The phone started ringing at 10:30am. Slightly annoyed at this unwelcome interruption to my wonderful, deep sleep, I rolled over, fully intending to ignore it. I then remembered that the night before, Crystal said she would call us in the morning in order to make plans for the day. I stumbled out of bed, narrowly avoided tripping over Liz’s cat, and ran to the phone. I had guessed correctly – it was Crystal. She explained that there was a tour of some monasteries that was leaving the Marriott at 11:30am, so we had better get our asses down there. I protested that I had only just woken up and Laura was still asleep, but she told us that she would call a taxi for us, and it would pick us up from Liz’s apartment at 11am sharp. We stepped outside the apartment at 11:05, and by that time the taxi was nowhere to be found, so we had to hail one off the street.

If you’ve never been to Eastern Europe before, you should realize that a taxi in the former Soviet Union is not at all like a taxi in London, New York City, or D.C. Most of the “taxis” in this part of the world are just guys who are lucky enough to own a car, so they go out and purchase a plastic “taxi” sign, stick it on the roof of their car, and they are now officially in business. As I would learn, this unregulated taxi system usually translates into the cab drivers having no freakin’ clue where you want to go. We hopped into a rusting Lada, and I told the driver, in Russian (this entire conversation is in Russian, but I am obviously retelling it in English), that we wanted to go to the Marriott hotel, to which he replied “Marriott hotel? I don’t know this.” Oh, great. Thinking that perhaps they pronounced “Marriott” differently in Armenia, I started rattling off as many different pronunciations as I could think of: “Uh, Merr-i-OH-T? Marr-I-at? Marr-ee-AT?” He continued to shake his head. No problem, comrade taxi driver, let me just grab my Lonely Planet guide here and I could tell you where it is. I flipped open to the map of Yerevan, located the dot that represents the Marriott, and ah, here it is…it’s on…Hanrapetutyan Hraparak…what the fuck? How do you pronounce this? I showed him the map, but he only reads Armenian and Cyrillic characters, so it’s useless. I tried my best to pronounce it, but “Hanrapetutyan Hraparak… Hanrapetutyan Hraparak…” was met with a blank stare. Finally, I just said, “Uhhh…take us to…the big square” and that seemed to work well. Of course, an hour later I was kicking myself for not using the Russian “respublika ploshchad”, since Hanrapetutyan Hraparak translates into “Republic Square.” I was still tired from the flight, and had apparently left my brain back in Washington. We finally arrive at Republic Square, and the Marriott is hard to miss. I ask the guy how much I owe him, but he replies with “How much do you want to pay?” Dammit! This is why we need a goddamn metering system! I throw about 1200 dram his way, which is probably way more than the ride was worth for being such a short distance, but it’s less than the cost of a frappacino, so I’ve got nothing to complain about.

Our driver and guide pick us up from the Marriott in a Ford Windstar van. As soon as we reached the outskirts of Yerevan, we were pulled over by the hated GAI (traffic cops). Their modus operandi is to stand on the side of the road next to their battered police cars and wave a black and white striped baton at motorists who they intend to pull over and collect bribes from. Since our driver was just tagged as the unlucky motorist of the moment, he hops out of his car and walks over to the policeman. They exchange pleasantries, and then shake hands in order to disguise the fact that our driver was slipping a few thousand dram to this wonderful police officer. The officer quickly glances at his hand in order to ensure the bribe is of a proper amount, and promptly waves our driver off to show that he is pleased with the transaction. We get on the road again, but less than five minutes later, another police officer directs our driver to the side of the road, and the process repeats itself. And wouldn’t you believe it, but our poor driver is pulled over again after that, resulting in his third, and thankfully final bribe of the day.

At first we didn’t realize how far away these monasteries were, until we consulted our Lonely Planet guides and discovered that we were driving all the way to northeast Armenia, almost to the Georgian border. It took us about three hours to reach our destination, but the drive itself was an excellent opportunity to view the varied landscape of Armenia. Driving thirty miles outside Yerevan, the rolling green hills reminded me of Ireland, while an hour later the mountainous landscape could very well have been that of Montenegro. The isolation was occasionally broken up by signs of human activity, as we drove past beekeepers tending to their traps, shepherds leading flocks of sheep across the road, and young children playing outside the dilapidated concrete and tin roofed houses in the small villages.

Farther north, we drove through the cities of Vanadzor and Alaverdi, textbook cases of cities that suffered greatly from the economic fallout following the collapse of the Soviet Union. Once a major center of Soviet chemical production, Vanadzor’s sprawling chemical factories are now vacant, derelict buildings with broken windows, silent smokestacks, rusting pipelines and empty chemical tanks. I tried to visualize what these cities must have looked like before the economic collapse, with a bustling workforce fulfilling the asinine five year plans issued by GOSPLAN bureaucrats in Moscow. These days the orders from Moscow no longer come, and now the men stand idly by the side of the road.

One of the few working factories we passed

I imagined that the overgrown jungles and scum-filled ponds were once well-manicured gardens populated by gossiping mothers doting on their Soviet tykes.

Haghpat monastery, our first stop, is situated on a mountain with beautiful views of Debed Canyon below. Unfortunately for us, as our van started to climb the mountain, it became engulfed in smoke and started to emit some oily substance. Ah, American-made automobiles at their finest! As we sat in the car, cursing Detroit, a large village bus rounded the corner. Our driver flagged it down, and motioned for us to get out of the van while the bus driver honked impatiently. We climbed into this rickety old bus, filled to the brim with villagers bringing back their purchases from the city below. Our fellow passengers looked none-too-pleased to have us on the bus, most likely because we had interrupted their journey for several minutes, and they would now be squeezed even more tightly amongst their fellow citizens. The bus lurched up the winding road, and I became convinced that one rough bump would send Laura flying out the flimsy doors and off the side of the mountain.

This is how we roll

Once we actually got to the village, we trudged up to the Monastery. The Monastery was founded in 976, and then further developed in the 12th century. In 1996, Haghpat, along with Sanahin Monastery, were deemed UNESCO World Heritage sites. The landscape was breathtaking, with the surrounding mountains covered in clouds like a comfortable, soft blanket. We were also the only tourists there, a welcome break from the overcrowded tourist meccas of Rome and other western European cities.

Monastery grounds

Debed Canyon

When I stepped into a part of the church, a small bird flew right at me, prompting me to run around in circles and scream “ACK! This goddamn bird is trying to attack me!” The bird continued to fly after me, and then proceeded to attach itself to my backpack. I ended up carrying around that bird for the entire tour of the monastery, which lasted about 45 minutes. A little girl that lived in the village guided us around for most of the time. Her grandfather was the caretaker of the monastery, and explained much of the history of the buildings to our guide in Armenian, who then translated it to us in English.

My newfound friend

Messing around

Khachkars – Armenian carved memorial stones

The girl who showed us around the monastery

After we finished touring the monastery, the question presented itself: how exactly were we going to get down the mountain to our van? An Armenian family approached our guide and explained that our driver had flagged them down, and they offered to give us a ride back to our van. When they first approached us, I was a bit perplexed. They were Armenian, and speaking to our guide in Armenian, but looked like they had just stepped out of an episode of the O.C. (not that I actually watch that show…their wardrobe and mannerisms were just thoroughly Californian, ya know what I mean?) The mother turned to us, and asked in English where we were from. “Well I’m from California,” I replied, and they mentioned that they were from Los Angeles. Ah, it all became clear then. Diaspora. We crammed into their van, and they dropped us off at our van halfway down the mountain. Our driver said he thought the van would be OK, but we ended up having to coast down the mountain in neutral. When we got to the bottom, and turned onto the main road, we came to a complete stop. Car fixed, indeed!

We needed to kill some time while we waited for our driver’s friend to pick us up, so we trudged down the highway in search of a restaurant. We finally came across a roadside café nestled amongst abandoned gas stations and auto repair shops. The owner of the café led us around to the back, and into a small room with a table and chairs, and crackling speakers on the wall that blared horrible Russian pop music. She asked us what we wanted to eat, and we inquired if there was a menu. There wasn’t, as it simply served “khoravats” – Armenian barbecue. Our choices were pork or lamb, and how many kilograms did we want, by the way? We opted for a kilogram of each, along with grilled vegetables, lavash, yogurt, and, at my suggestion, a bottle of vodka. The food was plentiful and incredibly tasty. I was a little wary at first, as I’ve had far too many bad experiences with sidewalk or roadside food in Eastern Europe, but it was delicious and certainly a great way to waste a few hours. Anyways, I figured the vodka would kill off any parasites that might be lurking around. We ended our meal with a sweet Armenian coffee and a huge platter of watermelon. All together, each person paid less than $5.

There’s gotta be a Taco Bell somewhere around here

Ah, finally, a place to eat

Our own private dining room in the back

Too bad the auto-repair shop next door wasn’t open…I guess we were a decade or two too late

Khoravats! Delicious

Vodka for lunch

Fifteen minutes after we left the restaurant, (again coasting in neutral and occasionally accelerating on the gas pedal of our dying vehicle), our new driver came to the rescue in his Soviet made Volga. Ah, the ever reliable Volga. The kitschy 70s era flowered upholstery looks like it came from your grandmother’s house, and the car’s interior may have an overpowering scent of gasoline, but the Volga will always get you where you need to go. Our first driver was a very cautious young fellow, but this new guy, an older man, drove quickly through the pothole plagued roads, swerving to avoid the occasional pig or cow. We had nothing else to do but sit in abject terror and watch as the cross necklace sitting on the dashboard swung wildly from side to side.

Soviet Volga to the rescue

We finally arrived at Sanahin Monastery, the second and final monastery we would be visiting that day (which was quickly turning into night). Built in 928, “Sanahin” means “older than that one”, in reference to the monastery in Haghpat. Much like Haghpat, it was deserted, but of the two monasteries, I preferred Haghpat, as the view was much more beautiful. We didn’t spend as much time at this monastery, though, because we still had a long drive ahead of us.

Sanahin Monastery

We eventually got back to Yerevan around midnight, five hours past schedule. That night, we were supposed to have dinner with Taline, Liz and their friends, as a sort of “welcome to Yerevan” dinner, but due to the vehicle troubles, we missed our own damn welcome dinner. We met up with Liz, Taline and their friends at a bowling alley, where I totally schooled Crystal in air hockey.

(Wow, that was an incredibly long post. The next one won’t be as long. Coming up: We actually see stuff in Yerevan…and get totally wasted at our rescheduled welcome dinner)

Armenia. Georgia. Azerbaijan. I’ve become used to the odd looks when I tell someone where I’m going – most people haven’t a clue where these countries are located, and to the others I might as well have said Afghanistan, as visions of men with AK-47s pop into their heads. Most people are content to lie on white beaches, sipping mai tais and occasionally taking a dip in the crystal-clear water. Not me. I want border crossings in dilapidated taxis, languages I can barely understand, gold-toothed men hawking shawarma from sidewalk eateries, and babushkas selling the mushrooms they picked at their dacha the day before.

Last year, my mom would always ask, “Why Egypt? Why Croatia? Why not Italy?” (she was finally thrilled when I announced that I would, in fact, be visiting Italy – a “normal” country). It’s not that I don’t want to visit places like Spain, Germany, or Austria, I just feel that these countries won’t be that much different ten years from now. Armenia, Georgia, and Azerbaijan, on the other hand, are at a unique period in their respective histories – 70 years of communism followed by bloody civil wars and regional conflicts, and each now pursuing varying stages of economic development. I love “Old Europe” but it can wait for a few years, as I have some other passport stamps I need to collect first.

As mentioned in previous posts, I have two friends – one from GW and the other from LSE – who currently work in Armenia. I promised them that I would visit, and started researching tickets in May. My roommate, Laura, another friend of Liz’s, decided that she, too, would like to see Armenia, and so on the evening of July 4th we found ourselves boarding a British Airways flight that would take us to London and from there, Yerevan. Ah, British Airways, how I love you! The cheery “hullo” when you step onto the plane, free alcohol, tea, Cadbury chocolates…civilization!

I’m usually incredibly lucky when it comes to domestic flights (a whole row to myself, a flight attendant who sneaks me some of the freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies from first class, and so on) but it seems that whenever I fly internationally, the forces of nature conspire against me to ensure that I have a long, uncomfortable flight over the Atlantic. This most recent flight to London was a perfect storm of misery: a screaming baby in the row ahead of me, the knee of the passenger behind me permanently ingrained in my back, and the lady next to me literally spilling over into my seat, thus occupying 15 or so percent of the tiny personal space that British Airways allotted to me.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t sleep on planes (flight insomnia…it has to be a medical condition), so I usually watch movies or listen to some music while everyone else sleeps. I was thoroughly pissed that this lady was occupying a good percentage of my seat, though, and soon after she fell asleep I turned on the bright-as-the-goddamn-sun overhead light. Her eyes immediately fluttered open, nose scrunched up, and she turned to me and sputtered, “Can you turn the light off?” I just grinned, pointed to my book and notepad, and replied, “Well, I’m reading, you see.” She spent the next few hours tossing and turning (yeah, the light really is that bright). If she wanted to sleep that badly, she could have put on her BA-issued eye mask.

We arrived at Heathrow airport around 8am, an hour later than expected. Only a year ago I was living here in London, researching my dissertation topic, looking forward to meeting my family in Dublin, fixing the porn-laden laptops of idiotic LSE students, planning a trip to Prague, and totally unaware that a few days later some idiots would blow up our beloved Underground transportation system. Damn, I miss this city.

After convincing passport control that we were only staying in the country for lunch, we hopped the Heathrow Express to Paddington and took the tube to Notting Hill Gate. We had a pot of tea and scones with jam and clotted cream at Patisserie Valerie, and then wandered down to the Hillgate pub for a morning drink. We arrived at the pub at 10:45am, only to be told that they didn’t open for another 15 minutes, so we walked around Notting Hill and arrived back at the Hillgate promptly at 11am. First customers of the day. Life goal #372 accomplished!

“A pint of Strongbow please.”

I imagined that the bartender must have thought to herself, “Oh, here come the bloody alcoholic Yank backpackers.” But oh, that Strongbow tasted so good.

We got back to Heathrow at 12:45pm for our 2:30 flight, and finally arrived in Yerevan at 12:30am, an hour behind schedule. Passport control was a typical example of Eastern European bureaucracy, with one disinterested guard for every fifty passengers, no semblance of order whatsoever, and a fair amount of pushing and shoving from hyperactive babushkas who spied their family members waving to them behind the plate glass windows beyond the control booths. We finally got out of passport control after 45 or so minutes, collected our luggage, and were met by a driver from the U.S. embassy who would take us to Liz’s apartment.

As we pulled out of the airport, one of the first questions he asked me was, “Do you like Mexican food?”
“Man, I’m from California – I love Mexican food!”

“Good, because I am taking you to Mexican restaurant ‘Cactus.’ Liz is there waiting for you.” We then proceeded to debate the finer points of Mexican cuisine. Tacos, burritos, what are the best?

Driving into Yerevan, one of the first things that struck me about the city was the complete darkness. None of the streetlights were on, and most of the apartment buildings emitted hardly any light. The darkness was occasionally interrupted by the neon glow of the casinos that dotted the road, most of them with names that were ripped-off from their big brothers in Vegas: Bellagio, Caesar’s, etc. I suppose that they are the only ones who can afford the high electricity rates in this part of the world.

We arrived at ‘Cactus’ and met up with Liz, Taline, Crystal (another LSE alum, she had flown in from San Francisco that morning), and their expat friends, who were watching one of the World Cup matches. Can I just tell you how surreal it felt to be standing there, at 2am, in a Mexican restaurant in Yerevan of all places, surrounded by friends from both GW and LSE? It was like a very, very weird dream. After finishing off someone’s Piña Colada, we headed back to Liz’s place, where I showered and finally crashed around 4am.

Next up: We visit some monasteries, our van breaks down, and we are stranded in Northern Armenia

As always, here is a small sample:

The album is located here.
I actually have a few more I need to upload, and I will get those up soon (You’re probably thinking, “MORE?!”…yes, more)

Now comes the fun part, though…writing the travelogue of our trip around the South Caucasus. I promise that I will try to make it as entertaining as possible.

Also, Crystal and I are convinced that the NYTimes is stalking us. EVERY TIME we go somewhere, an article will appear in the NY Times travel section soon thereafer. Take, for instance, this article on Georgia that recently came out: “Dodging Traffic and Pitfalls in Gourmet Georgia”

Trendsetters? Yes we are.

Sad news. My beloved yellow labrador, Katie, passed away today at the age of 13. I’m actually quite amazed that she lived for almost 14 years considering her propensity for junk food and dislike of anything remotely resembling exercise. Health-wise, she had her good days and her bad days during these previous few years. I wasn’t home much for the past five years, just a few months here and there when college was out for the summer. When it came time to go back to DC or London, I always said goodbye hoping that she would still be there when I returned the next time. This past January, though, as I gave her a last hug and headed off to the airport on that chilly, pre-dawn morning, I somehow knew that she probably wouldn’t be around the next time I came home. The trip back home for Christmas just won’t be the same this year. You will be missed, Katie.

After 24 hours of non-stop traveling (damn you Heathrow!), I’m finally back from my incredible journey to the Caucasus. I took over 400 photos, so it will take me awhile to get them all sorted, labeled, and uploaded, but I expect that by the end of this week they will be available for your viewing pleasure. In addition, I’ll be posting a day by day account of our travels throughout the South Caucasus so you can read all about our road trip to Tbilisi, broken down car in northern Armenia, interactions with crazy local cab drivers, and more!

I’ve had two people tell me this in the past week…and these are friends of mine who studied the region at LSE. Comrades, be reasonable! I’m not looking to grab an AK-47 and hop into one of the various post-Soviet conflicts plaguing the region, I just want some homemade Georgian khachapuri and Armenian cognac. Besides, they are all under cease-fire agreements…right?

“Intermittent armed clashes” aside, I’m really looking forward to this trip, for a variety of reasons. My friend Liz (from GW) is a foreign service officer at the U.S. embassy in Yerevan, and Taline (from LSE) heads the NDI program over there. My roommate, Laura, also a friend of Liz’s, is coming along, and Crystal (LSE) is flying out from San Francisco.

So, here is our itinerary, which, of course is subject to change given the nature of traveling in the Former Soviet Union:

July 4: Leave DC
July 5: Arrive in London, the greatest city in the world. Seven hour layover, then depart for Armenia.
Arrive in Yerevan at night.

July 6 and 7th: Yerevan, Armenia

July 8: Drive to Tbilisi, Georgia

Overnight in Tbilsi

July 9: Tbilisi (perhaps stop by Misha’s office to sing the GW fight song together)

Overnight in Tbilisi

July 10: Fly to Baku, Azerbaijan

Overnight in Baku

July 11: Spend a day at one of the lovely beaches of Baku

Overnight in Baku

July 12: Fly to Tbilisi, drive back to Yerevan (yes, it would be lovely to fly directly to Yerevan from Baku, but the two countries HATE HATE HATE each other and there are no flights between the respective capitals)

July 11-14: Armenia

July 15: Depart Armenia, seven hour layover in London (anyone up for a pint?), unfortunately back to Dullsville, aka the District of Columbia

Ethnic conflicts, low-grade civil wars, massive environmental pollution, landmines, intermittent electricity, and political repression. Sounds like a place you’d love to vacation in, no?

Monroeville, actually. We never made it into the city of Pittsburgh, just some of the suburbs…we’ll have to visit another time to catch a Pirates game.

The wedding was excellent, as was the Sunday BBQ. Tons of great food, drinks, and company. Congrats to Liz and Nick (and thanks for letting me crash at your place in January!)

On the way back we stopped at a huge fireworks store. I’m not actually going to be in the country for 4th of July festivities, but figure it might be kind of fun to set off fireworks whenever I damn well feel like it. Besides, the loud bangs will go quite nicely with the other, more lethal loud bangs that can be heard in my neighborhood of Columbia Heights.