
the watchful eye of the shop assistant hovering but a few inches away.
According to a colleague of mine, if you choose only the nicest fruit,
you may be charged extra. Hesitant to challenge such an advantageous
marketing strategy, I glanced at the salesperson and blindly scooped
several generous handfuls of glossy, blood-red cherries into a bag.
The shop assistant stared vacantly into space. So far so good,
I thought.
I headed over to the fridge and stocked up on Okroshka, a mixture of
tart yogurt and cool cucumbers with a hint of fresh mint-perfect for
a hot summer day. I turned to the three now familiar shapes of salty,
tangy cheese: stick-form, string-form and tied-in-a-bow-form. It
had taken my Italian-trained mind some time to figure out that the
packages of slender strings of cheese, twisted like delicate birds'
nests, were not vacuum packed pasta. Today I opted for bow-form. My
cart was filling up.
I sped past the minuscule deli, fearful of ordering three pounds of
marinated chicken gizzards by mistake, and came to a standstill before
the shelves of household items. A middle-aged woman stooped in front of
the single row of detergents and took up the entire width of the aisle.
I waited. "Excuse me" would have rapidly brought my undercover
operation to an end. I racked my brains trying to remember the
Armenian equivalent from my practical "Eastern Armenian Dictionary
and Phrasebook". But all I came up with was a jumble of vowels and
consonants which I was fairly certain didn't amount to anything
intelligible.
I shifted my weight. The woman continued examining the detergent
options in front of her-all three of them. I cleared my throat.
No reaction.
I cleared my throat again, this time increasing the volume. The woman
started and looked up at me. I smiled apologetically, a hand resting
on my throat as if affected by a severe case of laryngitis.
"Merci," I croaked as she stepped aside with a look of alarm. I
thanked the French for their generous linguistic loan which allows me
to say "thank you" without actually having to pronounce the Armenian
tongue-twister shnorhakalutyun.
I squeezed past the woman, managing not to capsize the precariously
balanced bottles of unidentified cleaning products and dexterously
navigated my way toward the cash register.
The dark-haired woman at the register mumbled "Barev."
"Hello," I translated mentally and regaled her with a mute smile.
I stacked my items vertically onto the miniature conveyor belt. When
I finished perching the last tomato at the very top of my produce
pyramid-which I considered a stroke of architectural genius-the woman
at the register looked up at me.
"Blah, blah, blah, STAR," she mumbled. "Blah, blah, blah, CARD?"
I took this to be "Do you have a Star loyalty card?" I shook my head
and smiled some more. The woman hesitated and turned back to scanning
the fruits and vegetables. The final total appeared on the screen. I
placed a wad of cash onto the plastic tray above the register.
This is going rather well, I thought as the woman handed me the change.
"Mumble, mumble STAR," the woman said.
I froze. Was that a question?
The silence stretched between us as my mind scrambled for possible
linguistic clues. And then it hit me. She must have said "Thank you
for shopping at Star," I decided.
I gave her my most dazzling smile. "Merci" I said as I collected my
grocery bags. I quietly congratulated myself on my entirely successful
shopping experience. Three weeks in Armenia and I was officially
starting to feel at home.
As I turned to leave, the woman at the register regarded me with a
bemused smile.
"You're welcome," she said in English.
"Good-bye!" she called after me.
I headed out the door and back into the scorching sunlight.
Chicago-based journalist Sigrid Lupieri is spending her summer in
Armenia and will periodically be sharing her impressions.
NAZIK ARMENAKYAN
ArmeniaNow
22.06.12 | 11:09
By Sigrid Lupieri
ArmeniaNow correspondent
A man wearing khaki shorts and sunglasses was blocking my way. In the
cramped space between the meat deli and the shelves of neatly stacked
lavash, or soft paper-thin layers of fresh bread, my half-full shopping
cart and I came to an abrupt halt. A woman next to the khaki-clad
man was arguing with a harried-looking shop assistant.
"We would like Diet Pepsi," she told the sales clerk in English.
The assistant hesitated before picking out two bottles of an
amber-colored liquid. He held them, arms outstretched, in an almost
supplicant gesture.
"No. No. No. Diet Pepsi," the woman insisted.
I edged my cart around the couple. Tourists, I thought, shaking
my head.
Three weeks into my stay in Yerevan, I felt I was starting to blend
in. I consumed copious amounts of cherries and apricots and heartily
agreed with Armenians that their fresh and fragrant fruit is the best
in the world. And I no longer checked the weather outside my window
in the mornings-I already knew it was going to be sunny. And hot.
But most of all, whenever the opportunity arose, I stood and gazed at
Mount Ararat's ghostly presence looming over the horizon. An Armenian
friend told me the snow-capped peak looked different every day. Though
my natural cynicism led me to scoff at such sentimentality, I couldn't
help but feel a twinge, one evening, as I watched the imposing mountain
slowly transition into twilight shadows of faded blues and purples.
After someone stopped me in the street and spoke Armenian to
me-presumably asking for directions-I decided it was time to put my
Armenian-ness to the test. If I could get through an entire grocery
shopping expedition without appearing as a foreigner, I figured I
could call myself reasonably well-adjusted. Shopping list in hand,
I found myself at the Star Supermarket a block away from my apartment.
I stepped out of the summer heat into the cool interior of the store
and claimed one of the Lilliputian shopping carts-so tiny you have
to bend over to reach the handlebar. I strode confidently toward the
produce section and picked out several shiny, ripe tomatoes beneath
the watchful eye of the shop assistant hovering but a few inches away.
According to a colleague of mine, if you choose only the nicest fruit,
you may be charged extra. Hesitant to challenge such an advantageous
marketing strategy, I glanced at the salesperson and blindly scooped
several generous handfuls of glossy, blood-red cherries into a bag.
The shop assistant stared vacantly into space. So far so good,
I thought.
I headed over to the fridge and stocked up on Okroshka, a mixture of
tart yogurt and cool cucumbers with a hint of fresh mint-perfect for
a hot summer day. I turned to the three now familiar shapes of salty,
tangy cheese: stick-form, string-form and tied-in-a-bow-form. It
had taken my Italian-trained mind some time to figure out that the
packages of slender strings of cheese, twisted like delicate birds'
nests, were not vacuum packed pasta. Today I opted for bow-form. My
cart was filling up.
I sped past the minuscule deli, fearful of ordering three pounds of
marinated chicken gizzards by mistake, and came to a standstill before
the shelves of household items. A middle-aged woman stooped in front of
the single row of detergents and took up the entire width of the aisle.
I waited. "Excuse me" would have rapidly brought my undercover
operation to an end. I racked my brains trying to remember the
Armenian equivalent from my practical "Eastern Armenian Dictionary
and Phrasebook". But all I came up with was a jumble of vowels and
consonants which I was fairly certain didn't amount to anything
intelligible.
I shifted my weight. The woman continued examining the detergent
options in front of her-all three of them. I cleared my throat.
No reaction.
I cleared my throat again, this time increasing the volume. The woman
started and looked up at me. I smiled apologetically, a hand resting
on my throat as if affected by a severe case of laryngitis.
"Merci," I croaked as she stepped aside with a look of alarm. I
thanked the French for their generous linguistic loan which allows me
to say "thank you" without actually having to pronounce the Armenian
tongue-twister shnorhakalutyun.
I squeezed past the woman, managing not to capsize the precariously
balanced bottles of unidentified cleaning products and dexterously
navigated my way toward the cash register.
The dark-haired woman at the register mumbled "Barev."
"Hello," I translated mentally and regaled her with a mute smile.
I stacked my items vertically onto the miniature conveyor belt. When
I finished perching the last tomato at the very top of my produce
pyramid-which I considered a stroke of architectural genius-the woman
at the register looked up at me.
"Blah, blah, blah, STAR," she mumbled. "Blah, blah, blah, CARD?"
I took this to be "Do you have a Star loyalty card?" I shook my head
and smiled some more. The woman hesitated and turned back to scanning
the fruits and vegetables. The final total appeared on the screen. I
placed a wad of cash onto the plastic tray above the register.
This is going rather well, I thought as the woman handed me the change.
"Mumble, mumble STAR," the woman said.
I froze. Was that a question?
The silence stretched between us as my mind scrambled for possible
linguistic clues. And then it hit me. She must have said "Thank you
for shopping at Star," I decided.
I gave her my most dazzling smile. "Merci" I said as I collected my
grocery bags. I quietly congratulated myself on my entirely successful
shopping experience. Three weeks in Armenia and I was officially
starting to feel at home.
As I turned to leave, the woman at the register regarded me with a
bemused smile.
"You're welcome," she said in English.
"Good-bye!" she called after me.
I headed out the door and back into the scorching sunlight.
Chicago-based journalist Sigrid Lupieri is spending her summer in
Armenia and will periodically be sharing her impressions.