amarmenia

In Knots

Fri, 09 Feb 2007 13:41:59 GMT

Big week. I learned to crochet. This is the second yarn-related skill have acquired during my time in Armenia and could be my last, unless I find someone who knows how to macramÈ plant holders. Those things are really cool.

Anyway, I’ve been crocheting something white and formless. Like a cloud, it’s open to interpretation just what it is. Fluffy bunny? Baby bootie? Fart in a mitten?

My teacher is a nice lady named Hasmik. She crochets so quickly I get dizzy watching the needle. Or maybe my swimming head is having trouble with all the new Armenian vocabulary needed to learn crochet: ornament, ring, chain, needle, you-twit-not-like-that.

I made up that last part. She’d never call me a twit, because she’s very nice. And even if she did, I’d never know. I don’t know the word for twit.

-m

English Lesson

Fri, 09 Feb 2007 13:41:20 GMT

I’ve been occupying myself this morning looking up words in the dictionary. Because I’m a giver, I’d like to share with you my favorite word today.

gimcrack (adjective): flimsy or poorly made but deceptively attractive

There’s a noun version too!

“a cheap and showy ornament; a knickknack”

But for what reason might one ever use this word? Here’s one, complete with a photo illustration!

“This gimcrack tea kettle looked good in the store but hasn’t worked since I brought it home.”

-m

In Praise of Global Warming

Fri, 09 Feb 2007 13:36:55 GMT

Since about New Year’s, I’ve been looking out the window, wishing the greenhouse effect were a little more ... effective. Because right now, mine is a cold cold world, where even the ice would like to be asked in for a cup of hot cocoa.

Alright, it has warmed up a bit, and it’s possible I’m being a baby. For example, not everything is covered in thick white snow anymore. Patches have melted away, revealing black mud and suggesting that somewhere in the world, humankind has thought to combine Oreo cookie crumbles with vanilla ice cream.

Those people were geniuses.

People round these parts were saying in January that this was the coldest it’s been in the region in 100 years. I’m not going to doubt the veracity of these claims, because imagining something colder makes my hair hurt.

Just how cold was it? So cold that when water finally - and unexpectedly - made it through the pipes and into the house, our kitchen flooded because the pipes out of the house were frozen. So cold that our toilet froze and someone in our house who wasn’t me had to poop in a bucket. So cold that I collected some twigs and dried berries, stashed them under the covers, crawled into bed, and didn’t come out for a month.

I’m including some photo evidence of the cold. In the first photo, you’ll see the crispy freezey view from our living room. In the second, you’ll see that our water storage turned into ice storage. You can’t quite see it, but a piece of steel wool fell into the bucket, froze, and couldn’t be recovered until this month.

-m

Andrew's Account of the Khash

Fri, 10 Nov 2006 09:01:27 GMT

First off, let me just say that I don’t remember the last time that I wrote in livejournal. Sorry about that. I guess that you’ll just have to take my word for it that I’ve actually been in Armenia for the last 16 months -- because I have. Where else would I get a chance to meet the friends (read: parasites) in my digestive system?

So yes, we ate the Armenian delicacy today. Apparently, we are not as devoted to the khash as the Armenians of yore. While we ate our khash with lavash at a table like a bunch of sissies, the real way to eat it is to put a towel over your head and eat it lampshade style. Why? The better to inhale the garlic broth, my dear. I think that it makes farmer’s blowing (or “snot rocketing”) a bit easier as well. On to the khash!

So yes, my name is Andrew and I enjoy khash. While the aforementioned garlic, water, and rectum taste was not there. It was more of a garlic, water, and butter with nuances of duodenum. Really, the garlic and the water covered up the organish tastes that could have arisen had an amateur created this concoction.

I think that it is worth noting that this soup does not resemble slaughterhouse floor at all. The Indiana Jones “eyeball soup” thing should not come to mind either. Rather, picture chicken noodle soup. Now take out the chicken. Good. Get rid of those noodles, and if you’re into vegetables, get rid of those too. Ok. So you’re left with the broth, right? Take a garlic clove now. No, one that’s bigger than that. Nope, bigger. Good. Now multiply that by 15. Excellent. Mince those 15 garlic cloves and put them in a vat of oil. Yes, I said a vat. Add that to your chicken-less noodle-less garlic soup broth and then go find yourself some salt. Now as I learned today, you can never have too much salt in your khash, so start adding. Don’t be shy, there’s no shortage of salt on the planet. When you’ve added enough salt to raise your blood pressure to 2000/5 million, get yourself some things from a cow. Please note, I did not say “meat.” This is on purpose because not everything in a cow is “meat,” right? Just add one or two of those things (don’t put too much thought into what parts you’re using... it’s better that way). And voila, you have what khash looks like.

So Melissa pretty much covered everything else. We made new friends today putting our total of new friends to somewhere around 50 and new enemies at 0. Our new friends are anxious to have us over so that they can show us how khorovats (Armenian barbeque) is really made: in using a hole in the ground that’s big enough to double as a room for your personal gimp. I can’t wait.

So thank you for allowing me this opportunity to write in livejournal.

Flavorfully yours,
Andrew

Another Go at the Cow-Hoof Soup

Fri, 10 Nov 2006 08:58:16 GMT

My line when the issue of khash, the traditional Armenian soup made with cow hooves and various innards, in the past has been: Welllll, it’s not that it’s bad. It’s just that it’s not good either.

Which, based upon said ingredients, sounds gracious. After today’s second attempt at eating khash, however, I’m going to have to come up with a new line. It may go something like this:

“Khash isn’t bad. It’s actually pretty good. Wait. That can’t be right.”

But it actually sort of is. Good, that is. When made by the right person, which today’s khash must have been. Because, unlike last time, I ate today until I was full, not until my gag reflex was activated.

So here’s what the stuff is, for those who want the gory details of how it’s eaten.

The soup arrives as sort of a clear broth with white and brown chunks in it. The chunks are organs that have been cooking in the broth for a good solid day, maybe more. My understanding of this process is admittedly sketchy, but according to the Peace Corps cookbook, khash contains four cow hooves, six lamb tongues and a kilo of cow tripe. I sort of wish I hadn’t just looked that up.

I’ve heard that guests of honor may often be the recipients of said hooves. This doesn’t happen today, and I don’t feel the need to ask. It is best not to give people ideas.

Now that the soup is on the table, it’s time to assess the condiments nearby. There is a small bowl of crushed garlic, a tiny salt dish, plates of radish sticks and pickled peppers (think pepperoncini), and stacks of dried lavash set directly on the table.

Our host, an Army officer who’s taking English lessons with Andrew, offers instructions to my husband on khash-eating (I’m off the hook because I’ve done this before). But because learning is best accomplished via demonstration, Arnak himself spoons garlic into Andrew’s bowl and pinches salt out of the dish and into the soup. Andrew is instructed to stir and taste. Once his khash has the desired level of salt and garlic, Arnak crumbles lavash into Andrew’s soup like saltines into chili, except much more. Our other host, Gegham, tells us to keep piling on the lavosh until there’s no standing broth.

Khash is to be eaten with the hands. But since it is soup, assistance is necessary. Our hosts urge us to use other pieces of lavash as scoops, one in each hand. Another piece of lavash should lie across part of the bowl, to keep the heat in while you eat from the other side.

I’m a little freaked out to take my first bite, because my memory of khash is that it tastes like garlic, water, and rectum. My suspicions that this khash is different, however, are confirmed when Andrew says, “I actually like this.”

Gegham tells us to eat the radish and peppers too. For me, they act as a crisp refresher between bites of this really rich stew. But he says they clean out the system because the khash just sort of sits inside your gut if eaten alone. For the record, I’ve given up health lessons in social situations.

So we eat. And we toast with vodka. It is a nice time. It is a hangist time, easy-going and mellow. No drinking til we pass out, no force-feeding, no talking about the inferiority of America to “Our Armenia” (a popular topic for many hosts).

Our time together is just... good. And so is the cow hoof soup.

I’m Actually Writing About Work. Sort Of

Tue, 31 Oct 2006 08:59:32 GMT

It’s hard to know if the arrival of my mother- and father-in-law bought us local capital or just made people ‘round here wish they could swap Andrew and I out for an upgrade. Suffice it to say Kathy and Gary were a hit, and we’ll be hearing about how beautiful and wrinkle-free they are until August 2007. I’m not joking about that. We probably will.

Should also mention the diabetes clinic we did Oct. 10-12. We screened about 260 people for diabetes and one person for a really gross bald patch on her head. I hope to never see that thing again. Anyway, the clinic was a success. Every patient got a blood pressure check, blood sugar test, height/weight measurement, and one-on-one consultation with the good doctor.

Now, Andrew and I are going to conduct classes for the diabetics who attended and distribute blood sugar testers to those who qualify. Just one problem. The testers and about 1,000 test strips are hung up in customs and guarded by an underfed grizzly bear. If anyone knows how to tame said grizzly bear, please respond. Quickly. Andrew wants his arm back.

Enough about work. Everyone wanted to hospitality* the fam, so we ended up eating enough dolma to turn into dolma (Have you had this? Ground beef and stuff rolled up either in grape or cabbage leaves. Pretty tasty). We also drank enough coffee to turn into coffee, and over the coffee, exchanged stories of family heritage, work, and how the kids’ generation always has it easier than the parents’. Universal stuff.

To work off some of the hospitality, which has been settling into my hips for about 16 months now, we went on a hike. The hike took us from Jermuk, home of the healthiest water on the planet, to Gndevas, home of people my counterpart tells jokes about. It was about 14 kilometers, uphill both ways and so snowy we had to walk along the fencetops. Wait, wrong story. It was a pleasant fall day with no snow at all. At the end of the hike, there was a big old monastery, dating back to the 10th century.

... And along that hike I took the above photo of Kathy. She stands proudly at the base of the 2nd Most Scariest Stairs in the World. They’re made entirely of rebar.

-m

My First Sports Story (Actually Not, But Very Nearly)

Fri, 27 Oct 2006 08:36:05 GMT

Look, I’ve tried really hard to not know a damn thing about football, but it hasn’t really worked out for me. See, I married someone who not only is into the football – and the Huskers to boot – but plays it twice yearly in the Peace Corps Amenia Khash Bowl.

So I’ve resigned myself to swooning over my favorite quarterback, No. 99 Andrew Ensz, who threw five TD passes and rushed for two touchdowns to lead the South to a 9-7 victory over the North on Saturday.

Did that paragraph seem like I knew what I was talking about? Here’s hoping.

My favorite quarterback Andrew Ensz looked very hunky for the big game. Now, though, he’s a little hobbly. If there were ice in this country, his shoulder might be a good place for it. I’ll ask if he can raise his left arm over his head yet, and get back to you.

Anyway, congrats South, on your victory over the North. Whispers of a three-peat next spring are afoot.

-m, wife of my favorite quarterback Andrew Ensz

Three Years

Fri, 27 Oct 2006 08:29:57 GMT

On Oct. 4, my marriage to Andrew turned three years old. This picture was taken in celebration of our shared bliss.

-m

1 Year Heto: Elements

Thu, 07 Sep 2006 08:40:09 GMT

The Elements

Armenia has really put me in touch with earth, wind, fire and water.

In February, all the women of child-bearing age warmed up their uteri by jumping over piles of sticks on FIRE. Other people jumped too, for reasons I can't quite decipher, but it had something to do with love, fertility, luck and trying not to sear the hem of one's coat. Also on this day, so different from, um, other days, we ate things that came from the EARTH, including popcorn, hemp seeds and chickpeas. You lick your finger then just stick it in a pile of hemp seeds (is it legal to post that?). Proceed as normal with the popcorn, minus the coconut oil and pound of salt.

So, WATER. We had Water Day the other day, which is a holiday designed solely for the harassment of innocent girls by ill-behaved boys. Also, apparently, for the harassment of Americans.

I guess the holiday is technically about washing away all your sins since last water day, but it seems to me that it's more about wracking up as many sins in one day as possible. Case in point: My sister-in-law and I were chased down the street by tireless, shirtless, scrappy, gleeful little punks wielding buckets of water; later drenched; then still later forced to take refuge in a local shop because the boys were chasing us up and down the streets. And that was before 10:30 a.m. … well before the real battle even started.

The real battle commenced near the church, where well-dressed people filed in and out, carrying umbrellas and appearing terrified. Little boys armed themselves with cellophane bags full of water but were fortunately not blessed with the aiming gene.

Alright, I covered fire, earth and water. Not sure what to say about WIND. Eat beans and you'll break it. Done.

-m

1 Year Heto: Part Whatever

Thu, 07 Sep 2006 08:36:57 GMT

Hot Dogs

I've had it with this vegetarian bull----. After seven years of eating rabbit food and enough cheese to back up a goat, I've once again discovered that chicken franks belong in their own, sacred section of the food pyramid. In fact, I sometimes sacrifice chicken franks at the altar of Spam, bologna, and those little chunks of gristle that sometimes end up in your burger.

It is also for this reason that I have declared Prague the greatest city in the world. Did you know that in Prague, they have hot dog stands at almost every corner? And sometimes more than one at every corner? I went there with some friends in April, and I can't wait to go back someday, so I can visit the hot dogs again.

Also on this trip we went to Budapest and Krakow. If you're on a hot-dog quest, I cannot recommend Budapest. It is a city severely lacking in hot dog stands, but it does have a KFC and a few Pizza Huts. Great if you've been living in a developing country for awhile.

Krakow's hot dog status was disappointing, too. Andrew and I spent way too long a time searching for Polish sausage, since, you know, we were in Poland. We only found one place. Then we went there again and again, for every meal, and a few times in between. If you go to Krakow, email me, and I'll give you directions TO THE ONE PLACE IN ALL OF POLAND THAT HAS SAUSAGE. Because going to Poland and not eating Polish sausage is like going to church and forgetting Jesus' name.

Paris and Amsterdam, where we went in January, probably have hot dogs. I just didn't eat them then because I was still a little weird about the meat thing. Stupid vegetarianism.

-m

One Year Heto: Danger

Thu, 24 Aug 2006 09:51:12 GMT

Danger

It is well known that it was Andrew's own fault when he chose to wear sandals and impale his foot on a piece of rebar this summer. After all, he saw the rusty metal sticking out of the crumbling sidewalk, aimed, and kicked. It was a perfect shot, that was Andrew's own fault, about 2 inches into his foot between the little piggy that had none and the little piggy that cried all the way home. Unlike the last little piggy, however, Andrew neither cried (though he almost passed out while receiving unanaesthasized medical care) nor was able to go home to the States for American-style treatment.

Oh well. He again walks, he runs, he gets kicked out of local coffee shops because he wears shorts. Business as usual once again. Other things that have happened to Andrew include: bee and scorpion stings in the same week; accidentally gulping down half a glass of home-brew vodka; accidentally seeing said vodka again; getting chest-bumped by an offended music store employee; subjection to angry dogs that chase him; and being kicked out then readmitted to his primary assignment.

We have both ended up in a marshutney (like a big van) that caught fire. Fortunately, most of the 20-odd passengers were already out of the vehicle, taking a smoke break, so they were able to put out the flames by throwing snowballs at the engine. Once the fire was out, we crossed our fingers, and continued our two-hour journey home.

In other near-explosions, our refrigerator shot craps recently. Didn't so much cool stuff as provide horizontal space for it. Our landlord put the fridge on its side, mucked around with the motor for awhile, got it running, put it on end again, then spied something on the floor.

Not knowing what the thing was (and still having no idea whatsoever), I commended his work and thanked him for getting the refrigerator running again. He shook his head, looking at the tiny silver ball he'd picked up.

"This is not good," he pronounced, in Armenian, among many words that I didn't quite understand. "This is not good at all because | | | | | | | | and the refrigerator could explode and | | | | | | |"

Alarmed, I went to bed and slept soundly.

One Year Heto*: Introduction

Thu, 24 Aug 2006 09:49:32 GMT

More than a year later... I'm finally updating this space. There's a lot to catch up on. In the past year, we've endured flame-engulfed public transportation, a rebar puncture wound to Andrew's foot, scorpions, face control, water day, cold bucket baths, refrigerators that could explode, frozen toilets, Turkish toilets, parasites, and home-brew vodka.

To say "...and we've loved every minute of it!" would be overreaching just a bit, but we are tolerating every moment and even loving a few fairly regularly. I'm gonna break the year down for you, in logical sections according to topic.

* Heto means later

Hot Dogs in Istanbul

Thu, 24 Aug 2006 09:14:47 GMT

If you are a budget traveler in Istanbul, you may be tempted to save some lira by grabbing a hot dog for lunch. This is not advised. As someone who has eaten quite a few hot dogs in her life – even accounting for The Vegetarian Years – I can confidently say that the hot dogs there are the worst I have ever eaten. They make Tofu Pups taste like heaven, like as good as the Seven Layer Burrito at Taco Bell.

Check out some of our pictures.

In fact, having returned from Istanbul, I can’t really recall a meal that makes my mouth water. I could have just gone to the wrong places, or maybe it’s because the typical menu is comprised of eggplant, kebab, eggplant, kebab. All good, to be sure ... except if you’re currently living in a country that is eggplant, kebab, eggplant, kebab. It’s like leaving America for a country that subsists on Kraft Macaroni & Cheese.
Fortunately, the food is the only thing that sort of sucks about Istanbul. You can even avoid the food altogether by smoking away your appetite with nargileh, or water pipe. Don’t worry. It’s only full of nice, legal tobacco. I’ve seen “Midnight Express.” I know what Turkish prisons are like.
Nargileh is nice under the Galata Bridge, when the sun goes down (I suppose you can get food there, too, but it’s hardly worth the trouble). Anyway, the setting sun looks pretty good against a foreground of imposing mosques and the sparkling Bosphorus strait. Try it. Actually, if you get hungry, try a fish sandwich too, from the street vendors just off the bridge and along the riverbanks. The sandwiches are priced at hot-dog rates and are far superior to the local hot dogs, maybe even superior to the fish you can get at sit-down restaurants. Now, my mouth is watering.
But the best place for nargileh is a little restaurant in Sultanamhet, the area around Aya Sophia and the Blue Mosque. It’s called Havuzbasi, and it’s where I learned to play backgammon from the friendliest waiter on the European side of the Bosphorus.
Let me tell you a little bit about this waiter, and Istanbul customer service in general. Those in the tourist industry are, by and large, very good for the ego, if not the purse. I bought far more than planned just because a few shopkeepers were ridiculously friendly and persistent – and I’m not really given to impulse purchases.
Being fully aware of the flattery endemic to Istanbul, my cohorts – husband and sister-in-law – and I haunted Havuzbasi for the few days that we could. Our waiter kept us happy by offering teas on the house, teaching us magic tricks, and, one day, inviting us to join him for his half-day holiday to the first of the Prince’s Islands.
I was skeptical, having heard stories of tourists lured into “friendly” tours, only to be pressured into buying $1,000 carpets as payment at the end of the day. The outing was harmless, though, and we spent the entire afternoon lazing on the beach, not talking about Turkish carpets, or anything else related to draining our budget. Not that our waiter didn’t get something out of the deal. After he hooked us up with a restaurant-quality nargileh, we gave him a decent tip.
I won’t deny that we paid for friendship, but I like to think that hanging out together wasn’t a total drag for him, either.
What else. I tried to wash some of the Armenia off of me by visiting a bath house. The sudsing up was – I’ve gotta say – perfunctory at best ... but still worth the experience. Andrew, however, got the sultan’s treatment because his bather saw American money written all over him. Guess I didn’t smell like tip.
And of course we visited the big mosques, Aya Sophia and the Blue Mosque. They were, after all, right in our neighborhood, and their call-and-response calls-to-prayer provided constant background music to our stay. I was awed by their interiors, exteriors, and even the thresholds in between (Aya Sophia’s marble doorways were worn down by centuries’ worth of footsteps). We skipped some of the other tourism points, though, like Topkapi Palace and the cisterns, banking on the prospects of swinging through Turkey a year from now, as we end our service.
Now I’m going to step out of blissed-out tourist mode for a second. I didn’t go to Turkey without a bit of trepidation, mostly out of respect to the Armenians with whom I live. See, there was this genocide surrounding the year 1915, by the Turks, against the Armenians. This is still very much in the Armenian consciousness, and we were warned a number of times about the danger and moral depravity of the Turks.
So it’s with mixed feelings that I found most of the Turkish people I spoke with got glazed-over eyes when I said I lived in Armenia. They had no idea where, or what, Armenia is. Good side: Apparently Turkey is pretty safe for Armenians. Bad side: Total ignorance, not only of the genocide, but apparently of shared, geographic borders.
Armenians do make a go of it in Turkey, too. The island we went to with the friendliest waiter in the western world was populated almost entirely by Armenians, who had been there long enough that they spoke Western Armenian, not the kind we’re speaking in-country. Further, I met a woman – she gave me a face massage at the Turkish bath – who was actually from Armenia, and spoke the language I understand.
Alright, that’s enough about Istanbul. Now that I’m back home, I have some eggplant to eat. It’s time to shake it up. I had hot dogs last night. And the night before.

-m

The best part of waking up

Sat, 02 Jul 2005 11:29:59 GMT

Every morning, our shortwave radio alarm goes off at 7 o'clock. But by that time, there is no shortage of other noises to grab our attention.

Sometimes, we hear the family's two cows mooing at each other. Occasionally, we hear donkeys, but I'm not sure where they live. Also, the neighbor boy, who's about 12, rides his horses across the street so they can spend the day grazing. Clop, clop, clop.

A rooster crows just outside our bedroom window. He lets loose every 20-30 seconds. Andrew timed him.

Finally, we hear cuckoos, real live ones. They sound just like the clocks but are less concerned with the time.

At about 7:30, one of us goes to take a bucket bath. By this time, a pot of water has been heating for awhile, graciously put on the stovetop by our host mother. Whoever is bathing that day (forget daily showers, people) takes the pot into the bathroom and pours the water into a big red tub, which sits next to the actual porcelain bathtub. If the water's really hot, we run the cold water from the sink into the red tub via a rubber hose.

The bath commences with the bather standing in the bathtub, spooning water over the body with a little blue plastic bowl. I have found that it's not as cold to wash my hair if I do it from outside the tub, with my pajamas still on. I am surprised by how quickly this has become a normal part of my morning ritual. The bathing, not the hair-washing. I do that only once a week or so.

After the bath, it's time for breakfast. There is always bread and cheese. The bread, hahtz, comes from a round loaf, about 2 inches thick. It's delicious. The cheese, paneer, is not that different from the paneer you might eat in an Indian restaurant. It is saltier. I love it, but reviews are mixed among the trainees. The other regular item is a mix of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers.

Those dishes always appear. Our host mother might also add eggs (boiled or fried), pasta, meat for Andrew, hot rice cereal (my fave), jam, fried bread (not quite french toast) or cake. I'm still not quite used to seeing "dinner" items for breakfast but have found that I like plain macaroni in the morning. Also, our host mom usually gives us hot milk or hot milk mixed with coffee. Both are tasty.

I can't imagine that this is a typical, daily spread. Andrew and I are usually the only ones at the table for breakfast, as the children are still in bed, our host grandmother is working outside, and our host mom is working inside. I suspect they are more casual with their eating when we're not around. We are given a lot of food. It's far more than is necessary, but we are grateful for our family's hospitality.

After breakfast, we go to our training session. On language days, we stay in our village with a small group of fellow trainees and walk to school. On "center days," we travel into the city by marshutney (or van) to gather for other types of training.

Sometime, I'll write about local transportation. It's a trip, so to speak.

-m

Livin' it up

Sat, 02 Jul 2005 10:56:36 GMT

"I thought I'd blacked out last night, but really we just walked home in the dark."
- Andrew

Not to draw comparisons, but Armenian birthday parties make those in the States look like gatherings for people missing the fun gene. Parties here are called "ootel hmel," which roughly translates into "eating, drinking." They should call it ootel hmel bahrel to include the dancing component - critical to a good fiesta.

Yesterday, we were grateful that fellow trainee Warren's parents conceived him and that his host family was gracious enough to throw a party in his honor. Pre-service training is great and all, but it was time to kick back Armenian-style.

The party started with food and toasting. Bread, cheese, salad, cucumbers, tomatoes, apricots, cherries, wine and vodka filled a long table. We didn't care about the lack of butt space or elbow room as the first of the toasts got underway. Everyone clinked their glasses for Warren and downed their respective alcohol. We'd all had two shots before bothering with the food.*

Then the eating commenced. Before long, dolma appeared on the table and was reportedly delicious. More toasting followed, as did more eating. Now properly fueled, the men got up and started dancing. This is a country where men dance more than women, and these guys have some killer footwork.

After a few songs, and after we'd all stuffed ourselves, more food appeared on the table. This time it was chicken and potatoes. Again, delicious. More dancing ensued.

Just as the food was beginning to consider settling, it was time for the birthday cake. The cake was beautiful, decorated in white and pink frosting-formed flowers (perhaps not very manly for our man Warren, but by this time no one really noticed). We ate the cake with our fingers because we'd all moved around so much we could no longer find our dinner forks. The women brought out coffee to go with the cake and counterbalance the alcohol, which of course we had not been drinking.

The rest of the day and evening was filled with more toasting, eating, dancing and picture-taking. Andrew and I left at about 11 p.m., 8.5 hours after the party began.

-m

* Note to potential bosses and concerned family members: In the interest of promoting friendly cultural exchange, trainees merely touched the shot glasses to our lips. If any alcohol was spilled from our glasses, it was purely by accident and probably ended up down the fronts of our shirts - certainly not down our throats.

Sun, 19 Jun 2005 11:05:05 GMT

finally, a chance to not only successfully get online but also to update the old livejournal.

armenia is treating us quite well. the days are surprisingly short, yet it feels as though we've been here for awhile. we have independently navigated the transportation, held (short) conversations in armenian, done old-school style laundry and made it to all of our classes. so far, so good.

---

being sunday, this morning we went to church. it was quick and easy, except for the getting there. the church was at the top of a nearby mountain top, across the street from our house. we walked the steep terrain with our host family, steering clear of thistles, calves, and cow dung. it was a hearty and welcome workout.

the church itself was small and made of stone. i don't know how old it is, but i suspect it wasn't built yesterday, even though it had a newish-looking tin roof. the interior walls were covered with grafitti and perhaps messages to jesus. there were pictures of christ and mary mounted on a make-shift altar, some stuck to the walls with melted wax.

our family and we lit the candles our host mom had brought. they were skinny like american birthday candles, and we melted the bottoms so they would stick to the metal part of the altar. i think the purpose is to make a wish with each candle. anyway, that's what i did.

andrew and i plan to go back up, next time with a non-dead camera battery (whoops). the view was fantastic and overlooked our village, our house and the next village over.

a speaker on armenian architecture and history told us a bit about old churches friday. many, like this one, were built of stone at the tops of mountains or hills. other buildings - the less important ones, i guess - were built of wood. i wonder if this particular church used to be surrounded by wooden buildings that have fallen away over time.

Sat, 04 Jun 2005 02:51:03 GMT

we've made it to washington, d.c.! orientation doesn't start until tomorrow, but andrew & i arrived early so we could check out the city. what'd we see?

* the capital
* the supreme court (did you know there's a basketball court on the floor above the courtroom?)
* the white house
* the monuments & memorials (washington, vietnam, lincoln, jefferson, etc.)
* some guy tormenting baby ducklings by the reflecting pool

does anyone know stories on why the city is laid out as it is? we're sure there are interesting theories but haven't dug for them yet. for example, is there significance to the number of columns on the lincoln monument? why does the washington monument block the lincoln statue's view of the capitol? why is the washington monument so big, thereby making the capitol look teensy?

we've met 3 other peace corps people already. they were fairly obvious, as they were the ones wearing huge backpacks in the lobby and lugging around approximately 50-60 lbs. on top of that. we got to go through that earlier in the day, explaining along the way that no, we didn't just overpack for a weekend in d.c. but it's quite possible -- likely, actually -- that we've overpacked for 2 years in armenia.

anyway, from tomorrow until monday afternoon, we'll be going through orientation, which the peace corps calls staging. then it's off to yerevan, armenia (by way of vienna, austria) by wednesday. we then travel north for training for the next 3 months.

for now, it's time for bed. i'm exhausted and andrew's already asleep. we're definitely going to need the rest.

-m