Day 3
This day in Armenia began with a mild disappointment and ended on a satisfying note.
After another futile attempt to photograph Ararat, we lunched at Artbridge and headed for Zatig Orphanage on the outskirts of Yerevan where we met with director Ashod Mnazakanian, who thankfully accepted a $100 contribution from home.
Ashod proceeded to expound upon the virtues of his shelter, which houses 50 children between the ages of 6-18, along with an equal number of staffers who are responsible for ‘round-the-clock coverage.
We found the children to be very accommodating to photographs. It’s as if they face that routine time and again from visitors, which negates their privacy. The hospitality was second to none as we were treated to Armenian coffee and pastries.
We were told there were few adoptions from Zatig, given the advanced ages of the children. Any one of them would have served as beautiful family members.
We returned to the city and went searching for Gond, a depressed community that came recommended by photographer Garo Lachinian for its human interest appeal. After combing the narrow and decrepit streets and coming up empty, we decided to call it an exercise in futility when fate intervened.
A family with four-generations living under one roof welcomed us into their yard for still another repast of Armenian coffee, lavash, cheese, olives, and fruits. They call this mezza. I call it a banquet. A cute two-year-old named Anahid stole our heart.
On the walk back to our apartment, we encountered some street musicians playing makeshift instruments and refusing a contribution we offered. “Our payment is your enjoyment,” they told us.
An evening meal by a pond with live jazz capped the day. It’s midnight as I begin this entry in my journal. Time has no place in Armenia.
Day 4
We began our fourth day with breakfast at Artbridge, joined by Vincent Lima, the managing editor of the Armenian Reporter whose base has been Yerevan for the past three years.
We hopped a cab to Ptghni, a centuries-old church that has laid in ruins the past 500 years, much like its sister vank Zvartnots. (1- I always get confused with lie/lay/laid. 2- should Vank be capitalized? Or should there be a comma after vank?)
There, we happened upon a recluse named Razmig, a 70-year-old widower who spends his days inside a crude rock shrine greeting anyone who might amble by. Razmig invited us to his home 100 meters yonder where his daughter-in-law served us madzoon (yogurt), freshly squeezed apricot juice, and Armenian coffee.
Dare I mention that everywhere Razmig goes, so goes his cow. There was a bovine grazing upon the grounds on grass that had sprouted between the rocks.
The day ended with dinner, joined by Garo Adanalian, a former Bostonian and associate editor of the Armenian Weekly now living in Yerevan and still writing his stories. He and his new wife Anoush were the consummate hosts throughout our visit.
I’m truly amazed at how reckless the drivers are. A walk across the street becomes a clear case of “dodge-ems,” putting your life into your legs.
The night life is brisk, the economy lacking. People get along fine with few amenities. I might add that the fruits and vegetables are unsurpassed. I do miss a good cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and am tiring of a weak substitute called Nescafe. The Armenian demitasses have grown into a habit.
(To be continued…)
Tom Vartabedian
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