Sorry about the video's orientation. This was one of those times when you really feel music, though. Yeah, like that. Come to Armenia and it'll make sense.

The instrument is the duduk.

So our office in Yerevan now has wireless! As I'm busy updating outdated software and getting my anti-virus up to speed, enjoy some pictures:

Mother Yerevan and an eternal flame.

Field Trip chaperones (+1 student). 7am-11pm field trip with 8th graders. I have a new appreciation for our East Coast trip chaperones from 8th grade...

The usual suspects.

Geghard from our recent field trip.

Geghard from our recent field trip.

Most of the field trip group at Garni.

1st Annual Martuni Poetry Competition

Me and the host family.

Վերջին զանգ, or Last Bell. 2010 Graduation Ceremony.

To the anonymous commenter from my April 11 post—send me an email if you’d like to further discuss the topic. Thanks!

kj.doran@yahoo.com

Winter is tough here as a volunteer. The skies are cloudy, it snows, and it gets dark early. It goes from November to April. It’s cold, and there’s no central heating. And we’re told that this has been a balmy winter (disclaimer: I haven’t been too cold, it’s just the fact that only one room in my house is kept really warm brings a chill to the bone). Even tonight, it’s threatening to snow a little bit more, sure to be melted tomorrow, but that’s not really a good excuse. In this spirit of complaint, I have two observations on how Armenian culture differs from American culture. Both observations came out when talking with a friend’s family about Armenian schools.

We started talking about violence in schools: “It’s very violent in American schools, yes?” I replied that there was an occasional fight, but nothing I would consider too out of the ordinary (allowing for exceptions, of course).

“I would even say that Armenian schools, from what I’ve seen, are 10 times more violent than American schools,” I said, thinking back on schooldays where students regularly smack each other on top of the head with workbooks, only to look at me with a who-took-the-cookie-outta-the-cookie-jar look when I address their behavior.

“But Americans shoot each other in schools,” my friend responded, perhaps astutely. I, in my toe-the-line zeitgeist, replied that this was rare—it’s something that should be condemned and something that should disgust, but it doesn’t betray an endemic acceptance of everyday violence in schools.

“In the U.S.,” I told him, “if a student hits another in the hall, he cannot come back to school for days. Here, he might get talked to by a teacher.” Or hit back by the teacher, I thought (corporal punishment is found in many Armenian schools, and leaves many volunteers grasping at air in finding ways to introduce alternative behavior management skills).

“I think you are wrong,” came the response, “what you are talking about is silly things—no one gets very hurt with small things like that.” That may be true, but it doesn’t erase my internal struggle of figuring out when to step in—I remember sternly talking to a child in the hall who had hit an older classmate while three teachers looked on and asked me what the child had said to earn my attention. Something had to have been said—his strike wasn’t enough to get him in trouble.

***

The family then asked, “What are the differences between Armenian and American students—who is smarter?” Aside from that being a question I would steadfastly run away from in most circumstances, I felt I owed a true, thoughtful response.

*Brief side note: I have nothing I can call even a tempered knowledge of the American education system beyond the fact that I was raised in it. Here goes.

“This is much more of an issue of Americans being good at one aspect of education and Armenians being good at another,” I began. “Armenians are excellent with memorizing facts. They know more about history than I think the average American student knows, because I’m guessing that the teaching involves going through the book and saying ‘YOU MUST KNOW THIS’. In the U.S., students might not know as many anecdotes, but my sense is that they’ll be able to do more with what they have. That is, they’ll be able to infer and imply, to extrapolate and analyze.”

I told them how I had conducted a Writing Olympics in which students had 60 minutes to complete an essay on a creative writing question. The contest was done in English, so maybe my analysis is wrong (ha!) and they would have done differently in their native language. Many students, though, were unable to complete the exercise in a competitive manner. Some would list one reason and tell me they were done. Some would elaborate on that reason and think and contemplate and brood when I told them they still had 40 minutes. “What should I write?” some asked.

“Only you know,” I told them.

There is a value to fact-based knowledge—I don’t want to discount Armenian education in wide, sweeping bounds. Americans may even be able to use more of it.

Also, I don’t want to present my observations as the rule for what happens in Armenia or even in my school. My observations are simply that these things happen at a higher frequency here than I envision them happening in the U.S. and that teaching methodology may have something to do with it.

With all that in mind, though, what would you rather become, a butterfly or a kangaroo? Why?

***

Spring is coming, slowly. I’m looking forward to seeing some green on the trees and stepping outside without my winter shell. Yerevan is already warm and provides a nice respite from our tundra-ish environs.

It’s been good to emerge out of my room and enjoy the weather with other volunteers and students when it’s nice. Speaking of which, as she has no blog of her own, Rosa wants to say hi to America here. Consider it done.

Brian- will you send it now, please?

I think I need more hyphens, Lena…

A couple of Saturdays ago, I celebrated my birthday in Yerevan with some other PC volunteers, knowing that we probably wouldn't be able to get together on my actual birthday, a Thursday. It was great. Rosa, Dave, and Megan cooked a bona fide American dinner at the hostel's kitchen, replete with roast beef, three-cheese macaroni and cheese, broccoli, and brownie sundaes. Later, we went out to an Irish pub (ironically named 'Irish Pub') and had a couple of imported beers. The weather was balmy (in the 60's!), the food divine, and the company sublime. To put the icing on the cake, pun intended, we visited a newly-opened Mexican restaurant three times over three days. Opened by a Los Angeles native, the burritos and tacos and nachos and tapatio prompted new opinions of Yerevan and the quality of its offerings.

Then, we all headed back to site. Where there's no Mexican food. Where the weather corresponds with the elevation, prompting a fresh bout of snow (Martuni is a little bit higher than Timberline Lodge, for all you Oregon folk). Where there's no Rosa and Dave and Megan to make brownie sundaes. Plugged back into my routine, I went to school and conducted my clubs, tucking my chin and pumping my fists to make it past this last bend to spring. Four days later, it was my birthday (and Brian's, too!), though I wasn't expecting much of a celebration as the PCV shindig had already happened.

It was in this state of mind that I walked to school with my host mom (who works as a nurse at the school). I should have known I was in for a surprise when the first students I saw uttered an excited "Happy birthday, Mr. Kyle!" (yes, in English). My host mom smirked a little bit, knowing what was in store for me.

I walked up to the teacher's room, where I usually meet my counterpart before class. She wasn't there, so I picked up the attendance book and walked to our first tenth form class, slightly ticked off that she was late. Then, as I opened the door to the classroom, a chorus of "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" met me. My counterpart and the tenth form students were lighting the last candle on a stellar birthday cake for me. 24 (!) candles were punctuated by several renditions of "Happy Birthday to You" and students blowing up balloons and finishing the decorations in the classroom.

Given the scope of the celebration, I figured that the rest of my birthday would be celebrated outside of school. Lo and behold, four students in my next class came in with a painting that the class had pooled money together to buy for me. A student signed the back for the class, and I promised to put it up in my new house just as soon as I move out. At this point, I figured the last class of the day might have something in store for me. Sure enough, my counterpart and I walked in to find cookies, soda, and a bottle of cognac for me. I couldn't help but chuckle at the cultural differences present in students deciding to buy alcohol for their teacher's birthday.

I tried to take pictures with my cell phone camera of my classes and their presents. As soon as I can figure the technology out, I'll get them posted.

Later that day, my host family made my favorite Armenian dish for me--dolma--and we had a nice, quiet night. What a ride.

I like to think of the romantic version of Peace Corps Service being one where the PCV is a celebrity in his or her village, adored by all and taken care of by the village community. For the most part, I've realized that this truly is a romantic idea of service. Every day brings its own hardships and homesicknesses, making my presence in Armenia difficult, monotonous, invigorating, uplifting, frustrating, transcendent, and ethereal all at once. Notice that 'romantic' didn't quite make the list. Last Thursday, though, proved that the stars can align. My students, colleagues, family, and community came together to celebrate my birthday. I felt appreciated, valuable, and at home. Best of all, it renewed my motivation for these two years of mine.

I'll close with quoting an email I received from a friend of mine down in Martuni:

"Dear Kyle, today you are not in your home with your parents, with friends,you are far away from your country & family...

But here you are not alone, here you have friends, that ready to help you with anything!!!"

It's stuff like that that makes me want to help back.

p.s. Thanks for all the birthday wishes from back home!

PSA #1--This post has been written using the "Georgia" font. Just sayin'.

PSA #2--This is a longish post; make yourself comfortable. Brian, you might want to allot yourself a couple of days.

After Nor Dari and still full (see previous post), Megan, Nick, Rosa, and I (all PCVs) headed up to Tbilisi via overnight rail. That's right, on the midnight train to Georgia. Woo, woo. Unfortunately, the pun was lost on customs officials as they stopped the train for three hours to check out everyone's passport. Apparently, midnight is a busy time at the border. 14 hours after departing Yerevan, though, we found ourselves in Tbilisi, the most European of the Caucasus capitals, at least according to Lonely Planet.

Our time frame for the vacation aligned with what we thought was the end of New Year's, and, accordingly, the passing of Orthodox Christmas on January 6. At this point, we expected shops to be open again and people to be returning to everyday life. As such, on the morning of Jan. 7 we found our way to the homestay (thanks, Lonely Planet!), and headed downtown to get our bearings. You can look at the pictures from two posts ago to find your own adjectives, but Tbilisi had a completely different architectural theme than Yerevan. It was at once stately, wooden, and... used. I am fond of describing Brussels as being similar to Paris culturally and architecturally (from my expert opinion derived from two cumulative days in the city), but with a bit more dirt and blue-collar feel. If one accepts that, then Tbilisi has a similar relationship to Brussels. Gorgeous in their state of dissaray, some buildings give the feel that this is, in fact, a country a mere year and a half removed from war. Disclaimer: I am a neophyte when it comes to politics/economics in the Caucasus, so the previous sentence shouldn't necessarily be construed as presenting a cause-and-effect relationship.

Walking through Tbilisi's streets, we eventually came upon downtown to find people assembling for what looked to be a parade of sorts. We decided to grab a khachapuri (the first of dozens over the five-day trip) and make our way back to see what would transpire. It turns out that the Georgian Orthodox Church was holding a parade/procession throughout the entire city to a massive cathedral on the other side of town. What are four Peace Corps Volunteers to do but join in?

The best word to describe the procession is probably 'ethereal'. There was an ethereal (ha) calm about the crowd of people wading through incense and making their way to mass. Pictures, again, are in the Jan. 12 post. Flags were drifting in the slight breeze, animals adorned with Christmas decorations seemed to understand the significance of January 7, and sublime Georgian chanting wafted its way through this gentle group of celebrants. The weather also leant itself to the processional: light, high clouds barely obscured the sun and my coat would have made me hot but for the breeze making its way through Tbilisi's valley.

Outside the cathedral, a group of men spontaneously began singing in traditional Georgian religious fashion. Some of you are aware of my obsession with a certain YouTube video highlighting a spontaneous performance. I was living this YouTube video, but in a Georgian context. Again, ethereal.

Needless to say, I'm glad we're not up to speed on the intricacies of the Georgian Orthodox Church calendar. Exhausted by a day of walking and motioning obscure hand signals in an attempt to communicate, we headed back to our decent homestay with khachapuri in our stomachs and Georgian chanting in our minds.

The next few days found us exploring the city on foot, climbing to various high points and random theme parks. The weather stayed immaculate (side note: the low in my village tonight is -8 Fahrenheit) throughout, allowing for both leisurely strolls and rugged, hardcore hill climbing. On the third day, we found our way to some fort ruins overlooking the city. Impressive in and of themselves, the ruins encircle a newly-built church adorned with incredible paintings on every visible surface inside. Entering the church, we found ourselves amid a service. Lo and behold, a few members of the singing group we had seen a few days earlier were gracing the presence of this congregation. It was one of those points where you wish it was culturally acceptable to climb up on a table and film everything. Given my intense fascination with the singing, I made eye contact with one of the basses a few times. I think he thought I was clergy in training because of my beard. Our eyes kept locking, with me trying to urge a message of "your music defines spirituality". Maybe a little awkward, but a moment you can certainly chalk up to "only in Tbilisi".

On the Sunday of our visit, we went to the famed natural sulfur spring baths. Now, I've been to a natural sulfur springs up in Fairbanks--and it has its own, great ambiance--but the bath house was out of this world (or at least maybe out of National Geographic). With our foreigner status omnipresent, we were immediately ushered into the most expensive private room. It was fit for a king, and a king's wallet. After making various hand motions and trying to communicate in rudimentary English, it became apparent to the caretaker that we were just another group of poor Peace Corps Volunteers. "Less price you want," she confirmed, taking us to their most modestly-priced private room, to borrow from The Big Lebowski. Coming in, we had wanted to go to the big, communal rooms, but when we saw what we could get in a private room for not all that much money ($35/hr for all four of us), we were in. The domed rooms all had ceramic tiling and made you want to harmonize in their echoic grandeur. An hour later we mimicked Gumby, barely making it to the central waiting area before collapsing on the leather couches in sulfur spring-induced exhaustion. Feeling clean and relaxed, it was fun to contrast with our once-weekly (at best) bathing in Armenia.

The next day, we walked around the city a bit more, sneaking into the Marriot to use/admire their restrooms, and loaded up on khachapuri before getting back on that train. The ride back was fairly ineventful other than having Nurse Ratched as our cabin's staff liason. It took the complete 14 hours for her to actually listen to us communicate the fact that, despite our foreign appearance, no, we don't speak Russian. When she figured it out, she yelled at us for not being off the train already. I yelled back at her. I hope she was surprised.

Coming back from Georgia, relaxed from the sulfur baths and feeling like I could take on the world, I opened my email inbox and made a discovery: January is more aptly named "Holy Cow That's A Lot of Paperwork"uary. A perfect storm of trimesterly reporting, new residence notification (three forms alone just for this), and upcoming due dates for PR Initiative work I'm doing has reinforced that this is, in fact, a government agency. I'm just thankful that most of it's electronically submitted now. Save a few hundred trees.I'll be undergoing the process of moving to a new house in my village over the next couple of weeks. I'm pretty sure my host family is still a bit confused as to why I would want to do so, as I like them and find their house comfortable. "It's just that, in America, it's normal to live alone," is the best answer I can give them. I'm sure they'll be more understanding when they see how often I visit.

There are several Armenian words that have nudged themselves into our Peace Corps Volunteer English lexicon. Sometimes, they're more fun to say (e.g. dprots, or school); sometimes, it conveys a better message (e.g. khanut, or store, most of which carry a very, very similar set of products); and sometimes, there's just no English equivalent (often used with food, like khash). Nor Dari, or New Year's, falls into the latter category. Anything that lasts for six days, I think, falls into the latter category.

I'm a huge fan of Nor Dari in Armenia. Lasting for a minimum of six days (Jan. 1-6, though if you decide to celebrate 'old new year' [said without chuckling, somehow] it can go until the 13th), it's a festival filled with visiting family/friends, eating, drinking, and resting. In November, I was told by my host family that people in Armenia "save all year round, then spend all the money on food and drink for Nor Dari". Commendable, if you ask me. Long, table clothed tables stand as the main feature in every living room, piled high with fruit, pastries, drinks, khorovats, and dolma. Oh, dolma. Guests come and go, with table settings quickly washed and replaced to facilitate the subsequent and inevitable binge, usually mere hours removed from its predecessor. It's in the title, but it bears repeating: I'm still full. I think I'll be full until next year.

I was lucky enough to experience Nor Dari in three different places in the country--the Martuni area with my host family, up north in the Berd area with Rosa's host family, and then in Karashamb with my PST host family. All were equal in their stubborn insistence on hospitality. Each party gave its own testimony to the veritable truth known as dolma. I know I say this all the time about Mexican food (RIP), but I'm confident I could eat dolma for the rest of my life and be happy.

(Title to be read in a Ray Charles voice.)

Longer updates to come, just trying to use some bandwith at the Peace Corps office, where I don't have to pay per megabyte. The pictures below are of Tbilisi, Georgia, where three other volunteers and I just returned from a five-day vacation. On the first day, we stumbled upon the Georgian Orthodox Church's Christmas celebration/parade, which was conveniently and confusedly one day after the Armenian Orthodox Church's Jan. 6 celebration (don't quote me on the specifics; my investigative journalism is shabby at best when dealing with hand motions and charades for language).

American politics is always international. Shirt reads: "Axis of Taxes"

He said his name is Ronald, or something like that.

Donkeys always (ALWAYS) make a celebration better.

Yes, I was standing in the middle of the parade for this picture. Dad, I know you're proud right now.

And, that’s all for now. I’m tired and about to catch a marshutni back to Martuni to go get some sleep: we are fresh off of the night train where there was a stewardess who could best be described as someone you would find leading chain-gangs. I’m pretty sure I duplicated some of the pictures in there and left others out. My bad.Oh, and Maureen- ask and you shall receive.

Merry Christmas, everyone! Life is good here; we have a large community of volunteers coming together for a Christmas celebration tonight. Then, we get to look forward to the Armenian New Year celebration (six days long), which is punctuated by the Orthodox Chrismas on January 6.

Here's wishing everyone the best of holiday seasons and a fantastic new year. Now, go eat some Taco Bell for me.

On Monday, 130 students out of the 650 total at my school were absent on account of the flu. After talking to some other volunteers, I'm under the impression that my absent total was on the light side of the country average. As such, the powers that be in Yerevan have decided to close Armenia's schools until December 18, leaving us with one week of classes until our winter break. For those who are counting, that means from Dec. 8 through Jan. 23(ish), I will have five total days of classes. That is, unless we decide to come back early in January, which would be against institutional inertia (it's really cold in January, from what I hear), but in support of education. I have been unscathed so far, but I'm thinking it's only a matter of time before the multiple sneezes that hit my face every day reach a critical mass.

In the spirit of Volunteerism Day last Saturday, I was invited to come to Yerevan and give a speech to university students about what volunteerism means to me, what it means in the states, and why I felt compelled to join the Peace Corps. In Armenian. I didn't have as much time to practice the big words on this speech as I did for my last speech in Armenian during PST, so most poly-syllable words and phrases came out somewhere near the following: "bava-...bavarar-...bavararvatsoo-...bavararvatsootsyoon!" I made sure to include the exclamation point in my intonation so as to ruin any chance for flow and/or style. Iambic pentameter it was not. I do, however, have the English version that I've copied below. Also, in the same vein as encouraging Armenians to volunteer, here goes: it's the holiday season! Go volunteer!

***

Ten years ago, I traveled to a town called Vicente Guerrero, Mexico, with the aim of helping out the local community. At that point, the concept of volunteerism was new for me—I didn’t have a real grasp of what it meant or even why I was really doing it. It was something that was described in some vague terms as being “good” and having intrinsic value: everyone notices if there’s less trash on the ground, and even more so when it stays off the ground. In Mexico, my group of American peers and I worked on constructing a septic tank with and for the local community. Very few of us, though, would list septic tank construction as being the most important thing we learned from the experience.

The trip to Vicente Guerrero opened my eyes in two ways, showing me both differences and similarities. First, it showed me the blatant wealth and development discrepancies between our two neighboring countries. More importantly, though, it showed me how collective communities can be. An influx of 20 Americans was met with grace and hospitality, and new friends were made quickly. For a week, we all became a part of the Vicente Guerrero community, showing me how many commonalities we all share. This latter point is what got me hooked, what led me to be devoted to volunteerism throughout my academic career, and now, into my professional career.

I have volunteered with many things in my life—soup kitchens, trash cleanups, community beautification projects, teaching, working with disabled peers, and on and on. Each event was impacting in its own right, and I’ve felt privileged to be a part of most of them. The true power of each event, though, did not lie in any one person’s contribution. Rather, the important part of volunteerism is its collaborative nature. This collaboration sheds light on what a few people working together in a concerted manner can do. It may be a cliché, but it’s true. We can change the world.

The community aspect of volunteerism is what excited me about the Peace Corps. I was eager to become engrained in a new community—to learn a language and a culture—and then work with my new peers to accomplish that which needs to be accomplished. Six months in, I have only reinforced my initial notion that one takes away much more from volunteering than one gives.

This notion is a crucial aspect of what the term ‘volunteerism’ means in the United States. It’s the sense that we should all strive to reward ourselves by rewarding others. Every year at Christmas, we hear that the best present you can receive is the satisfaction of a present given to another. In giving, we receive. This is a very circular concept—that the community, in some way or another, will show its appreciation for your service.

In university, we learned about the Frenchman Alexis de Tocqueville and his trip to America in the 1800’s. De Tocqueville noticed a sense of “enlightened self-interest” in the Americans whom he observed. That is, de Tocqueville saw that Americans would help build a barn for their neighbors without asking for payment because, sooner or later, they too would need help. Enlightened self-interest feeds into our communities every day, and by volunteering, we consciously further its effects.

Now, ten years after my trip to Mexico, I think I’m coming closer to figuring out why volunteerism is such a compelling thing for me—because of its unique reciprocity. I continuously get as much as I give from volunteering, whether it be from a kid’s smile, the satisfaction of a job well-done, or an important lesson learned. Most of all, my sense of community is always heightened, and my faith in humanity reaffirmed.

OK, so it's a little late, but there it is in any case. My Thanksgiving went well, though we celebrated it a couple of days early at our All-Volunteer Conference in Yerevan. It was a weekend full of Yerevan comfort and American food, along with some conference sessions that helped to reinvigorate our service. On the last day of the conference, some volunteers took initiative and the hotel kitchen in order to prepare a Thanksgiving dinner for 100-odd volunteers and staff. There was real turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, and some pretty sweet casseroles. All-in-all, not a bad way to celebrate. While we were enjoying our variety of pies (they had pumpkin!), some other people got started on the evening's entertainment, the First Annual All-Vol Variety Show. Two fellow volunteers and I decided that our lyrical talents couldn't be restrained for something as tempting as a variety show, and ended up doing a rap spin-off of Flight of the Conchords (a parody TV show/music group from New Zealand, for the unacquainted) called 'Hiphopopotamus vs. Rhymenocerous'. Needless to say, we're expecting to go platinum sometime next week.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving and all of you wonderful people, thanks for everything. Being 12 time zones away from home doesn't feel so bad knowing that you all are out there, ready to share a joke or let me vent after a culture-shockish day. In light of the former, here's a joke that's told pretty often over here:

(First, background info: Mesrop Mashtots was the creator of both the Armenian and Georgian alphabets.)

After Mesrop Mashtots created the Armenian alphabet, he was understandably tired and hungry. As such, he sat down for a nice spaghetti dinner before he was to head off to bed. Suddenly, a group Georgians walked in, having just seen the magic of the new alphabet. "Mesrop," they said, "we, too, need an alphabet. Please help us out!" Mashtots, eyes sunken and creativity momentarily spent, looked down at his spaghetti. "OK," he said, "I'll make you an alphabet." At this point, Mastots picked up his bowl of spaghetti, exciting the Georgians--maybe he was going to design the Georgian alphabet with noodles! Lo and behold, that's exactly what he was up to. Taking a step back, Mashtots readied himself for creative genius. Then, with a motion as quick as flash, Mastots threw the noodles on the wall. "There you go," he said, "there's your alphabet." To this day, the Georgian alphabet looks more like something you would eat, especially when compared to the stately Armenian alphabet.

So maybe a little is lost in translation, but I promise that it's really funny in Armenian...

So, apparently "in a few days" from my last post really mean "in two weeks." We'll chalk it up to a time zone difference.

1. Another volunteer came and did a seminar on corruption in my school. The classroom was bustling. It was cool.

2. I made the local news! Something akin to: "In September, [my village] got a Peace Corps Volunteer, who is now helping with English learning activites at the school."

3. Notice the misspelled 'basketball'. I'm losing my English.

4. Overview of the region on a sunny day, right after making some pretty legitimate pizza.

5. A view of Martuni and its mountain backdrop.

Every time I walk to school, I am reminded of the progress being made and the progress that still needs to happen in terms of English teaching in my village. There are three main greetings that I get from students. First, there’s the classic, “Hello, Mr. Kyle.” I enjoy this one. It usually involves a level of excitement from the students in question, happy that they are able to enunciate and correctly convey a greeting and title in English.

Next, there’s the similar but different, “Hello, Mrs. Kyle.” I can’t help but smile a bit when I hear this one. For the most part, there is no subversive intent in the gender confusion (at least that I can tell). I am the first male English teacher my village has seen, so a masculine title is still very unfamiliar. A little bit of me questions whether I’m committing a fashion failure by Armenian standards, that is until I realize I regularly commit fashion failures by American standards (see the orange fleece).

Finally, there’s my favorite. Born out of a complete misunderstanding of classroom decorum and relationships, it’s: “Good afternoon, children.” This one is often given in the morning. For those of you out there who are unfamiliar, I wouldn’t really consider myself a child, much less more than one child. This greeting usually results in unshackled and rambunctious laughter on my part, and a half-understanding grin on the student’s part. “Good afternoon,” I reply back.

Happy Halloween (a few days late)! Last weekend, I went up to Berd, a town in the north of Armenia. It’s surrounded on two sides by Azerbaijan and is blocked off from the rest of the country by some pretty intimidating mountains. The scenery change was substantial, considering the Maryland-comparable size of the country. Where I am, there are rolling hills and a few trees. There, they have sharply contrasting hills/mountains and the closest thing I’ve seen to a forest while being in Armenia. It was interesting to see how a different group of volunteers are coming together to tackle similar issues. That, and the Halloween party was a reasonable draw, too. The area is infamous for its fog, which created an eerie Halloween-like quality to our time up there. We were constantly peeking around corners to make sure the headless horseman wasn’t coming. All in all, a successful weekend.

My basketball teams and clubs are up and running (sometimes quite literally). I have solid groups of students in my English clubs and some eager kids ready for pen pals. My basketball teams are a bit of a different story, though. OK, my boys’ basketball team is a bit of a different story. The girls are already pros—the other day, they were doing a passing drill, successfully circulating five basketballs amongst eight players. The boys can’t handle two balls with five players yet. This is mostly because of their tendency to interpret gym time as recovering-junkies-who-run-around-the-gym-in-search-of-a-fix time. It’s an incredible sight. I’ve told them that when they misbehave (via not listening to my whistle), they’ll have to run. Then, I’ll blow a whistle and they’ll shoot or dribble or something and, thus, run lines. Over and over again. They’re getting a lot of running in. I’m thinking about turning the team into a cross country or track team. We still haven’t made it to shooting drills.

In terms of team names, I’m afraid the girls are going to veto my suggestions of the Ducks or the Blazers in favor of the more appropriate jutiks, or little chickens. I know what you’re going to ask, and no, the connotation doesn’t translate. The boys have been spending too much time running lines to be able to worry about team names yet, so I still have a chance for a little Oregon representation.

I have a few more pictures to put up, so be looking for those in the next few days. Hope all is well—happy birthday Andee and Sophie!

And, per request, a limerick:

So, it turns out I was being a bit reactionary in my post about the onslaught of snow on September 15. While seeing white stuff on the hills around my village was traumatic, to say the least, the last few weeks have been full of the early fall weather that I'm used to. The only thing that's missing is a good college football game, though we make do with updates on our phones. It's weird having the tradition of Saturday afternoon football turn into a Sunday early morning tradition being glued to my phone, updating ESPN every five minutes. I'm pretty sure my host family thinks it's some sort of religious cult. Luckily, the Ducks have been doing well, so there have been few instances of unexplainable grumpiness.

On Saturday, I went to the Spain vs. Armenia World Cup qualifier match. For those of you who aren’t keeping a close watch on world soccer rankings, Spain is #1. Needless to say, I was expecting to need another hand to count the number of goals Spain would score—Armenia has never been known as a country steeped in soccer prowess. Imagine my surprise, then, when the game was tied 1-1 in the middle of the second half. Not only had Torres and Fabregas failed to score a hat trick apiece, they allowed Armenia to knock one in. Armenia ended up losing 2-1 (on a bogus penalty kick awarded to Spain because of its star power, but who’s counting), but received a standing ovation at the end of the game from us—the surprised and appreciative fans.

This week, I’m working on starting up my various clubs. Because of my school’s split schedule, I’m unable to work much with grades 1-6, which may be a blessing in disguise (I’m not really sure I have the energy to keep up with them. I’m also not really sure how my mom did it for so long…). As such, I have floated ideas for a 7th-8th grade generic English club (not too sure what that means yet, but we’ll work on it), a 9th-11th grade generic English club, boys and girls 8th grade basketball teams, and a pen pal club with a school in California. The basketball teams are part of a Martuni volunteer attempt to form the Martuni Basketball Association, or MBA for short. I can already tell I have a few Greg Odens and Brandon Roys blossoming. I’m hoping the team will agree to be named the Blazers. I can’t think of many other fitting names (besides the Ducks and the Leopards, of course).

Looking back on it, this has been a very sports-heavy post. Sorry. In the interest of fulfilling the Peace Corps’s third goal (check out the mission statement), does anyone have any questions? Anything you want to know about/want me to describe in further detail? An idea for collaboration? A request for a limerick?

Some Sevan pictures and proof of snow on the hills above my town.

It’s strange the type of ownership one can feel after living in a place for a certain amount of time. There’s a sense of pride in being able to take the shortcuts and recommend where to eat. I found this to be the case during my semester in Ghana, my two-month stint in Fairbanks last year, and, to a lesser extent, my two-month stint in Ohio (no offense, Delaware County). Last weekend displayed that this is now the case in Armenia. Rules and regulations dictated that last weekend was the first time we new volunteers could be away from our sites overnight. As such, a hefty group of us went up to the town of Sevan, where we rented small, lakefront cabins near two incredible churches perched on a hilltop that used to be an island (The Soviets drained a good portion of Lake Sevan during their times, making what was once an island now a peninsula. Development has followed suit, edging closer and closer to the lake, despite warnings from the Armenian government that there will be rise in the water level in the coming years. Consider it a modern retelling of Noah’s Ark.). Being that these lakeside churches are merely an hour from Yerevan via a very comfortable highway, the place is a haven for tourists. Much more so than anything I’ve seen on my side of the lake.

It was weird not being the cause for surprise—in that I am both American and can stumble through some sentences of Armenian. Buses of Iranian and Italian tourists eased in and out past the pushy (pushy!) salesmen at the bottom of the church’s hill. They were weird. But I’m supposed to be the weird one. I’m the different one. It didn’t feel right. They were treading on my turf.

On September 15. Already. Not in town, but on the hills above town. I’m wearing long underwear now, though I realize that this is more a product of my temperate Oregon upbringing than actual frigid temperatures. It also doesn’t help when my neighbors look up at the hills, gaze back at me nonchalantly and say, “Yup, it’s gonna be a colllld winter.” I respond by telling them I’m moving to Miami. Brian, get your futon ready. And I’m not paying rent.

School is going well so far; I'm adjusting to alternate styles of pedagogy and pronunciation. One difficult difference so far has been the England English focus of the textbooks here. The other day, I found myself struggling to pronounce the word 'park' with correct vowel sounds. I also felt a little ridiculous uttering the phrase, "Jim said, 'Thank you, Mummy, I shall post the letter tomorrow!'" Apparently they say things like that in Great Britain.

As you can see with the above pictures, I spend a significant amount of time climbing hills/mountains to enjoy 1) the view, and 2) the church, or church ruins, that are inevitably at the top. In such locations, it is common to both light a candle and mold it in the shape of your name, or the name of another significant person. The molded candle above says "Kyle." The group in the photo at the top is our motley A-17 Martuni-area crew. Did I mention that we're motley? We climbed a mountain (very large hill). It was big.

Picture Explanations

I experimented with cutting the picture file size down in order to ease time at the internet. Let me know if it is too pixilated and you’d like more quality versus quantity. 008. Rugs being sold in Yerevan. 171. Our Karashamb crew and families. 170. Some of my training host family and the U.S. ambassador to Armenia. 142. Me and Karashamb. 138. Some of the Karashamb crew (my training village).

110. Yerevan’s dancing fountains. Every night in spring, summer, and fall, the fountains in Yerevan become colorful and dance to music for a few hours. 081. Geghard Church. 075. Geghard Church. 071. Geghard Church. 038. My language class and our creation, Clarence Morookian (Clarence Beard-ian).

So, I’m now at site and have discovered that the big city of Martuni has no internet cafes. This means that you will be flooded with new posts when I make to certain random houses—those beacons of connectivity. Word on the street also has it that my school may have internet, so this might be a temporary conundrum. The jury’s still out.

I’m now at the "Go do it!" phase of my Peace Corps service. I’ve been trained and deemed a reasonable representative of the U.S. in the Peace Corps’s eyes. Problem is, school still doesn’t start for another week. So, I’ve been walking around the village, meeting people and drinking coffee. Over the two weeks, I have learned how a hay baler works, become intimately familiar with an over-crowded natural-gas-powered bus that cost me 14 cents, and participated in the skinning of a sheep (the same way that a politician participates in the construction of a new building—for face time and under the assumption that there are 20 more cameras present than actually are).

I’ve been finding ways to keep busy, but I’m still nowhere near the levels of busyness where I was in the last week of training, when we had forms to fill out, portfolios to complete, families to say goodbye to, and I had a speech to practice (see post below). So it goes. But, aside from my initial small frustration of not having too much to do, I have been very happy here. My host family is fantastic, becoming a catalyst for introductions and helping me understand local customs and the local dialect (which makes me feel like I know half of the Armenian that I did prior to arrival). I have met plenty of people who want to learn English, so I should be in a good place once I figure out logistics.

I now know my new address. So, if you want to send me letters (and you should), shoot me an email and I’ll get it your way. I may even send you a letter back. In Armenian.

On August 14, I and another now-volunteer (then-trainee) had the dubious honors of addressing our A-17 class swearing-in ceremony. I’m still not too sure why I was entrusted with this, but the process turned out to be much more difficult than expected. I wrote the English version under old mock trials conventions (that a one-page, single-spaced speech should hit five minutes on the dot), but failed to take the Armenian aspect into account. That is, that Armenian words have a tendency of not knowing when to stop. Case in point: shnorhagalutsyun, or ‘thanks.’

After the English version was vetted by the subject of the speech (you’ll see) and a colleague who has a background in humor, I took it to my language teacher for help with translation. This consisted of her translating and working hard to convey original meaning, and me becoming more and more… what’s the word?… petrified. Big words, like baryatsagamootsyoon, and difficult words that don’t seem to have any vowels, like khekhtch, started appearing. Needless to say, it took hours and hours of practice to make it seem anywhere above a kindergarten level. I think it ended up at around a third grade level. Luckily, all you get is the written English version.

Some parts of the English version didn’t make the Armenian cut due to their non-essential nature and my lack of time; just know that the story and sentiment in general were masterfully translated by my teacher. Also, there’s a vocab bank at the bottom for words and phrases that may be unfamiliar to an American eye. And, with that long-winded introduction, enjoy!

****

Linoom e chi linoom. It was a hot day in Karashamb, our newfound hometown. David, our hero, had just finished a long day of language classes and technical training, tired but intellectually satisfied. Mesrop Mashtots would have been proud. This intellectual satisfaction came at a cost, though. David was hungry. Ice cream was beckoning.

Now, we love the ice cream here. It is full of flavor and always satisfying on a hot day. We all have our favorites, too. Some people like the kind that comes in a cone. My favorite is the one in the green bag with the squirrel on the front. Maybe this is where David went wrong. David didn’t go for the squirrel ice cream.

There was a new kind of ice cream in the freezer that day, and David was feeling adventurous. The gold bag and pastry on the front looked particularly delicious. Hookas, the store owner, saw David’s mistake quickly. "That’s not ice cream," he said. Now, David does well with Armenian. He talks extensively with his host family, about everything from khash and bali gini preparation to Toumanyan’s "Anoosh" opera. He understood what Hookas was saying. In light of this, David claims he thought he was buying frozen yogurt—a kind of fake ice cream from the states. The residents of Karashamb, for their part, thought David was in the late stages of heat stroke.

In any case, David purchased the "frozen yogurt." Opening it up, the sunny day made the "frozen yogurt" look yellow. "Vochinch," David thought, "different doesn’t mean bad." The "frozen yogurt" neared David’s face as horrified onlookers wondered if this was a product of cultural differences, or if David is just a strange, strange man. I’ll let you come to your own conclusions.

Then, in a moment of divine intervention, David came to a realization: Hookas was right. This was not ice cream. This was margarine. A collective sigh of relief made its way through the crowd of men playing nardi. Hookas, laughing, walked over to David and pointed him in the right direction. Soon, David was chowing down on some squirrel ice cream, laughing along with everyone else. To this day, if you ask for the Amerikatsi garakov, people will send you to David’s house.

Three apples fell from a tree. One for the story teller, one for the listener, and one for an adventurous person like David.

The important thing to take away from this story is not that David has a particular affinity for margarine. Nor is it that our language skills are still—how do we say it—developing. The important thing is that David was allowed to make a mistake and then learn from that mistake. I’ll bet you 20,000 dram that David will never go for the frozen yogurt in the yellow bag again.

We’ve all heard the adage that the best way to learn is to first make a mistake. And mistakes we have made. Sometimes it’s with cultural differences, sometimes it’s with the new Peace Corps policies, and sometimes—many times—it’s with the language. You all know better than anyone how hard we have been working to prove this adage true.

But it takes more than one person making a mistake for learning to happen. Just as Hookas was there for David, our host families have been there with persistent guidance over the last 11 weeks. Even when we—for whatever reason—opt for margarine instead of ice cream, you all have been smiling and waiting with a green squirrel bag, knowing that our gaffe will soon be offset. Thank you for this. Thank you for your patience, your guidance, your willingness to help us learn.

It has been more than host families who have introduced us to Hayastan. Just as the men playing nardi at the store empathized with David, so too have the people of Teghenik, Arzakan, Alapars, Solak, Karenis, Karashamb, and Charentsavan provided a sturdy foundation. Familiar faces greet us every day, smiling, friendly, ready to share a conversation and a laugh. We could not ask for more welcoming communities.

David was lucky enough to have other Karashamb volunteers with him that day. We shouldn’t forget to step back and recognize the commiseration and support that we have given each other throughout this training period. Let’s give ourselves a pat on the back for that.

Finally, our all-knowing staff deserve much credit in this story. Who do you think it was that gave instructions on the pronunciation of bagh-bagh-ag and shnor-ha-ga-loot-syoon after this fateful incident? Thank you, LCFs for telling us how we got it wrong and for giving us the knowledge to get it right next time. Thank you, Peace Corps staff, for setting up such an effective framework and always being there for teachable moments.

We’ve eaten a lot of ice cream—and margarine—in the last 11 weeks. We all feel enveloped within our communities. I know I speak for more than myself when I say it will be difficult to leave Kotayk Marz tomorrow. But we are also eager to share our new skills and experiences with our new sites. As for me in particular, I’m still trying to devise a way to put the Khlghatians into suitcases to share them with my village. For two years.

We can only hope that the same sort of patience, welcoming, and intellectual guidance that we have received here will happen in our new communities. With luck, this will allow us to communicate, to become effective volunteers, and to become ingrained in Armenian culture. Most importantly, it will allow us to make new mistakes. To go out and buy some more margarine.

****

Vocab Bank

Linoom e chi linoom Armenian beginning to fairy tales. Literally "it is it isn’t." Figuratively "once upon a time."

Mesrop Mashtots Creator of the Armenian alphabet. My hero and the bane of my existence, simultaneously.

Khash Armenian dish consisting of boiled cow’s hooves. Considered by some to be the national dish.

Bali Gini Cherry vodka, usually homemade.

Nardi Backgammon.

Amerikatsi Garakov Buttery American. A loose translation.

Three apples… Armenian ending to fairy tales.

20,000 dram $54.05

Baghbaghag Ice cream. Infamously difficult to say among us volunteers.

LCF Language and Cultural Facilitator. Our life rafts, PFDs, rations for a week, box of flares, and two-way radio. Our translators, our informers, our friends. Our teachers.

Khlghatians My host family during training. See above explanation for "LCF."

To give you an idea of the priorities in my life right now, I have to exuberantly brag about a hard-won kickball victory last weekend. The scene was tense, as the A-16's met the A-17's to determine who will have bragging rights until we all meet again in a few months. The game started with a preemptive water balloon attack. Fortunately, the A-16's have as poor of form in throwing water balloons as they have in kickball tactics. Before the game was halted in the 4th inning due to an impending thunderstorm, we had run the score up to 5-1, having decided to wait until the 5th inning to get to the mercy rule.

In other news, I've been drafted to say a few words at our swearing-in ceremony next week. This is a backhanded attempt at explaining my current lack of verbosity. It's either due to that, or the fact that yesterday was my host father's sister's birthday, which means that I, you, my family, your family, and your dog all received eloquent toasts last night. It's all about the birthdays. Next time, I want to hold a khorovats in honor of our collective A-17 athletic physique.

Due to an issue with search engine results coupling my blog with the US Embassy website in Armenia, I've had to change the URL for the blog [I'm as confused as you are]. The new URL is peacecorpskyle.blogspot.com.

Sorry for any confusion. Hopefully this won't happen again, but no guarantees.

Last Sunday was Vartavor, a holiday dedicated to water in all of its glory. Picture the most epic water fight you had as a child. Maybe it was inter-neighborhood, with kids kniving to make it all the way to Sam's house to score some of his mom's fantastic lemonade. Maybe a dad or two was inadvertently hit with a wayward water balloon, and hell was brought. Kids scattered and hope was lost, that elusive lemonade left unimbibed.

Vartavor is an epic American water fight on steroids. Everyone is involved. By everyone, I mean everyone. I steered away from soaking a 83 year old tatik, but it wouldn't have been out of line to dump a bucket full of moderately-clean water on her. My town was a war zone. By the time I woke up, the streets were soaked with water, to the extent that I thought I had just missed an enormous thunderstorm. I sat down for breakfast, contemplating how to get out of the house and sneak up on some of the thugs waiting outside the door, and my host father emptied his bottle of water on me. Not even the kitchen is sacred on Vartavor.

Buckets of water were flying, ear drums were penetrated, and fear was no excuse. This was Vartavor. This was serious business. America needs this holiday.

In other news, we're coming up on the end of training and our schedules are reflecting it. I'll be heading to site in three-ish weeks, where the real work begins.

In sad news, Portland Public Schools lost its most competent, dedicated, and inspirational teacher at the end of this school year. I'm bummed that I missed the party, but we're making due with some drinks today. Happy retirement, Mom! The sign below reads "Shnoravor, Ginny." Congrats!

Two days ago, we trainees got back from visiting our sites. For me, this involved taking a marshutni from Yerevan to Martuni, then heading out to my village. The trip is only 30 miles as the crow flies, but much longer when you take mountains into account. Also, the previous sentence only applies under the assumptions that crows would fly over a mountain. I prefer to think so.

The route took us up to the town of Sevan and then down the entire length of Lake Sevan. For those who are incredulous after looking at the Wikipedia picture, Lake Sevan did, in fact, mirror the mountains and clouds on the other side of the lake in its water. I was impressed. Martuni is a small regional hub, home to a hospital, small university, marshutni station, and a nice tree-lined avenue.

The first afternoon in my village, my new host father pulled out the village's written history/almanac. After leafing through pages describing the inherent antiquity of the village, we came to the weather section. Immediately, he pointed me to winter, which listed temperatures of -35 to -40 Celsius. I'm still not sure if these are historic lows or average lows, but either way I'm scared to the point of expletives. Other volunteers have advised that the key is in wearing layers. I'm thinking 30.

Indeed, I could tell we were in an area of high elevation. It was warm during the days, but it was an alpine heat: sunburn-provoking in the sun, a little chilly in the shade. [Brief side note--"an alpine heat" is a term brainstormed by another trainee and me. We decided that the first to publish the phrase in his memoirs wins the trademark. I'm pretty sure this counts.]

Other than foreboding weather warnings, my site visit went well. I visited my host school, counterpart, and principal, and took many walks familiarizing myself with friendly neighbors and avoidable livestock. Most every yard is comprised of about three Portland-sized lots containing a house and many potato plants. The plants were in the process of blooming while I was there, and I'm looking forward to learning the art of kartofil cultivation when I move to site next month.

My host family was all that I could ask for: welcoming, generous, and linguistically forgiving. They even tried to adjust their regional accent to help my comprehension. I tried to tell them that I would have to learn sooner or later, but it came out more like, "Sometimes juice to smile it is rainy." Oh well. So it goes. C'est le vie. Vochinch.

It was also great to come back to a host family in my training village who had missed me (even checked in on me twice during my four-day hiatus). With my two new families, I think I might be able to pull this thing off.

So, I managed to get my project done and eat dinner both in the same night last week. It was a feat of human cross-cultural communication. One small step for a man, as they say. Speaking of steps, the translation of "Kyle" in Armenian is "step." This has led me to take a small step forward when introducing myself to new people, simultaneously weirding said people out and appearing substantially overeager. Vochinch, as we say in Armenia. No biggie.

Saturday, the volunteers in my village and I had a 4th of July party for our host families. It was a great mix of American food and Armenian methods--we barbequed hamburgers and hot dogs, but over a wood fire and with a makeshift grill; we made American salads, but made sure to include traditional tomato and cucumber plates as well; we brought iced tea, Coke, and water while our host fathers showed up with the mandatory vodka. Armenia meets America.

One of the other volunteers proposed the idea of transcribing an American song in Armenian letters. Before we knew it, my host father was crooning to Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World," mimicing the gravelly baritone to perfection.

Later, we competed in a couple of American games. My family was downright dynastic in the tug-of-war competition (yeah, I've been lifting)[a joke, for those who don't know me that well]. We also had a game of red rover, complete with the requisite head-over-heels clotheslining of an eight-year-old. Rain came with the darkness, and we retreated to the covered area for some sparklers and renditions of nationalistic songs. "America the Beautiful" meets its Armenian counterpart. All in all, a good celebration.

Descriptions of the above pictures, hopefully in sequential order. If not, you know the drill.

1. Sparklers on the 4th of July.

2. The transliterated version of "What a Wonderful World."

3-5. Etchmiadzin.

Finally, a disclaimer, and I can feel Mrs. Brown cringing at what I'm about to say. I take no responsibility for any words that are spelled incorrectly. Spellcheck exists, but only in Russian. I'll report back when I can begin posting in Russian, and we'll go from there.

KI=Kyle’s Intentions

KA=Kyle’s Actual Speech

MI=Host Mother’s Intentions

MA=Host Mother’s Actual Speech

KI I say, I need to head over to Sue’s house so as to complete a mutual homework assignment. I understand it is nearly dinnertime, so I was hoping you would tell me if I should wait a little bit.

KA I go Sue House. Homework.

MI Oh, but it is nearly dinnertime now. If you wait 45 minutes, you will be well-fed, happy, and ready to tackle that difficult homework.

MA Oh? Why now? Dinner is almost ready, so you should go to Sue’s in 45 minutes.

KI Apparently, I need to have my hearing checked. Might you be able to repeat what you just said?

KA Repeat. Understand no.

MI No worries, all I was saying is that you should wait until 7:30 to go to Sue’s. Eat some dinner first!

MA You didn’t understand. You should wait until 7:30 to go to Sue’s house. You need to eat.

KI Sorry, one more time. Any chance you could repeat it again?

KA What?

MI You go at 7:30.

MA 7:30. Go then.

KI Now, do you mean I will go at 7:30 or I should come back from Sue’s at 7:30?

KA I go 7:30 or I have 7:30.

MI I’m not too sure what you’re getting at there, Kyle.

MA You have 7:30?

KI I have the verbal capacity of a two-year-old.

KA I like time go late Sue’s house homework now.

MI Umm…

MA [Blank stare]

KI Just a little brain-fart. I’ll get it out of my system soon.

KA Large time need easy I go dog.

MI Are you on drugs?

MA Eat. Now. Go later.

KI I’m thinking food sounds good.

KA Much food good.

MI Good lord. What did I get myself into?

MA You know, your Armenian is getting better every day!

So, it's been a while. I now know where I'll be heading after our training period. My village is outside of Martuni, Armenia, in the Gegharkunik Marz. There are a lot of other volunteers in the area, which is a bonus. My current host family also says that those in the Gegharkunik Marz have a funny accent and are fans of vodka. I'm pretty sure at least one of those things will be true.

Today, we went to Etchmiadzin, the site of an ancient church where Thaddeus and Bartholomew (you know, the apostles) sought to bring Christianity to Armenia. It was great to experience the tradition that Armenian Christianity is steeped in.

Training is getting busier and busier, but remains fun and informative. I can now say "Oregon is the best state" in Armenian, so things are looking up.

I found an internet cafe with some viable upload speeds, so I've included some pictures as proof that I am, in fact, in Armenia.

The formatting will be a little off, I'm sure, so here are a series of captions that will hopefully accurately correspond with a picture. If not, use your imagination. [At this point, it looks like the first picture corresponds with caption 10, the second with 9, etc.]

1. Your humble protagonist and Mt. Ararat. This is about an hour after we arrived in country, during hour 38 of 39 total travel hours between Philly and a town outside of Charentsavan (via NYC, Vienna, and Yerevan). 2. Mt. Ararat in the morning light. 3. Some rugged A-17 Peace Corps Trainees and the mountain we conquered, now named Mt. A-17. 4. Traditional dancing during the host family welcome ceremony. 5. Some detergent. Is it aptly named? Not sure yet, but I’ll report back. 6. A Diaspora-funded church in a nearby town. 7. A much older church in the hills above the same town. 8. Proof of the wildflowers. 9. A cow, a hill, and some flowers. 10. Charentsavan (upper left, next to the protruding strand of grass) and a few of its surrounding villages. Also, red poppies in the foreground.

Midway through Sunday’s epic… (can I call it a meal?)… gastronomical journey, a man leaned across the table to talk. His English was much more developed than my Armenian, so we were able to find a mutual level of communication. Ultimately, I came to find that his state of inebriation was also much more developed than mine.

My experience as a Resident Advisor in college (OK, and also as a stereotypical social scene enjoying college student) initially led me to believe that this would be one of those situations where I should disengage and let the guy sleep it off. But he continued to put sentences together in English, which is much more than I could say for my Armenian. And the sentences made sense.

Midway through introducing ourselves (“Oregon. Yes, it’s a state. Near California. Not LA—closer to San Francisco. No, I’m actually not that big of a fan of Tupac.”), the subject of languages came up, probably as a recognition of the hurdle we had to jump in order to communicate. Then, in prose that betrayed his inner philosopher, he leaned in: “You know, the number of languages you speak is the number of men you are.” This seemed like a profound and insightful statement for a man three hours into a khorovats who comes from a tremendously homogenous nation. Then I realized that most everyone in Armenia speaks at the very least fluent Russian and Armenian, and many have a working knowledge of a third language.

Thinking about it later, I realized I forgot an important detail. What happens if you only know a few words of a language? My Spanish is certainly less than fluent; my Fanti down to a couple of key phrases; my Armenian nearly visible with a microscope. Looks like I’m playing catch-up here.

Better get to work.

We didn’t have anything planned for Sunday. It was my first free day since being in Armenia. It was my chance to rest. To laze about. To get lost in a hefty Eastern Armenian textbook without worrying about an unresolved homework assignment.

So, naturally, when one of my host fathers asked if I wanted to go to a khorovats, I was all over it. [Brief family structure side note—my host family is comprised of two brothers, their wives, and two children in their early twenties. We’re a motley crew.] With my limited understanding of Armenian culture, I understood a khorovats to be a barbeque at its most basic level; a fierce, subtlety-filled institution at its most complex. I was stoked. But there was a problem. I wasn’t hungry.

Needless to say, the first thing we did upon arriving was chow down. Lavash, cheese, and cured meats met me at the table, alongside about fifteen other men and one woman. It was a good old-fashioned guys’ day out birthday party.

Bottles of vodka lined the table, shot glasses omnipresent. The conclusion was pretty obvious. I began to feel like this was the calm before the storm. Red sky at morning. I racked my mind for the binge drinking evasion techniques the Peace Corps so dutifully prepared us with.

Then it came, like the crash of a wave during a storm at the coast (but less like a summer storm and more like a January 1st storm at Arch Cape when we’re doing our annual polar bear plunge). Vodka. I’ve never been too much of a fan of the libation, but word on the street is that I’ll adapt to it.

The culture of vodka drinking is fascinating. No one drinks without others. All sips/drinks/shots are imbibed only after an often-extensive toast. This khorovats was a birthday party, so all of the toast were directed toward the birthday man. It was positive reinforcement at its best. And it went on as if there weren't going to be any more birthdays. Ever.

The Armenian drinking culture wasn't completely blind to the concept of health, however. Food, alongside the vodka, maintained its steady presence on the table. Kyle-jan, I was told, it is not safe to drink without eating lavash. By lavash, they meant lavash, pork chops, chicken, cheese, cured meats, apricots, fresh greens, several types of salads, fresh vegetables, and Armenian coffee to top it all off. For those of you not paying close attention, this meant I was in a state of eating or drinking for about six straight hours.

I went home over-full, tipsy, and tired. There was a sense of hapiness, too, though. I had managed to make it through my first khorovats without making a complete fool of myself (or at least being aware of making a fool of myself). I had no trouble falling asleep Sunday night.

In light of the unexpected success I had in creating a pie chart the other day, I’m going to continue with a new installment, this one a depiction of Sunday:

Let me begin by apologizing for some incriminatingly inaccurate information in my last post. A mistake was made and it won’t happen again. More on this later.

Yesterday, a small group of us Peace Corps people met at the local school for an afternoon hike up one of the sarerj (hills/mountains) surrounding our village. It was an unusually humid afternoon, and we could feel the sun beating down on our skin before we left. Regardless, progress had to be made—there were fields to ford, creeks to cross, and a mountain to… mount? We left the school, the Armenian name for which somehow mirrors its drab color, unreinforced masonry, and abundance of landscape attended to only by livestock: debrots. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of the school and the learning that happens there; it would just be the first thing that pops into my head if someone shouted out “soviet school!” Anyway, we left the school and our task was simple: walk up. Unfortunately, we failed to anticipate that the field of wildflowers between us and our sar-sized task carried with it a bevy of bees. Every step was taken gingerly, every highly-populated flower made obvious, and everyone wished--or was thankful--for long pants. Somehow, we made it through unscathed. With concessions to the possibility of jinxing myself, I’m starting to wonder if bees sting people in Armenia. If not, the US should look into setting up some more trade agreements. Or something like that. After we parted the sea of bees as adeptly as Moses would have, we came to the base of the sar. Full of shrubbery at the onset, a quick shift happened about halfway up the incline. Shrubs turned to big and small rocks, many of which provided substandard footing. It is at this point that I remembered my host father’s words of wisdom before I left the house: mind the snakes. Looking around, I saw some large rocks under which I would consider basking in the shade if I was a snake. Bees at the bottom, a high propensity for snakes in the middle—I felt like Indiana Jones. Or something like that. Fortunately, we made it past this epic challenge. We didn’t even see a snake. I think it’s because my forethought and beams of positive energy scared them off. Or something like that. We found our way to the top, the view being as exhilarating as anticipated. In the distance lay Charentsavan, a regional hub and concrete-apartment-building-and-cool-looking-yet-somehow-sketchy-ish-factory-wielding city. Turning around and around, it’s easy to see why it can take many hours to travel the length of this Maryland-sized country. There are a ton of sarerj. Their beauty is striking. Some hilltops in the distance still carry lingering pockets of snow, despite the approaching summer heat. Herds of cattle and their patient menders look like specks on the sar across the way. When they moo, though, they sound as though they are 20 feet away. Following the ridgelines down to the valleys, splotches of purple adorn the radiant green of the wild grass. On a hike last Sunday, many a bouquet were made from the copious quantities of red, yellow, pink, blue, and purple poppies, desert roses, and lilacs. I never thought I would find myself in Armenia saying that there are only so many bouquets that you can gather in a week. The other day, I made a comment to a friend that this part of Armenia reminds me of what I picture Afghanistan looking like. Yet, this surely must be wrong. Armenia’s beauty is solely its own. Anyway, coming down off of the environmental high of the sar, we successfully negotiated unstable rocks, waist-high flora, and intimidating bulls. Nearly back to the debrots (school, for those with short-term memories that could use development), we came across an abandoned bus. Devoid of wheels, seats, or any amenities beyond a rusty frame, images of Interior Alaska and Into the Wild came to mind. Positioning the camera just right, we were able to convey an image of an Armenian Wild. Purple flowers, green plants, and gentle livestock in the background, it’s hard to imagine that this is a place that carries six months of winter. Point being, I was inaccurate in my last post. Armenian scenery is not just a combination of Lord of the Rings and The Sound of Music. Into the Wild must be added to the list.

P.S. Any sentences with arbitrary hyphen placement are henceforth dedicated to Lena.

Also, I have a cell phone and mailing address now, the details of which I can give you if you send me an email.

Hope all is well. Tomorrow will be partly cloudy with a slight breeze for you all.

We’re here! We’ve made it! Right now, I’m in Charentsavan, Armenia, on a break from training. All is going well so far; I’ve moved into my first homestay family in a town outside of Charentsavan. I’m starting to move past my Armenian language mainstays of “good” and “very good,” which I’m sure my family is happy about. Just so you know what I’m up against, though, here is my best attempt at a transliteration of the Armenian word for thanks: shnorhagalutsyun. There’s probably some French r in there somewhere, but who’s counting?My village (I shouldn’t really name it, per PC policy) is quaint, quiet, and curious about its sudden influx of Amerikatsi. It’s the type of place where pedestrian traffic is best counted in herds, so it follows easily that a small group (herd?) of volunteers is quite a diversion. There are eight of us trainees in the village, and we trudge everyday to school for a four to five hour language course, spitting out jumbled and often incoherent hellos to bemused locals on the way. We are getting better, though—now that the word zeezybeezy (best translation=blingy) has entered our collective vocabulary, we have an out for even the most precarious of situations. Say a funny word, act like an aloof American, and all is good. You might even get invited inside for coffee.In two to three weeks, we will find out where our sites are. It will be exciting to discover our new home for two years, alongside meeting our counterparts. This village is merely a stopgap enabling intensive language and technical training, though much of me wishes I could stay here. Too much has happened in this past week to outline in a series of blog posts. In short, though, we have forged a tight group of volunteers quickly—after venturing to a nearby village to celebrate a birthday, it felt like we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. It had been three days. We have gone hiking, celebrated the beauty of Mt. Ararat, planned epic journeys to find Noah’s Ark once and for all, and, most importantly, been warmly welcomed by the people of Armenia (aka Hayastan). In lieu of a series of detailed blog posts, here is a brief graphic that generally denotes my time in Armenia so far:

Rest assured that the food is phenomenal, the accommodations comfortable, the host family exceedingly warm, and the scenery a cross between The Sound of Music and Lord of the Rings. Kyle is well.

We spent today, our 14-hour layover day, with a whirlwind walking tour of all that Austria has to offer. Unfortunately, all we had to offer back was our depleted and thoroughly exhausted bodies. Photos may come, but I focused more on the architecture than our zombie-like gait.

A fun city; all is going well and we're boarding the flight to Yerevan in a couple of hours... Thanks for the good wishes from everyone!

P.S. In the interest of inside jokes, this post is dedicated to Lil Bri.