Armenia: Day One: Art Over Load

On the morning of June 14th, I arrived in Yerevan, Armenia by night train from Tbilisi, Georgia. I made my way out of the train station and started to look around for the metro so I could get to my hostel. When I got there, the Greek and Italian from the border crossing were waiting to get on and the Italian was staying at the same hostel as me. I let him take control and guide us, I was too tired to navigate. When we got to the hostel I took a shower and went to get a cup of coffee. Right as I finished said cup of coffee, I decided that maybe I should try to sleep a little bit more before going out and exploring. 

I went up to my dorm room and tried to sleep, but due to the caffeine intake I couldn’t, so I sat and made a plan of attack for the day and how to execute it. I started off going to the Sergei Paradjanov Museum. I didn’t know much about him going in, but along the way I found out that he was born to Armenian parents in Tbilisi, Georgia in 1924. From there things started clicking. This winter I saw some of one his films on TV with my host parents, who could not stop raving about how he was such an amazing director. To be honest it was more me, sitting reading a book on my laptop, trying to ignore it. I don’t care for watching movies that aren’t in English without subtitles for the first time. (I’m currently downloading three of his films to watch, I was so inspired by the museum I need to see them now.) I also questioned my host families taste in entertainment ever since the first week I was there and they made me watch a Candid Camera Russian type show, except the whole point was girls surprising people by exposing parts of their nude bodies and thinking it was the best things ever. 

Sign to the museum 

His artwork took the form of mostly collage, photomontage, assemblage, and readymades that were amazing examples of Dadaism. The subject matter used a lot of children's toys, photos of loved ones, and political objects. I loved wandering through the small building, waiting to see what was around the next corner, however it is also a place that I would not want to be if I was on psychotropic drugs. I admire Paradjanov, for still pursing his art, even though the Soviet Union did not look kindly upon him for it and imprisoning him numerous times, because he did not conform to the socialist realism style that was acceptable for that time period. 

I spent about an hour and a half there and admission was only 700AMD (about $1.70) Super score for a budget traveler. I also couldn’t help myself and had to buy a magnet for 1000AMD ($2.41) and five pictures for 200AMD each ($.48) that I am going to put around my room and look at when I am lacking artistic motivation to create something.

I left the museum and decided that it was too hot, close to 100ºF, to eat a heavy lunch so I stopped and bought a half pound of cherries($.35, thats right I spent 35 cents on them) and a diet coke. I walked to a park near the opera house and people watched while I ate. I also pulled out my camera and did some stealth photography of people waiting to cross the road. (I know I am a creep sometimes.) 

After I was doing having my lunch time fun I went to the Cafesjian Museum of Contemporary Art. The outside building its self is impressive and a work of art, made to look like a cascade. I made my way inside and bought my ticket for 1000AMD ($2.41) and was told that I could take picture of certain exhibits. I road about seven escalators to the top, to Star Landing, for the Swarovski Crystal Palace exhibition. All of the art installations were beautiful and showed a range of things that could be done with the material, which of course was Swarovski Crystals.

I then went down to the Eagle Gallery, which currently has ‘Yerevan Collectors’ Choice’ on display. I was really struck by some of the artwork in this gallery. All of it was by Armenian artists that I had never heard of before, and even googling them now, it is hard to find more information on them. I was really pleased that the only other person in the room with me was the guard, so I could stay lost in though, gazing, while he silently strolled around playing on his phone.

The next gallery I went to was the Eagle Garden Gallery, with ‘In the Mind of the Collector’ on display. Mr. Cafesjian, collected things that one may not normally call art, but when taking a different view point it is easy to see that some could argue they are. I had a slightly giddy feeling in this portion of the museum, as they had a 1906 Model N Ford Runabout, a Wabash steam locomotive, and an electric advertising automaton of a baton twirling girl who was dressed in red, white, and blue. It made me nostalgic for America and proud at the same time to see this items so far away from where they had come from on display. (I did, however, find the automaton very creepy.) 

The museum also has a beautiful three panel mural, painted by Grigor Khanjyan, that tells the story of Armenia’s history. I found it made me want to learn more about the history of the country, as there are famous people throughout the ages painted into it. This is clearly a nation of people who are extremely proud to be who they are, even through all the invasions and hardships.

Over all I thought it was a great collection of Armenian art and art from around the world. It is well worth a visit, if you ever find yourself in Yerevan, but  between my art intake and the heat, it was time for me to take a break and go to a cafe. I went to one that was still in sight of the museum and had Turkish coffee and something that I don’t know what it is called, but I have a picture of it for your viewing pleasure. I can tell you that it was delicious and well worth the $3 I spent.

That night I went to the main square to have dinner at a roof top restaurant. (yes I was living the high life.) It was nice to be a little above the city to get a breeze and a little relief from the heat. I ordered chicken with orange sauce and I had completely forgotten that meat doesn’t always have bones in it. (If you’ve lived in Georgia you know what I am talking about.) After dinner was done I went down to the fountain in the main square, where they put on a show from 10-11pm every night in the summer months. I stood and looked up as water sprayed up into the sky along to classical music and changing color. It looked like upside down fireworks. I stayed for a few songs, but I was ready to go to bed after my full and eventful day in Yerevan.

Midnight Train to Georgia!... I Mean From Georgia to Yerevan

Yesterday afternoon I left my village, crying a sea of tears with my co-teachers and villagers. My host mother dropped me off at the bus stopped and wished me well and told to call when I come back in September. I road an empty, over heated marshookah to Tbilisi and dragged my massive suitcase up four flights of stairs in 95º humid heat to my apartment. I sat in my kitchen making myself drink as much water as possible to stay hydrated. I took a shower, packed my backpack, and headed to the train station to catch my 20:20 overnight train from Georgia to Yerevan, Armenia. I decided to fit a trip in to here at the end of the semester and before I leave for Denmark a few months ago. Other volunteers have raved about it and I have been sent to explore the country, by a friend from back in Maine who has roots here and yes I am talking about Kim Kardashian. 

I decided to take this trip alone, as a lot of my friends in Georgia had already been, most of them when I was enjoying Christmas holidays in Ukraine and galavanting around the Baltic during Easter holidays. Armenia is one of those countries that most Americans wouldn't even know where it is on the map, let alone have been too. (It is surrounded by Turkey, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Iran.) I have also been told about Armenia’s rich Christian past, the genocide that it’s neighboring country Turkey still calls an “unfortunate accident while trying to relocate some Armenians” (right into a desert), and culture in general. I cannot comment on any of this yet, because in my blog world I am just getting onto a train in Tbilisi.

I had the choice of 1st, 2nd, or 3rd class accommodations on the train and I went with 3rd “for the adventure” as I put it when I was buying my ticket. My moron of a friend said that sounded like something a rich person would say and I just glared. 3rd class comprises of the train car to have open sleeping compartments. It is also how most of the population travels, as it is the cheapest. I also find it the most fun and authentic and I am cheap. I had traveled in it, almost three years ago in Ukraine and it was terrifying, mostly because I was hungover, cold, and very confused as to why I was given a bed, when I was suppose to make it to Lviv before midnight. I later met some Peace Corps volunteers who could not believe that I was sold a ticket for it, even them who spoke the langue had a hard time managing to wrangle one as they where foreign. I had to go to two ticket counters to be offered it in Georgia. It is also generally safer as a woman traveling alone, because it’s less likely that someone will attack you in a train full of nosey grandmothers, rather then a small compartment like in 1st or 2nd class. 

When I got to the train platform I was greeted by my train car captain, if you will who, I quickly learned only spoke Russian, no Georgian, which I continued to use when speaking to him for the whole ride. I didn't care if he didn't know what I was saying by speaking Georgian, someone around my would and translate. He showed me to my bed and asked to see my passport. He was so pleased to see that I was an American he pinched my cheek and came back a short while later with some warm pear Fanta to share with me. (Yummy! nothing like warm soda!) I suspected he was a little drunk, but I could have been wrong. My cabin partner was a 21 year-old Georgian boy who scoffed when I told him I was from the Lagodekhi region. Apparently he had, had a bad football (soccer) match with them a while back. In spite of that we got along quite well, talking a little in Georgian and he even tried to share his hotdogs with me that he dipped in sour cream. I declined those, oddly enough some ended up on the floor. We also shared a huge dislike for the fact that our window could not open, due to the massive boxes of apples on the bunks above our beds that were blocking them. Apparently to offset the fact that not many people travel from Georgia to Armenia, they pack the train full of produce and other things like bricks of sugar. (Or at least I believe it was sugar and not cocaine.) We also made fun of our captain in Georgian because he couldn't understand!

Train compartment with apples

We road for a few hours, me talking on the phone and watching the newest Nurse Jackie and some Portlandia, until our lovely captain told us to get out our passports. My Georgian friend took mine when I put it on the table and examined all of my stamps. I told him of my love of Lviv when he saw all of the ones for Ukraine. He told me that he would like to have an American passport. Well, yes, wouldn’t we all Georgie?   The Georgian border guards came and collected them all and gave them back about an hour later with fresh stamps. We rode on for about another 45 minuets, until we got to the Armenian border crossing. (Why it takes that long, we may never know.) 

Before the train stopped the captain came to collect me, because I had to leave the train to get off and get a visa, being American. We stood by the door, waiting for the train to stop. He smoked a cigarette, while asking where I was from and touching my color tattoo. (I’ve gotten use to that this past six months. No female here has a tattoo, let alone a color one.)  When we stopped a solider escorted me the length of the train, where we met up with a few other travelers from Italy, Greece, and Holland who had opted to the 1st and 2nd class accommodations. We were taken into a small brightly lit, room where I tried to fight off sleep as it was close to midnight. I filled out a form about where I was going in Armenia and for how long. All the usual paper work. I did make a few mistakes that I crossed out, hoping they wouldn’t make me start all over again. I just wanted to sleep. They processed the people from Netherlands and the Greek. When it was my turn the guard started trying in my information and the captain showed up. He started yelling in Russian about me having a Georgian passport and they shouldn’t be holding me this long. I should have been done by now. I looked at the guard shocked, and told him that I live in Georgia, working as a teacher, but under no circumstances do I have a Georgian passport. I was an American and that was the only passport I have ever had. They understood that my dear captain was mistaken, and shuffled him out of the room. The Italian just looked at me and asked what the hell had just happened. I shrugged and said he was crazy or drunk. I was then asked to pay 3000 dram ($8) and I asked if I could pay in American. The bored guard then decided to have some fun with me and tell me that I could only pay in Armenian money. I am sure I looked like I was going to cry, because then he told me that I could pay with it. I only had $20, so I paid for the Italian too and he gave me Armenian money back. I was given a visa sticker, that was printed out on a computer printer and lead into a second room, that apparently no one else had to go to, where due to my bad eye sight I could not see what was being done on the computer. I am going to thank the captain for this. I am sure they were checking that there was no way I had ever had another passport. (If anyone wants to give me an EU one I wouldn’t say no, but seriously, seriously Georgian? What would I ever use that for?)  

Mhaha! They gave it to me!

I was escorted from the room and told I could go back on the train. When I got on, it looked like a war zone. The customs agents had torn the place up looking for contraband. When I got back to my compartment, I found my counter part with his empty duffle bag, stuffing all of his football gear back into it. (He was on his way to Armenia to play.) Panicking I looked to see if they had touched my bag, my friend shook his head, they hadn’t. All they would have found anyways was some clothes, my laptop, make up, and some odds and ends. I just don’t like people touching my stuff without me present. They did however go into my carryon food bag and they touched my crackers. Bastards. (Still going to eat them!) Everyone in the train looked a little shaken and annoyed. I decided to go to bed. I didn’t care if they were still on the train, I wanted to go to bed and they could wake me up if they had any questions. 

I tossed and turned all night on the hard bed. I woke up at sometime near dawn to a woman crouched down by my bag. I started to freakout, but then she pulled out what I think was a pack of diapers, that she had hidden from the customs agents in a corner for whatever reason. I didn’t care about her illegal activities, I just wanted to get some more sleep. 

I was happy when the train ride ended a few hours later, finally in Yerevan and very ready to start my summer vacation. Even though it was another crazy night train ride, they always seem to be the most memorable. Whether it be one from Hamburg to Amsterdam where I trick a Swede into thinking that I had never had salt licorice before so he gives me some to see my reaction, or from Lviv to Budapest crying my eyes out in between border checks (did I really need to show you my pack and a half of cigarettes? Not going to let that go.), or having my best friend wake up to find me drunk off of six shots of vodka for breakfast and thinking we should skip putting me on my plane back to America and go fishing with a man in his village in Ukraine instead, on a ride from Lviv to Kiev. My life is far from conventional, but it is highly enjoyable. The real question is how I will fare during my time in Armenia and for that you will have to wait to find out...

I looked so happy with my Ukrainian friend who wanted to take me fishing!

Goodbye Shadow

It is sometimes easy for me to forget that Georgia is a developing nation. My host house has all the comforts of my house in America, minus good water pressure and being cold in the winter, but it hasn’t been cold for months now. I spend my weekends in Tbilisi with the ability to get whatever I want, besides good Chinese food. It also comes down to the fact that I have adjusted and adapted to Georgia and nothing seems to be too out of my spectrum of normal. 

Yesterday I was going through my things, trying to cut down on everything I would have to lug to my apartment in Tbilisi. I decided to part with a box of markers that I had used maybe once to color with and other wise they were keeping my window propped open. I also had some construction paper, nail polish, half a bottle of lotion that I didn’t care for the scent anymore, and a Little Mermaid coloring book that I never got bored enough to color in. I put it in a blue plastic bag and set off to give it to one of my fourth grade students. My co-teacher had told me that her family was very poor, but in the semester that I had known her and her three siblings I had still yet to go inside her house. The children sometimes came to school a little dirty, but what kids aren’t? There clothing was a little warn and they are on the smaller side, but I just attributed it to genetics and nothing else.

I found the her house and no one was outside so I asked the next door neighbor, who yelled and got my students mother outside. I explained that I was looking for one of her daughters. She happily ushered me inside and told me that she would be home shortly. She gave me a small stool to sit on and offered me coffee. I declined and she took a seat on the floor next to an older women, who it was explained to me that she was my students grandmother. A toddler came over and immediately wanted me to hold her and play with her. I scooped her right up in my arms and held her while talking with my students mother about them, my summer and autumn plans, and our families. 

I had forgotten that I was a curiosity to people, but I was reminded of this. There was a very good chance that I was the first foreigner that they had ever had in their house. They touched my color tattoo and my newly permed hair. I let the toddler wear my nock off Ray Ban sunglasses and she screamed when they were taken away. They all wanted me to take their pictures with my camera.

I looked around the small house that was made up of four rooms. The wallpaper had come off in large chunks. There were cracks all over the walls and even a hole in the corner by the floor that I could see out of. The TV was partially melted on the side, with wires coming out, but it was still functional. In this hot weather the deterioration was not a massive issue, but I could only imagine the how cold the house got in the winter when the wind blew through the cracks. I did not count enough beds for every family member. There wasn’t that many possessions. A few old toys scattered around the house. 

My student came home with her two older sisters, the eldest questioned her mother why I didn’t not have coffee and I said I didn’t want any. I gave my student the bag of things I had brought and she way beyond excited looking at everything. I explained that I was going away for the summer and I didn’t want these things anymore.  She put everything back in the bag and kept a death grip on it, politely stating that it was hers. She told her mother though that she could have the lotion, which I had to explain what it was and how to use it. They loved the smell of it. I felt bad thinking of all the Bath and Body Works products that I have back in the States that if I had here I would give them, not just a half bottle of lotion. 

My student then decided that she wanted to paint my nails with a bottle of nail polish I had also given her. She did one pinky and got half on my finger, which her mother fixed and then asked me to do the rest. I sat painting my nails while the whole family watched and they all told me how pretty they looked when I had finished. The mother disappeared and came back with a bar of soap that she tried to give to me and I explained to her that my bag that I was taking to Australia this summer was really small. She came back with a pair of silver hoop earrings, telling me that these could fit into my bag. I didn’t want to take anything away from them because of how little they have, but I couldn’t keep saying no. I also was given a cup of coffee around the same time. I let my student put my new earrings on me, which was a little painful at one point, but I kept a smile plastered to my face. I didn’t want her to get in trouble for “hurting” the American teacher. 

My student’s sister who is in fifth grade and super smart sat translating between her mother and I. She is easily one of the best, if not the best student I have. She always finds time to do her homework and study, even though she has to help her mother around the house and I don’t mean choirs that a child is given. I’ve been told she takes care of the cows, which is amazing to me that this small 12 year old girl could handle not just one cow, but numerous ones. She also watches her younger siblings. 

Their mother excuses herself, because she had to go tend to the eggplant, which is their source of income. My student and I went for a walk around her part of the village. I live on one of the two main streets and she lives further out, by the border of Azerbaijan. She held my hand with one of her hands and in the other her blue bag. She took me around, showing me where her grandmother lived, which looked like a house even smaller then her own. She said hello to everyone that we passed, happy to show that she was with me. She slipped on mud at one point and almost went down, but we just started laughing. During our walk tears came out of my eyes a little bit, knowing that I was leaving this week and thinking back on the semester spent with her and all of our misadventures. I love being her friend, but being her teacher drives me nuts. She can’t sit still and doesn’t do any of the work, then again she also is lacking books and other supplies. Despite that she has still picked up some English, not nearly as much as her sister though. We started to walk one way, but there was a goose and when she saw it she decided to turn around and go back towards her house. I didn’t blame her, those things can be horribly mean. There is one I pass everyday on my way to school that chased me a few months back and I look at it and think if you try anything again, so help me God, I am going to kill you and cook you for dinner. I pretend to not notice her fear and she ignored my tears. We were even. 

We went back to her house and broke in the Little Mermaid coloring book. I got one page, she got the opposite. She asked me what color she should use on everything, never once questioning my choice. We did this for a bit and then I announced that I should go home. 

On my walk back to my house I thought about the difference I had made in some of my students lives this semester and even though I will be in Tbilisi teaching next autumn it doesn’t mean that I will forget about this school or stop trying to give back to my former students and their families. I am already planing a list of things to purchase over my summer holidays to bring back to them when I visit. I feel that just because my fellow volunteers and I move on to do new things, that we should not sever our ties with our old schools. We could assume that another volunteer will eventually come along to fill our place and pick up where we left off, or we can continue to make a difference, even from afar, not leaving things to chance. 

Six Months: I was Feeling Sad, Can't Help Looking Back

When I came to Georgia six months ago I kept reminding myself that anything was possible here, I just had to give things a chance. My grandfather told me right before I left, that if I didn’t like it over here, then I come right back home and no one would think less of me. I’ve used that advice this whole time, but I’ve modified it to if I don’t like a situation, then get out of it or change it. I have grown in my time spent over here so far. Physically I am still pretty much the same, but I have a different outlook on life that will probably only be intensified when I return to the western world. I will be leaving my village and Georgia next Friday and won’t return until late August, except for about 48 hours in late June when I get home from Armenia and then go to Denmark and less then 24 hours in mid-July when I go from Denmark to Australia. It is safe to say I don’t want to leave.

Georgia has become this cozy crazy little bubble, that I am in love with. Last Saturday morning I was sitting around the breakfast table in my new apartment in Tbilisi, talking to a guy who had slept over and one of my roommates about the ‘bath salts’ drug in the States and all the zombie cannibal people. They hadn’t heard much about it and I explained it to them, after some Googling, and the guy started talking about how he was glad that if stuff like this was going on in Ohio, he could always come back to Georgia where he knew what to expect. I agree with him on that front. Sure Georgians aren’t the healthiest people, they like to drink, smoke cigarets, and eat food that gives them diabetes and makes their teeth fallout, but you won’t find a nation of pill popping addicts for every little hick-up. They value family and children more then any nation I have ever been to. You can have a million dollars, but if you are single with no children your life is not complete. 

This country is also really confusing sometimes. My host family will comment on the size of my butt and say that it’s gotten a little big lately and maybe I should do some sport to get rid of it in the morning. At lunch they will be shoving food and sweets down my throat. The best thing I remember when I told my host mother that I was on a diet, she would even put me on the scale every few days to make sure I was loosing weight, and one day she asked if I wanted strawberries and came back with some covered in heaps of sugar and ice cream. I just shook my head and ate them, and promptly got a sugar headache. I also was told not to drink at school because my host mother did not want my director to think less of me, well it’s a little hard to say no when he is the one pouring you shots of liquor. Drinking in school, while working is also another conundrum, but when it Georgia, do as the Georgians, right?

I’ve had my moments where I broke down crying over silly things, like squat toilets. I’ve also had my moments of breaking down crying over thinking that I was a I was a bad teacher because I couldn’t make students care or learn English. In that moment I had to remember that I was not just there to teach English, but teach about my culture. One of my best teaching moments so far was when my co-teacher had to leave early one day and I watched Katy Perry’s “Firework” music video with my fourth graders. A student who never speaks, because of how shy she is in class started using her limited English to talk to me about the video and share her personality with me. I also have a third grade boy who two months ago wouldn’t even look at post cards of Maine that I was showing him, but again my co-teacher was absent one day, and I had him participate in all of our activities that day. (My co-teacher normally ignores him. It’s common to do this with “slow” children in post Soviet countries.) He now looks at me and says hello and goodbye when he sees me. It may not seem like much, but it is huge for him. Now in school I want to stop and give all my students hugs, as I only have a week left with them, most still don’t know I will be teaching two hours away in Tbilisi this fall.

This morning at breakfast my host mum wanted to get my schedule for the last week here straight and I started crying and have found myself crying all day at random times. Just like any family I have had my issues with them, but I can safely say that when I came back this April from two weeks away in the Baltic it was fantastic to see them, despite all the jet leg and just wanting to sleep. I even let my host dad drunkly stroke my hair and tell me how I was his “American girl,” in a completely drunk proud dad kind of way. I have had my moments where my host mom opens the door for drunk me at midnight after a night of beers with the village guys my age, and just like my mother back in America, she tells me to go to bed and then makes fun of me for it for the next week. 

I’ve fallen in love with someone that was completely off my radar, until it had happened. Relationships aren’t meant to last in the long term here in my eyes. They are meant to be savored and relished in every way in the long moment we have shared. I find myself enjoying small things with him. A day gone awry can be fixed with a bad joke or an immatation. The first weekend spent in a new apartment is made a little less lonely, even when getting nudged awake for have fallen asleep, because I was sick the day before, and had started snoring. Through him, I have gotten a deeper look into who I am, what I want in life, and I am able to laugh at myself. I know next semester without him will be hard, not being a free phone call away, but everything works out the way God, or the flying spaghetti monster, wants it to.

I know this next week will be filled with hard goodbyes and tears, but I am ready for it. I have already cried in the rain at 3am, in the middle of a street closed for construction in Tbilisi to one of my friends about how I didn’t want this semester to end and it is true. I do not want this semester to end. I know I have at least one more here, but this is an end to an epic chapter in my story. I also know that if I don’t continue to take chances, like coming to Georgia, experiences like this would not be possible and I can’t let the past hold me back from enjoying my future.

For the past six months I have had people continually telling me how proud they are of me and everything I am doing, but in all honestly I am proud of my family and close friends for caring enough about me to let me go and support me during this time. I’ve gotten enough Facebook messages and texts demanding that I come back to Maine to know that I am not only missed, but loved. I also know that anywhere in the world I have a friend singing Snow Patrol’s You Could Be Happy to me and I am happy, despite all the tears and goodbyes. Life is about living, and you can’t know how happy you truly are unless you have some sadness to measure it against.

Do the things

That you always wanted to

Without me there to hold you back

Don't think, just do

More than anything

I want to see you go

Take a glorious bite

Out of the whole world