Friday, November 30, 2018

Why Postcards Are One-sided

The man asked me in Russian if it was ok to stop here. I told him it was. The car dropped a wheel into the rutted shoulder like a kid testing the pool with his toes, bounced over a few dusty potholes and came to a stop. I helped my wife Gina up from the seat. She was slightly carsick after a morning of hitchhiking over the mountain pass. I got our bags from the trunk, thanked the driver and looked around. After seven years, Yeghegnadzor was the same. The same bus stop, the same leather jacket-clad men wearing black leather shoes, tufts of cigarette-singed black hair sprouting from their knuckles. One of them looked up. I greeted him. He returned the greeting in a casual, perfunctory way; I could’ve been his neighbor. No one else seemed to notice us and they continued talking with the grumbling, argumentative undercurrent only heard in old countries where the people have been talking throughout history, complaint and laughter mixing together to sound like the wind soughing in the trees.

The divided road that led up hill to town was crowned with a new building. Built of black tufa, smooth and gleaming, it looked like a modest replica of the Ka’aba. The tinted windows were coated with the soft mountain dust which had settled into the streets after being energetically swept from the sidewalks by shopkeepers. Another knot of men had tied itself here, possibly for the flattering new backdrop, but the building was too black; it’s obsidian sheen rendered their clothes into washed-out imitations. The men who stood here looked less like scions than petitioners, supplicants for the wealth of this new building. They stood smoking their cigarettes, looking around uneasily, like Kafka characters waiting for some nameless judgment.
The clothing store that had once been on the corner was gone. The display window was empty and filmed with dust, as were the windows of the small supermarket that had sold stale wafer cookies and sugary juices. A group of kids crouched in a doorway, whispering something. The elder girl of the group was holding a toddler by the hand who was straining and having a fit at not being set free. One of the three boys suddenly took off running and the other two immediately followed him. They all had the same haircut.

The shops of the main street had changed hands and sold the same things in different places. The shoe store had baby clothes, the vegetable shop sold women’s clothes, the long, dark outfits hanging from the metal shutters like effigies of Guy Fawkes, something to pin the crime on. A woman with peroxided hair in a red velour jogging suit sat in a patch of sun before these lithe outfits heating a long-handled copper kettle of coffee on a hotplate. She had striped socks and bath slippers on her feet which lazily pushed the dust at their toes in circles.

A rangy young man watched us walk by, his wrists protruding from his jacket sleeves by two or three inches, his eyes trained on mine. I greeted him because people in Yeghegnadzor have a particular way of going slack when greeted. The severe look drops from their faces; the burden of being anonymous is relieved and they return your greeting with enthusiasm, gold teeth winking, eyes shining. Instead of greeting me the young man says my name in a familiar way—not as a question but as a statement, then, without stopping, he asked me where my skateboard was. Seven years ago, struggling with inactivity and no outlet for my energy, I used to skate around this town, especially in this area. It was one of the only paved places. Little kids would congregate to watch. The older boys would feign disinterest until I started showing them how to ride it. A line would form and, one by one, the boys would come up to try it. It was the perfect personality test. The wild ones would always try to run and jump on as I’d done. The studious boys would test it with one foot, looking back at me. The younger ones, I’d hold by the armpits in case they fell. The skateboard was how I got to know the community. It was my ‘in’. The one interesting way I was different. And now, this young man, who was probably a boy back then, remembered. I went up to greet him properly, but there was nothing I recognized in his face and, not having much to say, I let him go on his way.

We were close to my old apartment. One of the blocky Khrushchev buildings, four stories tall; a wall of windows and salmon-colored tufa stones between two dirt roads. The kids who had lived there seven years ago had grown up, but their names were still written in chalk at the base of the building in Armenian and then, as they got older, in Russian, the Cyrillic characters still curved and ornamented with superfluous Armenian serifs. One boy named Artur, seemed to have spent an entire day writing his name over and over. It fairly covered the landing at the top of the stairs. A forgotten score written above this signature was recorded to hash marks. Three crossed sets of five and a few fluttering tics nearby: 13 to 9. The forecourt was quiet. In the warm, still afternoon, laundry hung sulkily, the bright shirts bragging to the sky. I pointed out the window of my old apartment for Gina, noticing that the rush of memory was wearing off as I neared its epicenter. I’d expected it to be empty, but it wasn’t. They put curtains in the kitchen window which looked out on the mountains to the south. It was the only window of the apartment that got any light and they’d put these frothy yellow curtains over it. I had to remind myself, for Armenians, looking at a mountain would be like a New Yorker looking at a skyscraper; a marvel, yes, but an ordinary marvel, a feature of the landscape and not worthy of extensive contemplation. Not being so acclimated, I used to watch the mineral light drip down those mountains in the morning and rise from them in the evening. In the summer, a shimmering umber light, cinnabar in the autumn, bluish platinum on winter evenings and like gold in the spring.

“Jon! Ay Jon!” David’s mother, Ruzanne called down to me from the balcony next to my old apartment. My old neighbor, even after seven years and from three floors up, recognized me. I waved to her. She brought out her son, whose baptism party I had attended. His arms and legs had grown and I couldn’t recognize his face. I shouted ‘hello’. He shouted it back. Ruzanne invited us up and as much as I wanted to walk up the steps of the building and smell its quiet mustiness and see the other neighbors, I had nothing to give them and, after all this time, I’d have to give them something. I thanked Ruzanne for the offer and we walked back down the dirt road. I tried to push down the sense of having already accomplished what I’d come back for.

Although I hadn’t forgotten everything, years of disuse had withered my Armenian language into the basics. When I’d first arrived, my speech had been choppy with the ebb and flow of memory: I spoke like I was reading a bullet-point list with no grace words to elide one concept to another. Standing in front of my old apartment, talking to Ruzanne, it felt like Armenian words, in particular verbs were pouring out of the past, like leaves on a fall day. One of the words that came to me, in all its euphony was ‘shtapel’ in English ‘to hurry.’ I used to say it a lot and now, here I was, saying it again. Maybe I had never really adapted. Maybe I’d spent two years frantically running around and I came back thinking it had been enough to be there at all, among people who weren’t in a hurry. Walking to Hayarpi’s, I tried to the word out, to test it for familiarity. I must’ve used it 1000s of times before; ‘Shtapel’ it even sounds like its been thoroughly chewed and lisped by years of overuse.

The apartment Hayarpi and her mother shared was only on the other side of the street from my old apartment. I knocked on the door and waited to hear the familiar squeak of the inside door which was always closed in the colder months to keep the heat in. The door opened and we had a clumsy greeting. I’d never hugged anyone in Yeghegnadzor before. I’d seen Armenians hugging each other, but I’d always been nervous about misunderstanding social cues and scooping up someone against their will or hugging a woman when it wouldn’t be appropriate. When the door opened, it was clear neither Hayarpi nor I had considered how to greet each other after seven years. I held out one hand and then moved it and the other to her back and leaned in, still trying to keep my distance. She and Gina, having just met, hugged each other like old friends.

The foyer was cold, like the apartment stairs, cement musty and bearing down with the leaden cold of concrete insulation. We took off our shoes against protestations and went inside. There were boxes of apples stacked around the perimeter of the room, a few boxes against the china cabinet, two under the window and stacks three or four high, about four feet tall, on either side of the bed. Hayarpi explained to me that they picked the apples from her aunt’s orchard in Yeghegis and then traded them for other things they needed. The clean smell of the apples made me shiver. The fruit hadn’t warmed in its great piles and it was like having ice stashed away in the corners of the room.

Hayarpi tidied up the room as she talked. She was smaller than I’d remembered. Her black hair was pulled back in a way that seemed to stretch her cheekbones out from her large dark eyes, which always gave the impression of looking up. She wore a pink sweater which read ‘I love you’ in English. I wondered if she’d put this sweater on knowing she’d have English speaking guests. Her mom, even shorter, not much more than four feet, came out of the kitchen where she was already making coffee for us. Like most middle-aged women in Armenia, she’d gained some weight and due in part to her height, gave the impression of being nearly round. The gap between her front teeth shone brightly in a smile after each thing she said in greeting. She was older so I figured I could get away with hugging her. It had been so long since I’d seen them or anyone here, I wanted to hug someone in recognition.

After she greeted us, Haypari’s mom returned to the kitchen to check on the coffee. When the kitchen door opened the smell of cold dried herbs and stove gas mixed with the apples and it was easy to imagine being in a burrow or a den, preparing for the winter. The windows were all fogged up from something boiling on the stove and I had the childish desire to nuzzle into a corner, wrap myself up in a blanket and nap until dinner, but the coffee came out on a tray in demitasse cups and I found myself very eager to gulp the steaming brew and warm myself. We lifted our cups and I began to thank our hosts as though proposing a toast. We had a few sips in silence then Hayarpi began to tell me about the car she’d bought, a little car, for her and her little mother. We finished our coffee and went outside and looked at it. Someone had put a new upholstery on the ceiling with thumbtacks and the result was something that looked like a lounge or a dark corner of a poolhall. I wondered where they’d gotten the money to pay for it. We went back in and looked at the bank papers. Even in Armenian, I saw how the interest would compound over time.

My main object in coming back to Yeghegnadzor was to take Hayarpi and her mom on vacation. When I’d lived here, I’d gone back and forth to Tbilisi many times, each time returning with some new detail. Hayarpi had been one of the few people I’d met in Armenia who seemed interested in the outside world. I had wanted her to see something of it, but now there was this damned car.
When we finished looking at the bank papers, they weren’t put away, but left out. This worried my conscience. I picked up the papers, studied them and asked myself how I could spend money taking these people on a trip when they were shortly to go into debt for this car. I wondered what would happen if they couldn’t make payments. Would the bank simply repossess the car? What if they took the apartment? I had no idea how these kinds of things worked in Armenia, but I was comforted by the fact that there was very little homelessness across the country. I imagined the banks probably didn’t have the teeth they did in America in a former Soviet country. I set the papers down and tried to return to our reunion. Hayarpi had been cracking walnuts. She put a handful on my plate and reached into a nearby box and found a big, bright apple for Gina.

“C’mon eat!” Hayarpi said, as if there was nothing to be concerned about. She was so casual, it was easy to forget about the car. I picked up a handful of nuts and began saying something about my Armenian wasn’t as good anymore. I apologized and said I hoped it would come back. I was being modest, I was actually surprised at how much had come back in the short period of time I’d been back. Even the unfamiliar topic of the bank loans had been comprehensible enough.

We talked a little about what had happened since I’d left, which, up until the day they’d bought the car, and this had only been a month or two ago, really hadn’t been much. The university had closed; a hotel had opened; the bus stop had—oh wait, you were here when that happened. That was eight years ago. Life had simply ticked along. What was there to tell? In the summers there were apricots. In the winters, it was potatoes and cabbage. Sometimes it rained or snowed. These were not things that needed telling and yet, I wanted to hear them. I pressed questions about holidays and certain dishes which were so inane they probably made me sound like a lonely person who only wanted to hear a voice respond to his own.

Hayparpi took the superfluity of our conversation in stride, probably chalking it up to another bizarre foreign tendency. I translated as much as I could for Gina and in a short time, she started to understand some, asking me if ‘yot tari arach’ meant ‘seven years ago’.I’ve always learned language by strategy, picking up nouns and verb conjugations like tool to be used at certain times. The result is when someone poses a predictable question, I have a predictable answer ready. By talking to Gina, I was able to learn what phrases I repeated. My Armenian tended to go around in a track, partially because I always tried to steer the conversation into familiar territory. Sitting there, cracking walnuts, with our coffee cups overturned, it was like I’d never left. All I wanted to talk about were the familiar things that defined my Armenia. Perhaps Hayarpi understood how I was trying to infantilize the country so that I’d be more capable of understanding it. She interrupted my nostalgic account of her mother’s cooking and asked me to loan them some money. There was nothing leading up to or away from this. Just a request. She seemed to be saying, ‘this isn’t the land of home-cooked meals and raw mountain air you want it to be. It’s a land of people with the same complex emotions as yours.’ For the first time since we’d arrived, Gina was looking at me with a questioning look and I wasn’t sure how to translate what had just been said.

What Hayarpi was saying was ‘If you’ve got money to take us on this trip, why don’t you just give us the money. We’ll stay here and use it on something we need it for.’ If I were to translate this into American English it would’ve sounded something like, ‘look, I don’t want to go on this trip, but I want the money.’ It sounded rude, but I knew this wasn’t how Hayarpi had meant it. For her, the offer of a trip—with no discernible practical purpose, was unprecedented. For most people in Armenia, If anyone goes anywhere, its because they’ve got some kind of business to take care of there. You go to Yerevan to get government papers you might need. You go into town to go to the market. You go to Moscow, Europe or the US to work—often without realizing you’ve just bought a one-way ticket because it’s very unlikely you’ll make enough to ever bring your family over. Offering a trip to Tbilisi, as much as I’d tried to explain it, still didn’t make any sense to Hayarpi and her mom. They didn’t want to go to a place just to see it. They didn’t want to experience the unfamiliar without compensation. They wanted to stay at home and have a car so they wouldn’t have to rely on others for transportation to the spring fields to pick greens or the autumn valleys to pick berries, food that could augment their diets and wouldn’t cost anything because it grew wild. It was also where they got all the herbs for tea. I understood, or tried to and gave them the money to cover their next car payment. I handed the money over smiling and said ‘You’re still going to Tbilisi.”

By this time, Hayarpi’s mom had come back from the kitchen; they were both so relieved to get the extra money to make their lives easier, they didn’t object to the Tbilisi plans, but I could tell they were both concerned about still having to go. But I knew I wasn’t making assumptions about their culture. Everyone is reluctant to travel in the beginning, especially those who have become acclimated to staying at home. I wasn’t forcing anything on Hayarpi and her mom I would force on my own grandmother. I was convinced there was something of value in travel that wasn’t only accessible to comfortable westerners. I knew this because when I tried to describe the excitement of travel, I didn’t have a translation ready and had to root around a little for the words. Which made things a little more difficult because I kept having to translate for Gina as well, but at least I wasn’t repeating myself anymore.

It took a while to extricate ourselves from the apartment with the apples piled in the corners. We were only allowed to leave after we agreed to come back first thing in the morning. I’d meant to try to see a few more people that day, but it was getting late and I remembered the long dark roads, the lack of streetlights and the occasional open manhole cover. We walked back to where we were staying in the frozen ruts of a dirt street which was churned into mud every time it rained. In the lack of light, the stars were bright and cold overhead. Fallen leaves rustled down the street, escaping from smoldering fires. The glowing embers at the center of each pile shone and dimmed, like quiet breathing. There were no other lights. Dogs barked and people passed by like apparitions, silent until they were right next to you and receding back into obscurity as they walked away. Most of the town was already asleep and, straining, I could hear their snores floating out from the thin panes of windows. There was something contagious in this sound and we yawned back to our own bed like someone who had been away for days.

In the morning, we went back to Hayarpi’s and had coffee. Now that the car had been taken care of, I returned to talk about the trip. I described Tbilisi, the Georgian bread, the lobiani or bean pastry which could be bought everywhere and was very good and filling. Hayarpi saw past these trivialities and protested that they didn’t know anyone in Tbilisi and had no business there. It was like she feared interrogation and was worried about her alibi. I tried to explain the concept of a vacation but she wasn’t having it; the idea was absurd. She’d spent her adult life in her apartment. She had talked about becoming a police officer once, but, like any other job in rural Armenia, you had to put a down payment on it, one her and her mother couldn’t afford, so she stayed in and took care of the apartment. The place was only one room and the kitchen. There was no working TV. When her mom went to work, Hayarpi probably had plenty of time to contemplate the world, she didn’t need to go anywhere else, but, I knew she cared. When I had told her in the past about the places I’d been, she listened intently, interested, but detached from the subject matter. I wanted to change that. I wanted her to see how easy it was to catch a bus, rent a bed in a guest room and see something different. If anyone would take advantage of it, I thought it would be Hayarpi. She was the only Armenian I’d met who talked about other countries more than her own, but when I mentioned visiting one of these countries, she just shook her head. To her, such things weren’t possible. I thought I could change that.

When I asked about their passports, we ran into a problem. I’d already checked with a friend who told me Armenians could travel to Georgia without a visa; many went back and forth all the time. What I didn’t know was that the passport had to be ‘activated’ with a stamp. Everyone had a passport, but very few of them had the stamp that made it anything more than an internal document. Hayarpi’s mother had the stamp from years before when she’d gone to Russia, but Hayarpi’s passport wasn’t activated. She told us, to remedy this we’d need money and we’d have to go down to the police station.

Ugh. The very belly of the beast. When I lived in Armenia, I was treated well by everyone I met with the marked exception of the police. Their heads seemed to have been crammed fuller than anyone else’s with Soviet xenophobia. At night when I ‘d gone out walking, they stood on the corner and insultingly waved me over with questions they didn’t wait to hear the answers to.

Where are you from?”
What are you doing here?”
Where’d you say you work again?”
Why are you out so late?”

One would ask the questions while the other would look me up and down. Sometimes, he’d even start to circle me, like a hungry dog. What bothered me more than anything, was that I knew it was all a show. Once, in Yerevan, on the Metro, I’d looked up to find a whole phalanx of cops all staring at me. Defiantly, I stared back, thinking eventually they’d lower their gaze, but they never did. We went five stations down the line before I had to elbow through them to get off and end our absurd staring contest. They were kids with uniforms and badges with no knowledge of the law. They were a remnant force of creaking Soviet denial. For the police, nothing was permitted. Even if they allowed something, they did so in a way that indicated they might change their mind and arrest you in a moment. The idea of intentionally marching into their HQ and asking for something wasn’t an idea I relished. On top of that, Hayarpi informed me, we’d probably have to wait a while and I knew by ‘a while’ she meant all day.

The autumn weather had deepened and on our way to the station, the clouds bunched together in an ominous way. Wind shook the tops of the plain trees and their powder-colored leaves spun like foil ornaments. Dust lifted from the paved streets in a grainy sheet, executed a parabola-turn and fled down a side street. The drain pipes were all rattling. The streets were empty.

The police station was at the bottom of the town, by the Tehran-Tbilisi highway which, in southern Armenia, slows to a trickle of road, two wobbly lanes pushed out of macadam as if by a rolling pin, occasionally passed over by a Lada, weaving between the potholes—making due at 35 miles per hour.

We climbed the stairs and opened the door to disappointment. The hallway was a crush of grainy, unshaven faces and tired, red-rimmed eyes. Hayarpi took her place among the petitioners. She didn’t ask anyone where we needed to wait or if we were in the right place. Seeing people waiting, she too waited to do anything else would be presumptuous. Even after living in Armenia and knowing the system, this made me impatient. We stood there for about ten minutes before a grandmother’s head appeared among the waists of the tired men to ask Hayarpi what she was doing there. She explained her errand and the grandmother nodded, receding back among the belt buckles, fake Armani labels and cigarette pack-bulging pockets. After a moment, as if she’d been thinking, grandma leaned back out and informed us that it was lunch time. There was no one actually in the office this whole hallway was seeking entry to. In moments like these, I wished my impatient American mind away. It’s constant demand for progress can be very annoying in different cultural contexts it must seem to casual observers, like a handicap or a rude proclivity. The impulse to always know where I am in line and how long I have left to wait has helped me to understand why the rest of the world often describes Americans as ‘childish.’ Constantly sighing, looking at our watches, demanding updates, we must seem very much like children on a long drive asking ‘are we there yet?’

I couldn’t handle the silence and body odor of the interminable hallway wait. I motioned to Gina and went to sit outside. I stopped at the top of the stairs and sat at the top of the wide tufa balustrade and watched the wind, the mountain dust and the Ladas pass down the street. I remarked on how long I thought we could be waiting, but I was glad we’d discovered the need to do this. Even if it took all day, it was better than getting to the border and being turned back after a five-hour trip for not having our papers in order.

After I explained my frustration, I focused on my memories. I hadn’t been here in seven years, looking out at the plane trees across the street, I considered who’d I’d been then. I remembered the first snow I’d seen here. I started to tell Gina about it but Hayarpi came out and said she was finished for the day. She’d been able to drop off her passport, but getting the stamp would take a while. We’d have to come back the next day to pick it up and pay. I was glad to not have to waste the entire day sitting on the steps of the police station. We went back to her house and had some tea before we said goodbye for the day and Gina and I were able to go scrambling over the hills as I had years before. I returned to the story I’d begun at the police station of the first snow and the image I had of going outside in my socked feet to watch it fall and leaving humid footprints on the concrete. As we walked, other fragmented memories returned to me and I pointed out the potsherds of memory I’d left all over the place that had kept so well in these remote hillsides, scrapped buildings and dry river beds. We were still out walking when the moon fought through the heaps of rock and rose clear, untrammeled, in the cloudless sky.

The next morning, we repeated what was by then becoming our ritual of coffee and breakfast at Hayarpi’s. There were still so many people I wanted to go see, but I felt obligated to drop by her place at least once a day; there was also the business of the passport. I gave her the money but avoided asking if she needed us to go with her to pick it up. In Armenia, this was incredibly rude. We’d gone down there yesterday together, it was only logical that we’d also return together. In small towns with high unemployment, this is the way things worked. People did things together and shared out the resulting problems and successes. I used to know this when I’d lived here and time was a fluid with one day passing so unobtrusively into the next, finding no rough calendar edges. Now, I was an American on vacation and I wanted nothing more than to rush all over the damn place and check off boxes. Every moment I sat on Hayarpi’s couch, I thought of another person I wanted to see, another memory of a little house and a friendship that began with a chance encounter. Did all these people remember me? I had to return to them all to know and they were scattered all over the hillsides. Hayarpi never asked me to go back to the police station with her, probably because she could tell how badly I didn’t want to go.

We left after spending the entire morning lingering over our coffee and snacks. We went back up into the hills to the south of town. I had a reunion with a man I’d last met when he was a boy and wearing one of those dense wool sweater vests little kids in the mountains have to wear, kicking a deflated soccer ball. Now he was nearly my height and using a cellphone like it was an extension of his body. I found myself giving him fatherly advice while we sat in the living room and ate fried potatoes and drank more viscid black coffee while his mother continually fussed over the table and refilled my glass of cherry juice against my wishes.

After making another stop, one which fortunately didn’t include food, we plodded west into the mountains where I’d made the long walk to a spring once or twice, a startling feature in the otherwise arid landscape where the water erupted in a bubbling pool and hissed effervescence into the still mountain air. Though I hadn’t been here many times before, this spring had come to symbolize Yeghegnadzor for me and I was intent on seeing it again.

The walk was peaceful but too long. We walked up the valley long enough to feel disconcerted with the mountains which seemed to bend over us, leering after a few hours. The little rocks found ways into our shoes and we were covered in fine dust, tasting it in our mouths. Just as we were about to turn back, I saw the turnoff where drivers pulled in to fill up jugs of water and picnic with skewered meat and strong, clear apricot brandy. I had been sure that my memory had embellished the size of the fountain that held the water, but it was as big as a crater and taller than a child. I took a few tentative sips while the sparkling water burped up and bubbles stretched and snapped and shot water into my nose. Wet enough, I decided to dunk my whole head in the fountain, half-expecting to come out looking a few years younger.

We filled up the bottle we’d brought, drank it off and filled it up again. All the around, it was quiet. The snaking mountain roads led to little villages and no one traveled them in the evening. It is a startling thing to spend so much time on a road and not see a single car. There was only the constant sound of the bubbling water like a witch’s cauldron boiling with no fire. We filled the bottle again and began the long walk back, the water dripped from my hair, soaking my collar. The wind picked up a little and glazed my wet earlobes with its mournful sounds. Blowing out of the west, out of the planes of Anatolia, it hurried us back to town.

The next morning was our last in town. I had to meet my friend Anna in Yerevan before we left the next morning for Tbilisi. Hayarpi and her mom were to meet us in Yerevan and we would take a taxi together to Tbilisi. After our customary breakfast, I reminded Hayarpi that she needed to remember their passports when they left the next morning. ‘Forget everything else,’ I cautioned. ‘But don’t forget your passports.’ I felt rude offering her such obvious reminders, but she’d only left the country once before and I knew such a small thing could be easy to forget in the rush to remember everything else. Even as we said goodbye, I couldn’t help quizzing her about what she needed to bring the next day, continually reminding her about the passports. Everything was planned out. I’d made all the preparations to fulfill this promise I’d been talking about for years. The expectation of this trip made it easier to leave town. I was so focused on preparations, I didn’t even notice as Yeghegnadzor, once again, slipped out from under my feet and I sped off to Yerevan and our busy American lives.
After we’d finished our errands, we sat in the park on Abovyan St. It was nearly dark and a few couples were giggling to each other, sharing benches, holding hands and staring messages into each other’s eyes. Gina and I sat down and I started cramming puffed corn snacks into my mouth. Since I’d quit smoking about a year before, I’d developed a habit of stress-eating. Things seemed to be going alright, but I knew I was lousy at planning trips for others. When I was alone, I had no problem forgetting to bring food, walking all the way across town or sleeping on a bench if I arrived too late. Over the years, I’d subjected Gina to all these inconveniences; I’d book the tickets, but she learned to make some advance preparation herself if she wanted to eat on the bus or have a bed when she got there. She’d been the one to suggest we buy some snacks at the supermarket. I thought I was prepared and here was one glaring omission: I hadn’t even remember to bring food for our five-hour trip. I sat on the bench, getting ‘nacho’ flavored dust all over myself, wondering what else I’d forgotten. Neither of us could think of anything, but I couldn’t suppress this nagging feeling that something else was missing.

We woke up early in the morning, but we were already late for my meeting with Anna. I decided to take a taxi—as much as I loathed them. But there were none to be found. Rather than wait around, we started jogging up the street. As I ran, I chastised myself ‘this is the guy who’s going to take two people who never leave their town, to a different country, a place where they’re going to feel disoriented and uncomfortable? I couldn’t even manage to make it half-way across town on time. I was no tour guide. Hayarpi’s mom couldn’t even walk that well; she certainly couldn’t run and, when I traveled, all I did was run. I tried to shut out the thoughts and run faster but I was continually reminded of my inability to accommodate others when I turned around and noticed Gina was still three blocks behind me, walking with an annoyed expression. We hadn’t even had any coffee yet.

After my meeting, I felt better. Seeing Anna reminded me of the debt I owed to this country and the people who had done so much for me. It might not be easy, but I had to try to return the favor. I was glad to think that this time, I hadn’t come only for my own purposes. Taking Hayarpi and her mom to Tbilisi on vacation was my way of introducing a new experience to the people who introduced so much to me.

I called the taxi driver after we left the cafe where we’d met Anna. The driver was short on the phone, like he had limited minutes. He hung up before I was finished talking and I had to call back to make sure we’d understood each other about where to meet. This seemed to annoy him. We walked back down Abovyan. The weather had warmed up and the smoky dampness of autumn had burned away. There was only a clear, sweet air to breathe, like something that had come down from the mountains. We got our bags from the hostel and, after a little searching, found our driver parked outside the supermarket, slumped over the open driver door texting with his phone in the universal taxi-driver posture, escaping, but at the same time, attached to his job.

We got in and immediately broke out the snacks. I offered a chocolate to the driver which seemed to warm him a little. We all began to talk, with me translating for Gina and as we drove across town to meet Hayarpi and her mom at the Metro station, I had a feeling I had pulled it off. We were in the taxi, about to leave Yerevan. The Air BnB apartment with two bedrooms in Tbilisi was booked. The taxi would drop us off at the door and pick Hayarpi and her mom up again in three days. Even if we couldn’t do much sightseeing, at least we’d get there and have a place to sleep and cook and all without running. I sat back and ate a few pretzels feeling like I was making a grand exit from this city I’d once arrived at so humbly, knowing nothing, in the middle of the night and now I was the one riding in sedan taxis, ferrying other people across borders. I joked easily with the driver and uncovered his Georgian identity. Knowing he wasn’t Armenian made me feel even more comfortable talking with him. It always puts me at ease, using a second language, knowing the person I’m talking to isn’t using their first language either.

We pulled up in front of the Yeritasardikan Metro. I’d been talking to Hayarpi on the phone since she’d arrived in Yerevan. I figured this would be the closest place to meet. Afraid I’d kept them waiting, I bounded out of the taxi after we came to a stop. I was excited now and tried to pace myself knowing there was still a long trip ahead, but in a country where strong coffee is so plentiful, I didn’t worry much about wasting energy.

Hayarpi and her mom had already arrived. They were sitting on a bench outside the station looking utterly lost while the sharply dressed students from the nearby universities poured in and out of the turnstiles, laughing, cheek-kissing and hand-clasping. Hayarpi and her mom sat rigid and wide-eyed on the bench, looking excessively rustic for the heavy coats they were wearing despite the warm weather and the large plastic market bag next to them on the seat which looked like it may hold all their worldly possessions. I saw them before they saw me and I was overwhelmed with a feeling of tenderness toward them and their uncertainty, as one feels when watching a child make their way down the corridor of a school for the first time. I ran up to them, making some joke as I went. I had put on this bright-colored shirt, in the few weeks I’d been there, I had gotten tired of the all-black attire favored by Armenians and, in visual protest, put this shirt on. It suited my mood to have this Hawaiian shirt on. I was light and happy. Everything was going to be fine.

I took my guests’ bags and felt the full weight of what I was doing. After years of their hospitality to me, I was going to be their host and I meant to provide them with all they could handle as they had done for me at their table, so often admonishing me to take more food and bringing new things to the table even when I’d eaten my fill. I walked backwards, facing them, so we could talk. I was so happy to see them and happier still to be doing something for them, taking them somewhere.. A place that had become like a mythical city to me. What wouldn’t we do there? What wouldn’t we see? I babbled about the river cutting right through the city, the churches and mosques climbing up the valley walls. The redbrick homes built almost on top of each other, the old town, the visible history, things that Yerevan in its angular modernity blatantly lacked. “Tbilisi,” I declared defiantly on the streets of Yerevan. “The capital of the Caucasus!”

I spun back around, leading the way, feeling like Willy Wonka marching his guests through his factory. If I’d had a baton, I would’ve been twirling it. Then, like a man suddenly unsure if he has his wallet whose hand shoots down to pat his pocket, I spun back around. “You have your passports, right?” I asked. Hayarpi and her mom exchanged glances, Hayarpi smiled and said, very calmly, “no,” as if this was a trifle. I knew she was joking. She had to be joking. After all we’d gone through, going back and forth to the police station, after I’d made her repeat back to me what she was going to be sure to bring above everything else. “Tell me, tell me you’re joking,” I pleaded. But she couldn’t because it was the truth. For reasons I don’t understand to this day, neither Hayarpi nor her mother had forgotten the passports, which when I’d left their house, had been right there, on the coffee table: unmissable.

When I realized she wasn’t joking, I went through a frantic denial. I asked them to please look in their bags, were they sure they didn’t have them. Maybe they’d packed them away and forgot? But, without even looking, Hayarpi confidently told me that they were still at home on the table. She knew they were. She distinctly remembered not taking them. They’d forgotten. 100%. I didn’t know what to make of her calm assurances. I knew that they’d been nervous about going, but when I’d offered to do something else rather than take the trip, Hayarpi had assured me that she’d really wanted to go. After all, this was the person who, out of everyone, had been the most interested in the places I’d gone. It was years of listening to her questions about places like Georgia that had given me the idea to take them in the first place. But here it was. The passports had been left at home and neither Hayarpi nor her mom seemed perturbed by this. Clearly, they didn’t want to go. I’d forced them into a corner and I hadn’t even noticed. Realizing my mistake, I began to feel incredibly self-conscious. I suddenly felt ridiculous in my festive shirt and hastened to take it off. Underneath, like everyone else, I was wearing black.

When I first arrived in Armenia, I had a difficulty understanding negative replies, not because I lacked the vocabulary—there were, after all, only a handful of ways to say no—but because I couldn’t read the visual cues. Instead of answering in the negative, shopkeepers, not wanting to be offensive, would often click their tongue in the place of a negative reply. Sometimes they combined this with looking away, but seldom did they actually say ‘no’ outright. At first, I thought they were being dismissive until I realized that they found saying ‘no’ just as rude as I found their inability to say it. Talking to Hayarpi and her mother that day, I couldn’t help but to think I was seeing the same thing. After years of living in this country and many more years using its language, with Armenian communities from California to Argentina, I thought I’d learned all the subtle cues and the cultural mores, but here was a cue I’d missed. My would-be guests didn’t want to go to Tbilisi. They weren’t interested in seeing the rumpled old town and the sagging brick work. They weren’t concerned with the nice restaurants and the soaring churches. They wanted to stay home where they were comfortable and they didn’t have this gangling foreigner leading them around. When I thought about it from their perspective, I couldn’t blame them. They didn’t want to dampen my enthusiasm; I hadn’t really given them a fair way to say ‘no’ without disappointing me.

We’d been standing behind the cab, parked in front of the SAS Supermarket, discussing what to do. Hayarpi had earnestly proposed that she go back on the marshutka to Yeghegnadzor and get the passports, a round trip that would take at least five hours, while her mother stayed with Gina, the driver and me. I asked the driver how much extra he’d charge to drive to Yeghegnadzor. The price he quoted was ridiculously high, nearly doubling the fare. After my realization, I dismissed the whole thing. I decided that we’d all go out to eat at the Syrian place nearby and then we’d take Hayarpi and her mom back to the marshutka stop to go home. No one seemed very excited about the plan, but I felt like I owed them some kind of cultural experience for having come to Yerevan and I thought it’d be a nice gesture to treat the driver to a meal since he’d waited so long for us to figure out what we were doing.

We all got into the car and instead of driving across the border, we drove around the block. The ride was short and awkward. I’d hoped Hayarpi and her mom would be relieved, but they still acted very uncomfortable, like even now, I was pulling the rug out from under their feet. For two years they’d fed me and I’d never been able to return the favor; just once, I wanted to treat them.

Restaurants in Armenia are for weddings. Most Armenians don’t casually go out to eat. They stop at little places and have coffee, piroshki, maybe a beer and zakuski, but the real restaurants with plates and napkins all have a brittle formal quality. The chairs are always high-backed, the floors faux-marble, the décor haphazard and radiating coldness. The tables are large to accommodate the many guests you’re supposed to be entertaining. There’s no such thing as a split check.

I figured the food would give us something to talk about. I knew Hayarpi and her mom had never had Levantine food. Maybe they wouldn’t like it, but I’d order enough appetizers for everyone to try, baba ganush, tabuleh, falafel and I knew they would know dolma and shawarma, which they called shashlik. I ordered mezze, imagining large fragrant plates, baskets of bread and observant waiters, but we waited in silence in the chilly, cigarette-scented atmosphere for small plates to arrive that no one seemed to want to despoil. I served myself a small portion and encouraged everyone else to do likewise, but the scene turned childish. My guests recoiled from the strange food and, after much cajoling, were finally induced to take little bites, whereupon they set their forks down and declared that this was not the food for them. I couldn’t blame them, they’d been eating the same homegrown food their entire lives, strange restaurant food was not the ideal meal to share and I figured everyone could order a main course they’d like and, I hoped, that would be enjoyed.

Gina and I ordered falafel; everyone else got a burger. When they arrived, Hayarpi took hers apart, squinting in distaste at the bun, like she was unable to understand what bread was doing in the meal and not off to the side. Her mom did the same and in a moment, a spare plate was covered with ketchup-sopped buns, like the extractions of a grisly accident and Hayarpi and her mom’s plates were reduced to a single patty of meat and a scattering of fries. When I considered the huge plates I’d been served at their house of fried potatoes and preserved tomatoes and peppers, I felt ashamed to have brought them to such an obviously sub-par place.

As we ate, I tried to keep the talk up, but everyone, even the driver who was probably anxious to be on his way, had sunken into low spirits. In the chilly room, forks knocked against the plates, comments hung in the air answered after a delay by monosyllables and coughs. I repeatedly had to ask for more bread, which only seemed to expose the inadequacy of the restaurant; in an Armenian household, no guest has ever, ever run out of bread.

It took forever to finish eating and I considered ordering a drink, but decided against prolonging things—also, I knew I’d have to force everyone else to order their own drink and I didn’t feel like I had the energy to be play the gracious, jolly host anymore. I paid the check and we left, still not really talking much.

The clear autumn day was already coming to an end outside. The sun was a coppery orange, down on the horizon, not glowing but oozing color as it does after a long day at the beach when you’ve been outside with it all day, not paying attention until it’s down on the horizon like a parent calling for an end to playtime. “That’s all for today; don’t worry. You can come back tomorrow.” But the fort is almost built, the trail is almost blazed, the plans are almost drawn up and you know, as does everyone else, that the fire for the activity won’t be there the next day. The dynamic won’t be the same. Tomorrow some kids will have to go home early, others won’t be in the same mood and the project won’t have the same seriousness. It won’t be the same. But, there’s this last golden moment for you to realize it. To take your mind out of the task, before you’re whisked back home and look at what you’ve done. Even if you never come back to it again. Look at what you’ve managed to do with this one summer afternoon. That’s the kind of sun that was in the sky, the sun that only seems to cast its rays backward, over what’s passed. The future is cut off by the horizon.

After seven years away, I went back to Armenia, knowing that I wasn’t going to find the same place I’d left, but hoping there’d be some approximation. In Yerevan, of course, there were a few changes, but across the country, things remained as they’d been, not only before I’d arrived, but for decades and centuries before then. History had moved over these mountains east of the Anatolian Plateau like glaciers churning up the ground, leaving lakes and piles of rubble but ultimately melting while the people continued living much as they’d always done, scarcely noting that the wall of ice had retreated leaving caravansaries, monasteries and Soviet factory husks behind in its wake. Features that dot the landscape like trees in other places and go unnoticed.

We drove Hayarpi and her mom down past the relics of history to the southern end of the city where the marshutkas leave for Yeghegnadzor; the kind of place you’d never visit if you didn’t live in the country. I helped with the bags, trying to hide the sorrow I was feeling knowing how long it would probably be before I’d be able to come back again. In the wake of so many glaciers, I hadn’t even scratched the surface of the land I’d paced over so relentlessly years before, but, upon leaving again, after heartily embracing Hayarpi and her mom, I found I’d been completely bowled over by the crushing pace of history. I’d been knocked over and out of the way and now all I could do was to look back from where I’d been thrown at where I’d been, point and search in vain for some remnant I’d left behind that would prove my presence.

But the landscape was utterly void of any distinguishing characteristics and, as we drove north, it became less familiar as we neared the Georgian border with its familiar green forests, golden rivers and European cities, while, to the south, Hayarpi and her mom, the real Armenia, immobile as ever, moved back down to the high desert of a country somehow older than its stones. They went back to where they’d started from, as I supposed it had to be and I, the foreigner, left, again, never having been able to do anything more than visit—but what a visit it had once been.

Monday, November 5, 2018

For Esmé with Love and Amor

We stood around waiting. I went out to skate, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no focus to be had. The hospital had scheduled the induction for five, but then moved it back to seven. The last thing we had been told was to call at 5 to see if anything would be available. Everyone was having a baby in Arcata on the same day. I came back in from trying to skate. We called the hospital. They told us to come in at 7-7:30 pm, but no promises that there’d be space in the birthing center.
We drove to the beach. We had to do something. The sun was already setting and a cold wind had risen from the water to dispel the warmth of the day. We left our shoes in the car and climbed up through the tangles of huckleberry and waxy marsh plants. A dune, 30 feet high, sifted down into the dim forest. We stepped into the hulk of cold, dry shadow and scrambled up over the sands, grass and the ocean. Night rose from the leaden waters and sent the birds wheeling into the sky where it looked like a star had gorged itself on fire and popped. The low burn of the evening was dissolving into the darkness like ice tinkling and melting in the deep red of a cola glass.
We stood there for a moment. Feeling the wind in our eyebrows, in our ears. We talked and felt it on our teeth. I said, this would be the last time we went anywhere as individuals, not as someone’s parents, when we could just jump in the car, alone and wend out to the ocean. Watching the red sunset, I was happy about this change. So many years with a bag over my shoulder, getting on trains, staring out the window, reading the same sentence over a cup of coffee in a loud cafe and not paying attention to where it would lead. I told Gina how nice it was to go somewhere new, I mean really new.
When we got back to the car, it was almost entirely dark. There was just enough light down around the horizon to illuminate the old saw mill on the slough, the smell of years’ old cut redwood was dusky and stale in the air like old spices in a kitchen droor. The radio wasn’t on. We didn’t say a word; the car filled with the silence the precedes something important: that gulp of air before the news.
The house smelled old when we returned, like no one had been inside in months and the carpet had gone stale like a church basement. I made coffee to dispel the odor. Gina showered. I put the bags in the car. The dark came in from the ocean, landsliding the streetlights until they were vague points of light out over distant neighborhoods. We got in the car, the sand grating underfoot on the rubber mats, the vague lights skipping past until they piled in the hospital parking lot, a little city, a palace.
“There’s no room,” the nurse told us. “You’ll have to take this spare room for now. You probably won’t stay, though; too many people here tonight.” And she rubbersoled back down the hall, leaving us in a check-up room with our ironic smiles, looking up movie showtimes.
We considered ways to distract ourselves as we waited. We read, but only to put down our reading and look at the clock or each other. I drank the coffee I’d made at home and started eating all the snacks we’d brought for labor. Down the hall, I head some serious hospital talk: close, murmuring voices. The nurse came back. She’d spoken with the doctor. The induction would go through. We had only to wait and with that, the heavy door slipped shut, the catch clicking gently only after the footsteps had faded down the hallway. Someone coughed lightly, maybe a baby.
The room only had one bed. I was in a folding chair, my feet flung lazily out in front of me, reading the same sentence over and over while people knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. “Who knows how long it’ll be,” they told us. “You might want to rest. Do you want a cot if there’s one available?” I told them I did and helped the orderly wheel the ungainly thing into the room and move the machines around to accommodate it. I finished the last of my coffee, noticed Gina was already asleep, turned out the light and stretched out.
The light came on. I wobbled out of unconsciousness. One of the nurses, a woman with tiger paws tattooed on her neck, had a white square pinched between the tongs of small forceps. There was a light rustling and the induction was done. The door clicked closed again. I reached out and turned the light off. Sleep came over me like a damp blanket.
Every hour or so, there was another awakening. The door opened. The nurse-station laughter blew into the room. The nurse who’d been assigned to us, checked the machines and asked questions and then reminded us sleep was important because Gina was now beginning to contract, but the nurse would stay, contradicting herself and talking, not allowing us to sleep as recommended. Because they weren’t talking to me, I lay there, feigning sleep, my socks sticking out from under the blanket, occasionally, sitting up on an elbow and earnestly listening, considering getting up and then swooning back into humid, cold sleep on the cot.
Early in the morning, someone came in. It was around five, I think. I got up. Folded up the cot and pushed it back out in the hallway. Brought the folding chair back in. Plodded out to the nurses’ station and caged a cup of coffee. Thus, signaling we were awake.
The contractions had gotten more severe. Gina was beginning to rock and moan a little, but when the nurse came in and asked about pain, Gina said it wasn’t too high, about a three on a scale of one-to-ten, nothing too crunchy.
To cope with the intensifying pain, we moved around the room a little, not finding much room to occupy that wasn’t bed or bathroom. I sat down to open the floor to Gina who needed it more than me.
The nurse came in and told us a room had opened. The shift changed and we were handed off to a new nurse and a new room, much larger. The nurse gave us a few pointers on helping the contractions along and then left us in our new suite, one with windows, a bathroom with a shower and a bunch of exercise balls.
After we got into the new room, there was too much pain to the newfound freedom of movement. Gina began to curl into this new bright and sour pain that rolled in like the revolutions of a lighthouse torch in the fog, yellowing everything and then disappearing, only to circle around again. The doctor came in. The nurses came in. Everyone had a strategy, but nothing worked. The plan had been to try to avoid an epidural. I coaxed Gina outside, but she couldn’t take more than a few steps without crumpling, arms draped over my neck and swinging her hips in time to another heartbreaking moan.
Before the contractions had gotten intense, they’d told her she was 3-4 cm dilated. As the pain crescendoed, I knew things were opening, ripening as they say. The cries, however, were getting much harder to tolerate. It’s difficult to listen to someone you love groaning in pain—pain that you know can be ameliorated, pain that doesn’t have to exist. But, we’d talked before about drugs and pain treatment. It was something we wanted to wait and see if we’d need. I knew Gina wanted to see if she could do it without the drugs, so I hung back and tried, pathetically, to help her with the breathing. Occasionally mumbling, ‘you’re doing great,’ or some similar non-commitment assurance.
The pain gradually spread and seemed to envelop the room with the dismal light of a migraine. Gina could no longer sit still. She ranged around the room. Kicking up puddles of pain and breathing hot, irritated air from her nose, balling her fists, sitting on the exercise ball and then kicking it away in disgust.
Eventually, she retreated into the shower. Her moans became cries; her cries became sobs and I uselessly paced the room, trying to escape the misery, but knowing that at least half of it was my due and that I was shirking it. I stayed close to the bathroom door and felt like the most abject of voyeurs, the one who stealthily observes the pain of others. After a particularly strident cry, Gina called out, meekly, ‘help.’My guilty conscience finally brought me, hangdog, into the bathroom. I asked, stupidly if she was alright through the shower curtain. It was silent for a while. There was only the sound of the showerhead and the smallest moan that sounded like it was coming through the drain from another room, when suddenly, the moan quavered and answered me. “I need something.
I left the bathroom to consider this. I sat on the unused and unhelpful exercise ball and contemplated my situation. Did I call the nurse in for an epidural, knowing that, initially, Gina had wanted to try not to have one? Did I allow myself to be the one to potentially put the baby in an artificial situation that might produce complications of its own? Or did I accept my position, nobly and call for an end to the pain of my beloved? Did I throw open the door of iniquity and say ‘no more! Get that damn anesthesiologist in here! I will have no suffering!’ I sat on the ball, a coward, wavering. I looked up the effects of drugs. But it was taking too long and I knew there’s be a glut of information to wade through, information I couldn’t even focus on over the shouts and groans coming from the bathroom.
Salvation seemed to come in the form of the nurse who entered to announce that she’d be checking dilation. ‘Surely after all this time,” I reasoned, “there would be a significant change and, with this encouragement, Gina could power through what remained of the contractions. It wouldn’t be easy, nor pretty, but she’d push and soon she’d be finished. Then there’d be the reward of knowing she’d done it unaided.”
Despite groaning protestations, the nurse was able to check the dilation. She said the result at the same time as a cry rent the air, either from Gina or the room next door—It was like an aural assault. I had to ask her to repeat. “She’s still at 4 cm,” the nurse said and walked out of the room, leaving me to contemplate the hopelessness. Gina was already back in the shower, whimpering. I had to do something.
We ordered the epidural and I got my beloved back. After such body-wracking pain, she was so relieved to be at ease, it was like she wasn’t even in labor. We talked easily; the nurses came and went. It got darker. I took a few pictures. At this point, we’d been in the hospital for around 24 hours, so it felt like we’d run the gamut. It also began to feel like nothing was going to change, that for all we’d been through, Gina would just stay pregnant for another week or two.
Around 10 pm, a little over 24 hours after we’d arrived to the hospital, the doctor came in and made her pronouncements. ‘Try a little Pitocin and let’s start thinking about pushing this baby out.’ After hearing shouts of ‘push!” resounding in the corridors all day, I was both eager and hesitant to move into this final and, presumably, most painful stage of labor. Still, it was one we’d have to confront eventually. Gina got a new IV bag and I lay down, suddenly exhausted.
I sank into one of the blurriest sleeps I’ve ever known. My mind snagged on dream fragments which exaggerated aspects of the day in sharp and colorless shards. I woke on a sodden pillow with a numb hand and an itchy eyelid. I felt like a kid who’d drifted off in class. I sat up and tried to fake a serious demeanor, but it wouldn’t take and I just sat there grinning at everyone, hoping to win over the labor support team by sheer grace. Luckily, no one seemed much concerned with me and I retreated somewhere behind Gina, who’d become the main event.
A smock was readied. A tarp was spread on the floor. A bucket, large and plastic-lined was set on the floor. It looked like the idea was to welcome the stars of Seaworld into the delivery room. The pushing started, in what seemed like practice. The nurse and the doctor talked between contractions; everyone was setting up to be in the room for a while. Given the lengthy progress of someone’s corridor-echoed pushing I’d heard earlier in the day, I thought we had at least two hours before we could expect anything.
From the beginning, a patch of hair disclosed itself, disappearing and reappearing with each contraction like a coin, tumbling though water, flashing and dimming, a valuable circle, eclipsing. In a few pushes, the circle widened and an entire thatch of hair moved up. The thatch became a small mound and the mound became the crown of a head. In the fastest moment of my life, some slight-of-hand followed the mound with a face, neck, arms, body and legs and my daughter was lifted, gasping, clammy, incredible onto Gina’s chest. We both started sobbing, leaning forward, trying to impress on our memories this eternal moment.
My daughter coughed, flexed her fingers and uttered a little cry, like she was testing her voice out without much conviction it would work. This peaceful little cry hang in the air before it was replaced with another and that, with another, before there was a sting of such cries of life hanging about the room like a garland. All we could say in reply was ‘awwwww’. It was, of course, the only thing to say. ‘Awwwwwwww’.
It’s been nearly a day and I’m still unable to think of much else, but gradually, the new words will come and, when they do, my family and I will test them out together, finding how they fit with someone who is slipping into being with her curling fingers, her curious facial expressions and her beautiful future. 


Wednesday, October 31, 2018

Janus on Halloween


One of my earliest childhood memories is on Halloween, I must’ve been three or four. My dad and I are on Third Street. I’m wearing a glow-in-the-dark skeleton costume and carrying an orange plastic bucket shaped like a jack o’ lantern. We come to the first house. My dad stops. “Ok,” he says. “Go up there and say trick-or-treat.” The walk up to the porch seems very long. I have to keep glancing back at my dad for reassurance. My mom would’ve gone with me. As I get closer to the porch, I notice a scarecrow in a rocking chair holding a bowl of candy in its lap. I can’t tell if it’s someone in a costume or just a dummy. I find this incredibly disconcerting, this not knowing if something has life or not. I stare at the bowl, at the scarecrow. I am afraid to reach out toward this thing, but my dad is waiting back on the sidewalk. He will be disappointed if I run back without trying. I swipe wildly at the bowl, already turning my body to run. My fingers close on a fun-size Snickers and I am off the porch running back to the sidewalk and my dad who is grinning. He takes the Snickers from my hand and drops it into the orange plastic pumpkin with a hollow sound. I am exhilarated for having faced something unknown and won. We go on to the next house and I am ready to walk to the porch alone, the orange plastic bucket swinging in the air….
In the first trimester, last winter, I often joked about my desire to have a Halloween baby. It would’ve been fitting. For years, I’d told my friends that the best thing about having a kid must be going to children’s trick-or-treat functions. They laughed when I said it, but I wasn’t kidding. The end of trick-or-treating was the closest thing I had to a coming of age ritual. When I went out that last time and people kept asking if we weren’t a little old, it was the first time I was made to confront the change that had come with puberty. On one side of that night, I was a boy, the other, not quite a man, but somewhere in between the two. Getting a driver’s license or moving out didn’t feel as significant as the end of the Halloween ritual, one that I’d been participating in nearly since birth.
Since the last time I went trick-or-treating—I was 13—I’ve always looked upon the holiday with nostalgia. I participate from the periphery: reading ghost stories, eating autumnal food, carving pumpkins, but the evening of the 31st is always anticlimactic. I stay at home, where an adult should be and remember running through the streets and the adventure of the holiday which, when compared to the other sedentary family bubble holidays of the US is even more significant.
Even as a kid, I didn’t care about the candy. It was the opportunity to run around at night, in costume with 100s of other unsupervised kids running around at night. In a way, it’s a mock-up for making your own way in the world: You put on a costume and go from place to place asking for food and novelty, but everyone else is out doing the same thing, which can be both frustrating and exciting. Your parents can’t help you, nor would you want them to, but they’re back at home rooting for you. When you’re told you’re too old to participate in this make-believe adult world, the only other option is to consider the real one.
After my 13th Halloween, I never went back. I stayed at home, passed out candy, dressed up, put on a spooky sound effects record, but it was all for the benefit of the kids acting out their coming of age. I went to a few Halloween parties, but sitting in a bar or leaning in a kitchen with a bunch of adults in costume getting drunk seemed more infantile than trick-or-treating. We weren’t even acting anything out. We were resorting to the cliché adults rely on to make life interesting. It was no different from any other night minus the face paint and the pumpkins.
Every Halloween I go as Janus. I don’t dress like the Roman god of transitions and time, but I spend the day looking forward and backward. I look backward to my childhood, remembering the sounds of basketball shoes on wet streets, the ambient giggles and little girl shrieks echoing up the block, the crinkly cellophane heft of the pillowcase and the waxy smells of make-up, rubber spiders and melting candles. I look forward to the day when I’ll be able to return to this world through the eyes of my own kid. Certainly, for many years I didn’t expect to ever have a kid and go back to Halloween, nor was I sure I wanted to; but, I couldn’t let the day go by without at least considering what it would be like to take a little hand, walk into the street together and point to the porch with the scarecrow and say ‘go, try out the adult world.’
Halloween was said to be the time of the year when the border between the worlds of the living and dead became vague and inhabitants of either world mingled, especially at night. This is still true, but the border has been shifted and now the forbidden gates that creak open connect the worlds of adulthood and the childhood. There is no other time of year, when children masquerade as adults, and adults spend the day remembering their childhoods.
I had secretly hoped the baby would be born on Halloween, but now that the day is here, I find I don’t mind. Today will pass as the other Halloweens of early adulthood. I’ll go to work, wish people a happy holiday, come home, make chili, listen to black metal, read a ghost story and go to bed. For seventeen years, this, with slight variations, has been my ritual. The baby will come when it wants, probably in a few days, but next year and for years afterward, I will be out there again on the wet streets, between the choruses of ‘trick-or-treat!’ But the focus won’t be on me. By then my role will only be to wave a hand over the scene and say ‘this is something we do; what do you think?’ The kid will make up his/her own mind and I, having thrown open the door between the realms of the adult and child, will have done my part to keep Halloween alive.



Friday, August 24, 2018

Nightingale

Writing to a friend of mine recently reminded me of one of the most extraordinary encounters I have ever had. In fact, the event was strange enough that I allowed it to go by unrecorded, almost believing it to be a dream; mistaking it for something that couldn’t have actually happened. For the last eight or nine years it has occasionally returned to me as exactly this, like something I have read, an outlined idea or a sketch and I have repeatedly dismissed it until it became distorted. A wave of fiction is now sweeping over the memory, glazing it with the sheen of imagination and drawing it out of my catalog of experience. Because I think there’s something instructive in the story, I have decided to write it down before nothing more than an outline and fabrication remains.

In 2009, I was on my way to Syria from Armenia. This was before the war and Syria was still considered safe enough that the US Government allowed someone under its protection to go there (I was a Peace Corps volunteer at the time and had to ask Uncle Sam’s permission to travel anywhere). In order to get to Syria, I had to pass through all of Georgia and down through eastern Turkey. While in Turkey, I was hoping to meet a friend. A man I’d met a year before, while he was walking from Iran to Turkey. He had stopped in the town where I had been living in southern Armenia and we had become friendly enough that when he left, continuing on his journey, I’d agreed to walk with him as far as the Armenian capital, as I had a meeting there in a few days. I neglected to bring a sleeping bag and nearly froze to death the first night as we slept in a road-side stall after we found the legendary hospitality of Armenians did not extend to offering lodging. The next day, we walked until evening together out of the mountains and down into the plains, but ultimately, I had to flag down a ride to be at my meeting by the next morning. We parted ways on the side of the road, not knowing if we’d meet again.

My traveling friend and I didn’t see each other again while he passed through Armenia, but I referred him to everyone I knew living along his route. He stayed with Reza in Yerevan and Davor in Vanadzor as he moved north. I continued to receive reports on his progress until he left the country. Even beyond Armenia, he kept in touch, sending me an email or two from the road in Georgia and Turkey and when, a year later, I prepared to head through eastern Turkey to get to Syria, I sent him a message, to see if he was still in the area. He was and we agreed to meet at the central mosque in Batumi on the Georgian/Turkish border.

I got into Batumi the evening before we’d agreed to meet. I had been traveling for over 16 hours and felt vertiginous and hypnotized. It was a rainy night and I was forced to take the first room I could find to keep myself dry. I only had one change of clothes and didn’t want to get wet. My room was in the top of an old house, not far from the Black Sea harbor. I had to cross a dark and empty room to get to it, with a dirty, but full fish tank in the corner, bubbling away. The algae was too thick to see through. The room itself was strange. The ceiling sloped toward the wall in a strange way, as if the builder hadn’t been sure how to bring the two together. The lumpy twin bed was pushed into a strange niche which resulted and I spent the evening under the blankets, still wearing all my clothes to fight the chill, listening to the rain lash the roof overhead and reading The Count of Monte Cristo, smoking cigarettes because I hadn’t brought enough food.

By morning, the storm had ended, but there was still a breeze and cold puddles filled every pothole on the way to the bus station—probably one of the only places left outside of his birthplace which still boasted a statue of Stalin, a bust on a column which stood up, scowling among the long-distance vans coming and going early in the morning to make their far-flung destinations at a reasonable hour. The drivers of these vans, rotund and smiling around their cigarettes, blowing coffee steam, looking nothing like their enshrined countryman.
My friend had sent me an email telling me he’d had problems leaving Turkey on his visa and hadn’t been able to get into Georgia. He was just across the border in Rize staying at a hotel he’d written of as being something of a brothel after an insistent prostitute had come to his door to proposition him multiple times the previous night.

I had no trouble crossing into Turkey, after paying the requisite 20 bucks, and found the hotel easily enough. During the day, there didn’t seem to be any prostitutes around and I made it to my friend’s door without encountering anyone other than the bored-looking guy at the front desk. My friend packed up his things and we went out for a tea before looking for a bus, which we found easily enough, an actual bus heading to Erzurum in the late afternoon. The bus marked a milestone. In Armenia and Georgia, at the time, there were no buses, only crammed vans called, collectively, marshrutki, which I was very tired of riding, considering the strain the lack of space put on one’s knees.

As my friend and I continued to catch up, discussing books and walks, our bus climbed up into the hinterlands of Turkey, into an area the Armenians once inhabited and was, today, at the limits of Turkish Kurdistan. A place of contention. A place in the dry plateau where one scrambled to pull resources together and shunned neighbors as potential thieves. Our bus swung through the gloom of the desolate mountain passes and the subtle but continuous winds carrying tufts of snow from one side of the road to the other unarrested by trees of any kind. From the warm bus, it was a pleasant scene to observe without having to interact with; a cold, dark and isolated place without a single sign of human habitation. I sipped what remained of a complementary tea and listened to my friend talk about what he’d been reading. I tried to concentrate on his voice, but the lonely scene beyond the window absorbed my attention.

Until this point in my journey, I hadn’t seen any snow. Armenia had still been in the throes of autumn when I’d left and Georgia, despite being further north, enjoyed a mild climate thanks to the subtropical influence of the Black Sea. Crossing into Turkey, Rize was nearly on the Black Sea littoral but Erzurum, our destination, was back in the rolling landscape of eastern Anatolia where the weather was more somberly continental: hazy summers, crisp dusty autumns and dominated by the vast, silent winters of the high plains. As we climbed back towards the spreading shadow of Ararat, a heavy gray snow began to fall.

Despite the snow-obscured road, our bus arrived in Erzurum in the evening. We were planning to continue south. At the station, we asked about buses to Batman, but we were told that nothing would be leaving until the next day. There was only one bus left for the day and it was going to Ankara. On the trip down, my friend had told me how, being from Scotland, he was constantly equated with the Braveheart character, no matter which country he was in. At the bus station, he proved it to me. When we’d finished with our questions, the Turks asked where we were from. They’d grinned at my ‘America’ but seemed confused about what to say, but when they pointed to my friend and listened to his ‘Scotland’ or ‘Iscocia’ as it is in Turkish, they’d lit up. “Braveheart!” They’d yelled, offering hands to be shaken. One guy, presumably a bus driver by the width and humidity of his mustache, even threw up his hands, as if welcoming Mel Gibson himself. I wondered how many times my friend had heard this before. It must’ve been even worse in the Caucasus, among the mountaineers. I’d heard in Chechnya, it was the only Holloywood movie anyone watched.

Outside, we waded through a foot of snow looking for a hostel. The air was burning cold and belied the warm lights advertising kebabs and other, incomprehensible, Turkish fast food. I tried to smoke a cigarette, but it was so cold and windy, I had to give up. My fingers were going numb and the burning tobacco was continually being blown out.

We stayed in a hostel for the night and, in the morning, went off to the Ataturk University to scour the library for anything in English. We didn’t find much, but my friend was content to stay for a while and catch up on his Turkish studies. I went off to explore the town for any remaining vestiges of the Armenians.

Erzurum had a big center with plenty of impressive architecture, but I don’t remember much about it other than looking up into a big dome, open to the sky on one side, that looked like an apse over a massive door. I read carvings in the stone of old buildings, checked dates and, most of all, froze. It was such a cold day, that I continually had to duck into tea houses to warm up with one of the small tuliped glasses of tea which are so ubiquitous in Turkey you can order them in fast food places. Which is what I preferred to do because these places usually had their prices displayed somewhere, where the fancier places didn’t. Trying to save money and being leery of being ripped off kept me going in and out of the fast food places over by the bus station from which our bus south to Batman was scheduled to leave that evening.

The cold forced the sun to set early. It was scarcely 4 pm when it began to get dark. I’d just finished a tea, but I stopped at a place selling sesame rings to get another to keep the extra chill of impending night off. When I came out, I rounded a corner into a residential area and, under the warm glow of a streetlight, I found two boys sledding down the smallest hill you could imagine. It was no higher than the curb, but they continually pulled their sleds up, sat down, scooted over it and seemed to enjoy themselves. Having nothing better to do and a couple of hours before I was due at the bus station to meet my friend, I stood there and watched the boys (probably brothers, I reasoned) slide repeatedly down the bump. As I watched, I was approached by a man with a large, sad mustache (if a mustache can be thought of as sad, trailing down at the ends, looking like something hung on a peg and possibly forgotten) and a large overcoat. I couldn’t see much of his face under the streetlights, but his nose stuck straight out and his large, brown eyes sat humidly on either side of it like they were keeping it company.

English?” The man asked in a slightly impatient manner. “DoyouspeakEnglish?” It was obvious from the way he ran his words together, it wasn’t his first language.

I speak English,” I told him, wearily. He looked like someone who wanted money and I felt too cold and lazy to bother with giving him any, not that I had much to spare.

I’m not Turkish,” the man exclaimed. “I’m from Iran.” He said this like it was natural that anyone visiting Turkey would have, by now, had their fill of Turks.

Salaam,” I told him. “I have some good friends from your country. One is from Rasht. I’ve heard it’s a beautiful place. Do you know it?” But all this English was too much for him. He only shook his head confusedly.

My English, not so good,” he told me, making a gesture that looked like he was driving away flies rather than illustrating language ability. “You know why I came Turkey?” The mustached man asked. I noticed his clothes, though clean, were cheap and didn’t look very warm. His jacket and hat looked like a costume for a play, rather than something you’d try to coax warmth from on a cold evening. His outer layers were floppy and uninsulated. If I’d been wearing what he was, I would’ve been freezing. The man, however, seemed too excited to be cold.

Why’d you come to Turkey?” I asked parroting his question, seeing no reason why I shouldn’t humor him. I pulled out a cigarette, lit one and offered him the pack, from which he accepted two. I scowled a little.

This is the only place Iran man goes without visa. Do you understand?” He accepted my light, but didn’t touch my hand with one finger to indicate his thanks afterward as my Iranian friends often did. He took a drag in between words and managed to exhale a massive smoke cloud which, in the cold air, hung around us before slowly breaking apart and drifting away.

Only Turkey, I can go without visa. I want go anywhere else, I need visa. You,” he suddenly asked pointing at me. “Where are you from?” I told him. His eyes lit up. “Ahhh.” He exclaimed, grasping for my hand to shake. Which I offered, irritably; it seemed like a ploy. “You can go anywhere. No visa.” He was wearing thin leather gloves. Even through my own glove, I could feel how cold his hand was. I started to explain that I needed a visa to get into Turkey, but that I was able to buy it at the border and for Syria, where I was headed, I would definitely need a visa. He waved all this away. It was obvious he wasn’t interested in hearing what I had to say.

You know why I am here?” His voice dropped a little and through the wind, I could barely hear him. The cold was biting into my cheeks and stinging the lobes of my ears which stuck out from under my hat. I wanted to go inside. It was obvious this man wanted to tell me something, but in the tradition of the area, he had to dance around the subject a while. There was something mournful about him. He looked like someone who’d once been well off who’d been forced into the kind of dignified destitution that is the hardest kind to maintain. It seemed possible he’d done something in Iran and had an interesting story of exile to tell. I shook my head and he continued talking.

I came Turkey because I can only go here. I want to travel. I never traveled my whole life. So, I travel and when my money runs out, I kill myself.” He paused after this, as if seeing what I made of his statement. I waited him out to see if he was going to add anything, but he didn’t. In fact, he’d turned away as if he’d told me all he needed to. He watched the sledding boys without interest, smoking his cigarette in great gulps of smoke. I smoked too and considered what he’d said. I didn’t believe him. He was too proud of the idea to mean it. Having to unveil your suicide plan like that to a stranger, it wasn’t something anyone suicidal would do. But, I didn’t know very much about it. I waited for a story, the clincher. In just a moment, I was sure, he was going to tell me how I could save him by giving him money, but he just smoked and stared.

You’re going to kill yourself?” I asked after a minute, feigning a more naive aspect than was probably necessary, like I wasn’t sure what the word ‘kill’ meant. The man continued to watch the boys. Either he didn’t hear me or he wasn’t going to acknowledge the question. I figured if he didn’t want money, he wanted me to talk him out of it. But I had no idea how to begin. The only thing I knew about him was that he was from Iran and was going to kill himself. Even those suicide prevention line operators need more information than that.

A wind spouted down from the mosque roof we were standing near, spraying the cold, dry snow that had recently been shoveled from the walk. The boys crouched behind their sled and laughed. The man made no effort to protect himself. The wind and snow fluttered his useless clothes like a scarecrow. With his jacket shaking in the wind, I could see his back was hunched over. His head was too far down between his shoulders, like a vulture. It gave me the chills. He saw me looking and tried to straighten up, but his head wouldn’t lift all the way. I don’t know what it meant, but it reminded me of all the illnesses that can beset someone and twist up their guts or squeeze their bones without anyone knowing why. So many cancers could have been eating this man from the inside. He could have been in so much pain I couldn’t see. With this possibility, it was just as unlikely that he wouldn’t kill himself. Why shouldn’t I believe him? The wind died down; I tried to think of something comforting or at least meaningful to say. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t alone, but, he was. He’d finished his cigarette and I offered my pack again. This time, he only took one.

The kids had started sledding again and their shouts drifted over to us, muffled by the wind. I only knew a handful of words in Turkish, but somehow I’d picked up the word for ‘nightingale’. Since the kids weren’t yelling ‘hello’ or ‘thank you’ or any of the other words I knew, they were yelling ‘nightingale’. Every word they yelled, sledding down that bump and climbing up it again. ‘Nightingale, nightingale—nightingale.’

The man puffed his cigarette and watched the boys. He seemed to be hearing the same translation of their shouts I was, but I couldn’t tell what he thought about it. I started talking, knowing he wouldn’t understand, but wanting to be alive and to add something to the windy silence. Another boy came running from across the street to join the sledding. He jumped on the sled and the other two tackled him. The three of them rolled around in the snow a little before fitting themselves onto the sled, each one holding onto the legs of the boy behind him.

You should go to Istanbul, at least,” I said. “If you want to travel. You might see something different there.” It felt stupid to say, but I couldn’t think of anything else.

I started there.” He said. His voice nearly startling me, coming out of the wind, between the shouting boys. “It was the first place after I leave Iran.”

I started asking him traveler’s questions. ‘Hagia Sofia? Bosporus? Lokum?’ He waved them all away. ‘No,’ he told me and explained that Iranian money didn’t have a very good exchange rate. He said he’d just wandered around. I told him I’d done the same when I’d been there, not having much money either. He nodded at this, confirming the wisdom of my activity. I wondered if we’d been there at the same time, but I didn’t say anything else. There was no point to the conversation.

I finished smoking. I didn’t want to leave. I couldn’t offer anything, but I figured as long as I stood there, he wouldn’t be alone. Gradually, I convinced myself to ask the man about himself. I asked about his family and his life back in Iran. He answered my questions in his weary, wind-flapped voice and, despite my attention, I immediately forget everything he said. After his statement, his words seemed to blow away before they made any sense. 

One of the boys was trying the bump while standing on the sled, but the position proved too much temptation for the other two and he was tackled before he could make any progress. I wondered what the kids looked like to the man. From the end of life, what did the beginning look like? Was it absurd or enviable? The man’s expression gave no indication. He continued to smoke. His expression was so blank, I wondered if he saw the boys at all. It seemed he didn’t after one of them grabbed the sled and ran off, the others following down the street until they were gone. The man kept his eyes on the bump, like there was still something to see there.

After the sledders left, I couldn’t stand on that street alone with the man. I can give no explanation why. I gave him the rest of my cigarettes and told him, before I left, that things could always get better. He didn’t say anything in response but said goodbye after I did. I shook his cold hand again and hurried to the bus station, past the cold lights of the kebab stands. The overnight bus to Batman was already at the station, half-full of tired Kurdish passengers and their bundles. Over the two front windows, there was an enormous MASHALLAH decal. I found my friend and we got on the bus together. We were both tired after the cold day. We talked for a bit after the bus pulled out of the station and climbed back up into the snow-covered hills. I told him what I could about the Iranian man, but there wasn’t much to say and gradually we began to fall asleep, like kids at a sleepover, our words becoming further and further spaced until there was no reply. I stayed awake a little while and drowsily watched the headlights plow through the falling snow. The bus was warm and snoring. Everyone must’ve been asleep. The snow came at the windshield, like long-winged moths, flapping against the letters HALLAHSAM at the top of the glass and pushed away by the long wiperblades. In the dim light, I could make out my reflection, and gradually, the reflections of the other passengers. Everyone’s features were only half completed. The eyes and cheek hollows were pocketed by snowy darkness and, gradually, as my eyes relaxed, the snow replaced everything.