Yerevan is a beautiful city, with the pink stone. There was one architect in the ‘20s who designed the street plan and most of the beautiful buildings; they’re at a human scale and have nice details. The Soviet apartment blocks behind are also somewhat nice, since they too are of the pink stone. The streets are wide, the sidewalks have designs in the pavement. There are trash cans, and there’s no trash. The air is breathable (other than the cigarette smoke) and there are construction cranes everywhere. Yerevan is a relatively new city; in greater Armenia, Tbilisi was the cultural center.
Nick, the PTO, is an American married to an Armenian, and he told us that people are moving on from the genocide. Maybe it’s a generational thing – the Volunteer Support Coordinator, an Armenian, told us that the genocide is very much on people’s minds and that there isn’t a single family in Armenia who wasn’t affected. My host sister is 65, and almost the first thing she told me is that her parents were both genocide survivors. They were orphaned at age 12 and made their way to Russia, where they met. Her father was a chemical engineer, and in 1944 he spent a year in the United States working for duPont. Her sister was born in Russia, and then they moved to Armenia and she was born here. She was a computer scientist, but quit her job to take care of her father at the end of his life and then the sister at the end of hers. Her mother was a homemaker and since the girls were both working, her mother did all the cooking. She didn’t really learn to cook until her sister died. She learned English by listening to the Voice of America; her father told her to listen until she understood. When I ask her what something is in Armenian (identifying the food and household items, for example), she tells me the Russian word first and has to think of the Armenian; she has a Russian-English dictionary for when she is trying to think of a word to tell me. Yet she writes in Armenian.
The apartment is comfortable, if a little chilly (ironically, the day I moved in, there was an article in the Times about central heating making us fat, and how you can lose a few pounds by shivering). She has a thermometer in the foyer and it seems to be 60 degrees in here. I have on a few layers, but in Morocco I could see my breath! If it gets colder, I do have those two space heaters that Peace Corps gave me, but for now, one is my towel rack and the other is still in its box (they’re two different kinds). My room has two beds, one made up for winter and one for summer. The winter one has a wool-stuffed duvet for me to sleep on and one for me to sleep under – a wool-blanket sandwich! It’s warm and comfortable (in our culture session, Armine told us not to put shoes on the bed, and I said, “or crumbs.” Brian said, “I remember you and the crumbs.” I haven’t seen him in two years… is my aversion to crumbs that memorable?). There’s a dresser with some space for hanging things and a shelf for my toiletries. My room also has two covered trunks, on which I have put my luggage (kind of an auxiliary dresser), a round table with four chairs (wood, not plastic as I had in Morocco!) and a little round table for the filtered-water dispenser. There’s no rug on the floor, but I have toasty slippers thanks to Elisa, and I have room between the two beds to do my yoga.
There’s a room with a Western toilet (I’ve seen a couple of squat toilets, but they are of the European variety – i.e. bowl, just no seat, as opposed to hole in the ground), with paper, that flushes (I don’t take any of this for granted). There’s a separate room with a sink and a shower stall. Zina has to turn about seven different valves to get the shower water running, but there is hot water, and she was told to expect me to take a shower every day. And so I shall! I’m so, so glad there is hot water. There isn’t in the sink, but I can wash my face quickly with cold water. There’s a living room and her room and a small kitchen and two balconies, which in this season she is using for food storage. It’s very comfortable! Because of the shower/curtain configuration, when I am done the floor is wet, but she insists on cleaning up after me, and also on doing the dishes after we eat. I’ve been offering to help, but she says she is used to taking care of people. If she wants to do that, it’s fine with me! Zina often has the radio on, with a variety of music – Armenian, Russian, American, European – playing; it’s a nice change for me from the same music that’s been on my computer since 2006! At night she watches TV; it’s pleasant background. I’ve been here in my room writing and reading and meditating and doing yoga, but I’ll take breaks and visit with her. It’s about as good as it could get if one has to live with a complete stranger in a different culture.
Yerevan is a beautiful city, with the pink stone. There was one architect in the ‘20s who designed the street plan and most of the beautiful buildings; they’re at a human scale and have nice details. The Soviet apartment blocks behind are also somewhat nice, since they too are of the pink stone. The streets are wide, the sidewalks have designs in the pavement. There are trash cans, and there’s no trash. The air is breathable (other than the cigarette smoke) and there are construction cranes everywhere. Yerevan is a relatively new city; in greater Armenia, Tbilisi was the cultural center.
Nick, the PTO, is an American married to an Armenian, and he told us that people are moving on from the genocide. Maybe it’s a generational thing – the Volunteer Support Coordinator, an Armenian, told us that the genocide is very much on people’s minds and that there isn’t a single family in Armenia who wasn’t affected. My host sister is 65, and almost the first thing she told me is that her parents were both genocide survivors. They were orphaned at age 12 and made their way to Russia, where they met. Her father was a chemical engineer, and in 1944 he spent a year in the United States working for duPont. Her sister was born in Russia, and then they moved to Armenia and she was born here. She was a computer scientist, but quit her job to take care of her father at the end of his life and then the sister at the end of hers. Her mother was a homemaker and since the girls were both working, her mother did all the cooking. She didn’t really learn to cook until her sister died. She learned English by listening to the Voice of America; her father told her to listen until she understood. When I ask her what something is in Armenian (identifying the food and household items, for example), she tells me the Russian word first and has to think of the Armenian; she has a Russian-English dictionary for when she is trying to think of a word to tell me. Yet she writes in Armenian.
The apartment is comfortable, if a little chilly (ironically, the day I moved in, there was an article in the Times about central heating making us fat, and how you can lose a few pounds by shivering). She has a thermometer in the foyer and it seems to be 60 degrees in here. I have on a few layers, but in Morocco I could see my breath! If it gets colder, I do have those two space heaters that Peace Corps gave me, but for now, one is my towel rack and the other is still in its box (they’re two different kinds). My room has two beds, one made up for winter and one for summer. The winter one has a wool-stuffed duvet for me to sleep on and one for me to sleep under – a wool-blanket sandwich! It’s warm and comfortable (in our culture session, Armine told us not to put shoes on the bed, and I said, “or crumbs.” Brian said, “I remember you and the crumbs.” I haven’t seen him in two years… is my aversion to crumbs that memorable?). There’s a dresser with some space for hanging things and a shelf for my toiletries. My room also has two covered trunks, on which I have put my luggage (kind of an auxiliary dresser), a round table with four chairs (wood, not plastic as I had in Morocco!) and a little round table for the filtered-water dispenser. There’s no rug on the floor, but I have toasty slippers thanks to Elisa, and I have room between the two beds to do my yoga.
There’s a room with a Western toilet (I’ve seen a couple of squat toilets, but they are of the European variety – i.e. bowl, just no seat, as opposed to hole in the ground), with paper, that flushes (I don’t take any of this for granted). There’s a separate room with a sink and a shower stall. Zina has to turn about seven different valves to get the shower water running, but there is hot water, and she was told to expect me to take a shower every day. And so I shall! I’m so, so glad there is hot water. There isn’t in the sink, but I can wash my face quickly with cold water. There’s a living room and her room and a small kitchen and two balconies, which in this season she is using for food storage. It’s very comfortable! Because of the shower/curtain configuration, when I am done the floor is wet, but she insists on cleaning up after me, and also on doing the dishes after we eat. I’ve been offering to help, but she says she is used to taking care of people. If she wants to do that, it’s fine with me! Zina often has the radio on, with a variety of music – Armenian, Russian, American, European – playing; it’s a nice change for me from the same music that’s been on my computer since 2006! At night she watches TV; it’s pleasant background. I’ve been here in my room writing and reading and meditating and doing yoga, but I’ll take breaks and visit with her. It’s about as good as it could get if one has to live with a complete stranger in a different culture.
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