The Georgia-Armenia Diaries: Pursuing Peace of Mind in the Caucasus

Looking for Bliss in an Unlikely Place
Date: 5 August 2016
Locaton: Boryspil International, Kiev, Ukraine

In the dim flickering light of two oil lamps, Fede and Allie sat strumming their guitars, a playful lyrical exchange competing with the shrill chirping of crickets at midnight. It was only hours before my departure, but rather than spending that time in the usual pre-travel frenzy of packing and preparations, I sat quietly with dear friends in an unusual, long-overdue calm. I was tired. But not only from the physical exhaustion that comes with long days sequencing genes at the lab, or even from the daily tasks associated with new home ownership. No, this was a mental exhaustion mixed with a taste of concern. Luca smiled sweetly as he handed me a swig of his chilled beer, the Italian alternative to Advil. "The world's falling apart", people have been saying a lot lately, in formidable and anxious breaths. And for once, it's hard to write it off as mere exaggeration like we normally do. Between the rising of IS and falling of the EU, between sea wars in the Far East and race wars in the Wild West, between electing a greedy orange fascist or a corrupt white female autocrat... it's no surprise that the year 2016 has been a tumultuous one, ushered in not with the colors of fireworks, but rather with the crackling of firearms.

Relaxing with friends at 1 AM, hours before my departure

I was supposed to be in Turkey this summer for Kemal and Thania's wedding, awesome plans with an amazing couple rudely interrupted by a failed coup d'etat that has done nothing but further drive my second home precariously closer to a state of Iran-hood. While daily life has resumed normally in spite of Erdogan's mass arrests and purges, the overwhelming air of instability was enough to make my parents force me into scrapping the visit. In an effort to not completely lose hundreds of dollars on nonrefundable airfare, I chose to sit back and let geography decide the fate of my annual adventure.

I’d like to refer to it as the "Georgio-Armeni" adventure - two and a half weeks of stylishly traversing (backpacking, obviously) the Caucasus from Georgia to Armenia, two blips on the map that likely receive some of the least news coverage in the world. Does anything ever happen over there? But more importantly, will visiting this glossed-over region serve as a suitable means of escape from the constant mental reminder of impending global catastrophe? The region itself is no novice when it comes to tumult and hardship. At the very seam where Europe and Asia converge, the grey area between the Black and Caspian seas has been a convergence for millennia of foreign invasions, oppressive regimes, and even genocide. But despite the rough past, Georgian and Armenian people, culture, and hospitality have all been highly praised in some form, with the overall region (minus an enclave or two) being tranquil and largely out of the international limelight. With Turkey on hold, I decided this August would be opportune for exploring its quiet Caucasian neighbors to the east... and hopefully relieve some stress.

Five hours to kill, and the idea of the legendary Ukrainian capital of Kiev being merely 20km away was growing ever more tempting. Could I manage to get downtown and back despite security controls and Friday night traffic? It was a risk twirling around in my mind ever since departing from Stockholm. A woman at the transfers desk said I didn't need a visa to enter, but looked at me like I was playing with fire. Let’s be honest, my mind was made at "visa-free". The countdown was engaged the minute my passport was stamped and I was thrown into a sea of taxi drivers, none of whom spoke English. Through the power of sign language and vague negotiations, I soon found myself cruising in the back of Ivan's van down a crowded highway past large scale Soviet era apartment blocks towards a sparkling forested citadel hugging the mighty Dnieper River. Kiev is a European architectural smorgasbord, its gilded Byzantine church domes glimmering in the summer sun beside colorful city blocks of gaudy neoclassical facades, sprinkled here and there with contemporary glass skyscrapers and stoic grey Soviet statuary. Much to my embarrassment, I had no currency, map, book, or prior knowledge of this city, relying entirely on bald, beer-bellied Ivan to help me find my way around Maidan Square and the golden orthodox cathedrals of Saints Sophia, Michael, and Volodymyr. He was a man of many words, unfortunately none of which I understood, but his excitement in showing me some of Kiev's most imposing monuments and parks told me he was a very proud Ukrainian. While I didn't get my fill of pelmeni as I had hoped, cappuccinos on his dime from the trunk of a truck at Taras Shevchenko University made my short-lived Ukrainian experience complete for the time being. And speaking of time, I had completely lost track. Chaotic traffic and multiple car crashes tested my nerves, but Ivan diligently pulled through in getting me back to Boryspil just as my flight for Tbilisi was boarding.

Cruising around the Maidan area

St. Michael's Monastery, an explosion of blue and gold like the Ukrainian flag

The imposing St. Sophia Cathedral in the heart of Kiev

An example of Kiev's classic architecture

Students conversing on the Taras University campus

Ivan took me to the famed Maidan Square, the site of the violent 2014 Ukrainian revolution that ousted the president

Golden spires on the hills above the Dnieper River

Happiness Grows On Vines: Dreaming of Georgia
Date: 10 August 2016
Location: Old Metekhi Quarter, Tbilisi, Georgia

She first brought out the juicy tomatoes and sweet cucumbers, followed by the savory Sulguni cheese and hand-churned butter. Smiling but speechless, she retreated to her small humble kitchen, later to emerge with a large fried omelet and warm bread. This was followed by the meat-filled pastries and apricot yoghurt, black tea and Turkish-style coffee. Sitting in the small basement of a crumbling house in Old Tbilisi that morning, I already knew eating in Georgia would do some seriously delicious damage to my waistline. In a land that literally draws the line between Europe and Asia, I conveniently settled myself within 10 minute's walking distance of a Caucasian bakery serving fresh khachapuri (cheese breads) and flaky meat pies, a Near Eastern influenced barbecue house grilling an array of juicy kebabs, and a Central Asian style fruit market overflowing with a colorful assortment of berries, figs, and melons. But no gastronomic establishment defines Georgia better than its wine shops. The grape is the king of the fruits in a nation that proudly claims to be the oldest continuous wine-producing culture in the world. There are wine stores literally on every block, many open 24 hours every day of the week, sporting elaborate bottles of rich vintages alongside ceramic figurine vessels of chacha, the national grape vodka. Wine is served at every meal, as street side refreshments with free tastings, and even as welcome drinks for recently arrived visitors at many hotels. Whereas Russia to the north would likely be the angry drunk at a party, Georgia would certainly be the jolly one, as the kind and warm demeanor of its people is also reflected in the ambience and charm of its capital. Narrow cobblestone alleys wind their ways through crumbling brick facades and Ottoman bay windows, luscious grape vines streaming across layered terraces alongside colorful laundry lines. The aroma of fresh bread being pulled from the tonir wafts gently alongside the sweet and tart scent of hanging churchkela, a ubiquitous snack of roasted walnuts dipped into a mixture of caramelized grape juice and dried. Life on the street portrays a seemingly happy people, and it isn't difficult to see why.

Looking out over Old Tbilisi from the historical Metekhi quarter

A shop selling churchkela of numerous fruity flavors

The famed and delectable Adjarian Khachapuri 

King Vakhtang Gorgasali in Metekhi

Georgian and other Central Asian carpets

  

Tbilisi is a city of clear contrasts residing in perfect harmony. Amidst the medieval stone cathedrals with conical turrets and decaying wooden edifices of orange tiled roofs are modern glass bridges and contemporary, sometimes whimsical, commercial structures. Beside sleek modern flats stand ramshackle homes of cracked detached walls and sinking foundations. The architectural legacy of the city is a delightful melding of Mediterranean, Middle Eastern, European neoclassical, and Soviet styles. The city's iconic Narikala Fortress - built by the Persians, expanded by the Arabs, occupied by the Mongols, sacked by Tamerlane, and damaged under the Russians - is in itself a timeless testament to the cultures to have left their mark in Georgia. Taking a modern tram to the summit of the citadel cradled by the Kura River, I basked under the watchful gaze of the imposing Mother Georgia, a sword in one hand for her enemies and a bowl of wine (appropriately) for her guests.

Old Tbilisi from the air, with the imposing Narikala Citadel gracing her crown

The Kura River snakes right through the city

New Tbilisi as seen from the Narikala, with the monumental Sameba Cathedral dominating the skyline

Mother Georgia stands guard over the city with a sword and cup of wine

Wandering along Rustaveli Ave, I found myself at a river crossing where a bustling flea market spilled over into a neighboring park. From Kartevelian drinking horns, silver daggers, Persian metalwork, and vintage Soviet paraphernalia to kebab skewers, car stereos, old records, and construction tools, the Dry Bridge Bazaar was a wonderful place to stroll around and escape the searing August sun. My fetish for paintings only got more intense after wandering through stalls draped in amazing works by unknown artists exhibiting the latest of Georgia's creative movement. With intense shopping comes the need to equally intense eating, an experience fully satiated by a lunch of barbecued veal kebab, stewed pork liver with onions, grilled eggplant with a walnut spread, and, of course, wine. Dinner that night was far more simple though no less heavy, consisting of different types of khachapuri filled with beef, aubergine, and the classic sulguni cheese. And even before finishing, I already knew the beef chashushuli, chicken walnut satsivi, and juicy khinkali dumplings would be next on my checklist. Sleepy during the day, Old Town Tbilisi bursts into a raucous, gustatory extravaganza from 9 PM on into the early morning hours as locals and foreigners alike take to the bustling streets to shop, dine, and bar-hop. The warm evening air is filled with an exciting cacophony of different live bands blasting everything from rhythmic folk ballads to the latest American pop standards. The nightlife of this city was honestly one of its attributes I least expected to encounter, among many others that have quashed my preconceptions about the country and nevertheless proven to be truly delightful experiences. At least for one more night, the Tbilisians would blissfully forget about the chaotic world outside.

Scenes from the Dry Bridge bazaar and flea market

Pop up stalls usually take the form of car hoods

Old Tbilisi at dusk, just when the nightlife starts to kick in

The Narikala lit up is the most stunning feature of the city

Dining on the lively restaurant-packed Erekle II St, where a veritable feast for three can be eaten for under 30 USD

Narrow alleys are filled with eateries and cafes, open until the early morning

Pork stew and fried chicken hearts at Friend's House

Grilled eggplant, barbecued veal kebab, and fried liver at Shkhara

The sleepy 18th century village of Signagi, perched high on a hill overlooking a vast valley enveloped by the soaring Caucasus Mountains, was quickly losing its cool mist as the radiant sun rose higher. Before the hazy snow-capped peaks separating me from neighboring Chechnya and Dagestan, lush green corn fields and walnut orchards spread outwards, intermingling with grasses, raspberries, and wildflowers. The air of the village had the sweet scent of figs from the numerous trees that lined their way up to one of the watch towers in a massive stone wall. The most dominant plant of the Alazani Valley, the Napa Valley of Georgia, was most obviously the grapevine. After taking in the spiritual ambience of the Bodbe Monastery and purifying myself at the elaborate orthodox crypt of St. Nino alongside other pilgrims, I felt the afternoon could best be spent engaging in a little local vice. Unbelievable even to myself, I actually decided to go wine tasting for the very first time in my life. In a small 19th century house with a cliff side verandah,  I sipped a collection of five homemade, all organic Georgian wines. In all honesty, the one white and four reds all tasted pretty much the same to a non-drinker, possibly varying ever so slightly in sweetness. The true experience that day was topping the tasting off with a shot of chacha, the national grape vodka. I actually finished it, but in many respects it finished me, an overwhelming dizziness completely consuming me for the rest of the afternoon. Is this how the average Georgian drowns away his worries? Once I recovered, I found that my preferred means of forgetting my problems could best be found in the form of dough and a piping hot oven. With the help of a local baker woman, I got a chance to knead a ball of dough into the traditional elongated shape and slap it against the walls of the tonir, the characteristic barrel-shaped pit oven related to the tonirs of Central Asia, the tandir of Persia, and tandoor of Northern India. As my bread baked, I further got to assist in cooking the iconic churchkela, taking a string of roasted walnut chunks and dipping it into a simmering gelatinous sauce of natural grape juice mixed with flour, pulling the sticky delectable dripping mass out to hang dry like a handmade candle.

The hilltop village of Signagi, overlooking the Alazani Valley at the food of the Caucasus range

Getting ready to knead a bunch of dough

Baking bread on the walls of the tonir

Amazing fried garlic chicken and beef chashashuli stew

One slow step at a time, I climbed to the top of the rocky slope. The heat was probably only 95 degrees, but it felt like over 100. The dry, desolate landscape of sandstone outcroppings amidst rolling hills of grassy brush reminded me of hiking back home in California; the sudden emergence of an ancient 6th century monastery set into the cliff quickly reminded me otherwise. Just there, on the other side of the trail hugging the natural contour of a drop nearly a thousand feet down, was the nation of Azerbaijan. You know, nothing out of the ordinary. I hopped the low metal bar that cut across the terrain, trying to imagine for a brief moment what it might feel like for an immigrant to hop the border fence from Mexico. I'm sure I had it much easier, peaceful carefree migration without the utter fear and hardship of those less fortunate than myself. At the top of the mountain, in the shadow of a small stone chapel amidst caves, two Georgian border patrol sat and relaxed with a smoke. Busted! My 15 minutes of invading Azerbaijani soil were sweet, but technically illegal even for being out in the middle of absolute nowhere. Curse these disputed imaginary lines that limit our potential for discovery! They seemed slightly cranky in the sweltering heat, but nothing that a good old photoshoot couldn't cure, as they passively posed with the "oblivious" foreigner trying to break the tension. The trip to the holy site of Davit Gareja was simply phenomenal, providing the perfect combination of hiking and history, its trails meandering past active monasteries and medieval rock-hewn cave churches. Reminiscent of the Buddhist caves at Dunhuang and the carved churches in Cappadocia, the cave monasteries of Udabno completely captured my adventurous attention as a giddy schoolboy scrambling over boulders and climbing perilously up cliff overhangs in a rocky playground of medieval grottoes. Carved into the stone face by ascetic orthodox monks, the complex network of hermit cells, hidden chambers, and connective passageways were covered in vibrant murals of saints, warriors, and kings. Offerings of wildflowers graced some of the dusty altar pieces, the only element of continuity in a place time has long since forgotten.

The still active 6th century monastery complex at Davit Gareja, on the border with Azerbaijan

Pomegranates!

Main chapel inside the Lavra Monastery

Jumping the border from Georgia into Azerbaijan... oops...

Weaseling my way out of trouble with Georgian Border Patrol after above incident

Cave churches and shrines perilously carved out of the vertical cliff wall

A hidden chamber with amazing medieval murals still intact

The Last Supper, perhaps?

Overlooking Azerbaijan from the top of the international border trail

After a strenuous hike on the vast frontier, a cold beer at the Oasis Club in the lonely village of Udabno felt like a mirage. Built out of ramshackle materials, with recycled and repurposed wooden pallets for furniture, the vagabondish ambience felt like a Georgian version of Slab City. This Bohemian blip off the grid seemed to be the center of the world to both locals and foreigners alike traveling through the desolate, Nebraska-like region. The feeling of being free and on the open road was incredible, something I hadn't felt since my adventure road trip days in Matt's Vanagon. With blissful nostalgia on my mind, I knew I was ready to hit the road again in search of newer and equally as memorable experiences, the world's worries conveniently tucked away behind the Caucasus.

The Oasis Club truly was an "oasis" out in the desolate empty wasteland around the village of Udabno

Sameba Cathedral at sunset

A Wednesday wedding

Spices and beans in one of the many outdoor markets

Grilled chickens next to the metro station

Priest giving communion at the Sameba Cathedral

Dusk over Tbilisi on my final evening

Blessings Numerous as Pomegranate Seeds: Abundance of Armenia
Date: 19 August 2016
Location: Republic Square, Yerevan, Armenia

Erratically swerving and perilously passing on curves with the jolt of an Armenian rollercoaster, the marshrutka (local microbus) came to a sudden screeching halt overlooking a deep forested ravine. The engine shut off, taking the early 90's American hip hop with it. Flashing red and blue lights beckoned to the driver, who leapt out to express cordialities with a Soviet-esque police officer, his wide-brimmed military hat like a green orthodox halo gracing his head. Greetings were exchanged. Cash was discreetly handed over. Only the usual minor delay, but soon I was Yerevan bound.

Crossing from Georgia to Armenia was quick and simple. Aside from changes in the language and writing, the people and landscape had continuity, although the Armenian side of the imaginary line seemed slightly more chaotic. But journeying further south, the differences gradually become more evident. The rolling Georgian hills gave rise to mountainous terrain and mighty rock gorges, pleasantly forested with small villages tucked away in between. Four hours south of the border, the mountains opened up into the hot, dry, and somewhat desolate plain upon which the dusty buildings and apartment blocks of Yerevan sprouted. It was very hot, possibly nearing 100 degrees, as the heat rippled off the searing stone sidewalks of Republic Square. The city appeared to be asleep, but by nightfall, a remarkable transition took place. As the temperature dropped to a more tolerable high 80s, all of Armenia seemed to take to the tree-lined avenues in a bustling display of social gathering, shopping, dining, and cafe culture. Despite humble lifestyles, the Armenians have no reservations concerning their appearance, with many beautiful people decked out in glitzy fashion trends cruising the streets en route to nightclubs and lounges. By 10 PM every night, restaurants were just filling to the brim with patrons, gorging on an array of grilled khorovats (kebabs), fresh Levantine style salads, and hearty pilafs. Even my own dinner of pulik - a tomato based mixture of chopped sheep heart, intestines, and lungs with cracked wheat stuffed back into the sheep's stomach and boiled - filled me to the brim of pure savory satisfaction. Every scene from an evening in Yerevan gave a feeling of sweet abundance in stark contrast to the daytime hours.

The border bridge between Georgia and Armenia

The bus station in Vanadzor still has Soviet era relics up and running

Overlooking the urban sprawl of Armenia's capital

A rare and refreshing summer rain over Republic Square was brief, but not without a special surprise

The Cascade, a major art sight in central Yerevan

Fresh breads right from a restaurant's tonir

My man, Mashtots, the Armenian alphabet creator

The lamb stomach pulik comfortably serves four people

While contemporary Armenians are blessed with abundance and peace, the same unfortunately could not be said for their ancestors in the early 20th century. On the morning of the ancient Armenian pagan new year of Navasard, I paid my respects to the Tsitsenakaberd Genocide Memorial silently situated overlooking the city. Commemorating the countless Armenian men, women, and children that were systematically maimed, mutilated, and murdered at the hands of Ottoman troops from 1914 to 1921, the memorial and museum was a graphically disturbing reminder of how deplorable and inhuman we can be towards one another. The horrifying images and accounts of rape, torture, and executions filled me with a completely different form of abundance, one of overwhelming sadness and sympathy. I thought of my Armenian friends at home, wondering what dreadful past experiences lay concealed in their family histories. But in light of the atrocities and sacrifices faced, I silently gave thanks beside the memorial's eternal flame, knowing that had it not been for the resulting diaspora, my own life may have never had the chance to cross paths with some of the most beautiful, talented, and intelligent Armenian members of my generation.

An eternal flame burns for the victims of the Armenian Genocide in the early 20th century

A cool breeze blew in from the balcony overlooking the Debed River, cradled by the stone walls of the surrounding gorge. With it came the aromas of a country kitchen below. Mama Irina was clearly hard at work again preparing her nightly feast of home-cooked Alaverdi specialties. Sipping my clove tea, my eyes traveled around the cluttered upper room of her guesthouse, tucked away on the hillside amidst her grape vines and flower gardens. Dusty bookshelves of vintage texts topped by old Soviet era trophies and medals, village style ceramic pots and a rusty samovar atop a faded oriental rug, a cello missing some strings - it was like living in a chaotic Trans-Caucasian antique shop. And yet, it felt more like home than any place I've ever lived. Mama Irina is an energetic and impassioned woman, a celebrated local chef and a highly awarded entrepreneur.  Her guesthouse is virtually the only one open to receive weary travelers, where she hosts both Armenians and foreigners alike who come to get a taste of the all natural, all organic, and fully self-sustainable country life. From her jams and butter to her wines and cheese, Mama Irina makes everything from scratch using the finest ingredients of her garden or from neighbors' farms. She also happens to be a celebrated herbalist with an inherited knowledge of ancient Armenian homeopathic medicine; people often drop in for some of her "prescriptions", typically tailored home-cooked meals with a shot of mulberry vodka.

One of many exceptional views overlooking the Debed Gorge

Relaxing in Mama Irina's country home near the town of Alaverdi

A few of Mama Irina's specialties, like harissa and manti

Mama Irina cooking a massive amount of tolma, stuffed grape leaves, cabbage leaves, eggplants, and peppers

Mama Irina recommended an interesting option for visiting the two UNESCO protected monasteries nestled on the mountain. As part of the Looking Forward Foundation, local teenagers and adolescents were offering free guide and trekking services in an effort to practice their English and develop interpersonal skills to increase their experience within the tourism industry. One phone call later, after essentially force-feeding me a never ending spread of breakfast dishes, Mama Irina introduced me to the delightfully cheerful, 16 year-old Anush, whose English was remarkable considering that she had been speaking it for less than a year. As we drove up to the 10th century monastery complex of Sanahin, we picked up 26 year-old Gevorg, a lean and gentle youth who would serve as the hiking guide. The carved black megaliths and eerie vaulted chambers of the Sanahin monastery were almost of another world, concealing an entire complex of ancient graves and medieval manuscript depositories. The towering walls and rotund columns supporting heavy arches were covered in paragraphs of ancient Armenian inscriptions and winged crosses, as if the monastery itself was an enormous three-dimensional manuscript in stone. Anush flawlessly recited her prepared speech about the history of the monastery and the Baghratid Dynasty, every so often referring to her neatly organized personal binder of photos and supplemental resources. After wandering the cool dark corridors and chapels of Sanahin, Gevorg was ready with his pack and walking sticks to lead the way along an ancient monk and pilgrim trail to the Haghpat monastery, a 12 km hike along the gorge. On the slopes of the mountain, we meandered along dirt roads and narrow trails, passing scenes of village life that could easily have been taken from storybooks. Locals picnicked by natural springs and waterfalls, one with an ax in hand butchering fresh meat for kebab while another arranged wood for the grilling fire. Old ladies climbed down from even higher elevations, their baskets filled with a bounty of wild blackberries from an early morning collection. We blissfully walked through village orchards with an abundance of plums, apples, and apricots, picking and sampling along the way without a single care or concern. The forest eventually opened into an enormous green plateau with thousand-foot drops into the gorge below, a plain filled with grasses, colorful wildflowers, and occasional marijuana plants growing nonchalantly. I felt like I had stumbled upon some hidden Eden, or possibly a scene from The Sound of Music set to the quivering tones of Khatchadour's duduk. We scaled the cliff past an ancient fortress down towards the bottom of the gorge, only to begin the grueling ascent up another mountainside in the 90 degree sun. We arrived at the massive complex of Haghpat, where Anush continued her diligent presentation on a thousand years of Armenian history. In one of the churches, she even sang a few verses by the famed 18th century poet, Sayat Nova, her echoing voice restoring a sense of ancient life to now silent stone walls. It was surreal bumming around a 13th century church with a couple of young locals, their kindness and hospitality making them seem like friends I've known for years rather than hours. Walking back along the Debed River from the bleak underdeveloped town of Alaverdi, Gevorg described life under Soviet occupation and the ongoing economic collapse of the region following its dissolution, stories of the copper mine closure, rampant unemployment, and food shortages. But in spite of a lack in infrastructure and job scarcity, the jovial and grateful attitudes of Gevorg and Anush proved to me that happiness and abundance can be found in other, more grounded forms. They also showed me that things are almost always better when locally sourced.

Inside one of the monumental chambers at the 10th century Sanahin Monastery

The main cathedral of Sanahin

Ancient artifacts lying around in the depository

Armenia is full of artists, for obvious reasons

Crossing the valley from Akner towards Haghpat on the old pilgrim route

Hiking with Gevorg, who knows all the hidden fruit trails in the gorge

We found more than just fruit on the trail

Haghpat Monastery at the end of the trail

The view of the valley from Haghpat

Had a great time monastery hopping with Anush and Gevorg

Mama Irina plopped a few extra pancakes on my plate before telling me to quickly eat up. A crammed marshrutka bound for the mountain town of Dilijan was soon to arrive at the bottom of the hill for me. Bidding a hard farewell, I filled the last available "seat" and sped off, once again swerving around massive potholes and speeding past slower vehicles on blind curves, all to the blaring ululations of Armenian folk pop. Arriving at Dilijan, I soon found myself at another hillside guesthouse ran by the sweet, older Mama Zina. Language barriers clearly meant nothing to her, as she happily chattered away to me in a mixture of Armenian and Russian, absolutely delighted with her essentially one-way conversation. Walking through her lush gardens of flowers and fruit trees, she insisted on proudly showing off her numerous collections neatly organized throughout the house on walls and shelves - antique telephones, wooden spoons, elephant statuettes, ceramic mugs, and even cigarette lighters. By far the most bizarre collection I've seen revealed itself with the switch of a light, illuminating a dark glass-covered niche in the wall filled with taxidermy animals, all meticulously posed in a nature diorama reminiscent of something you'd find at a natural history museum. Mama Zina was such an unbelievably cheerful character, always attentive to my satisfaction and any needs I might have, as well as always rambling on without the slightest sense of impatience despite my complete lack of understanding.

The mountain town of Dilijan

Mama Zina and her amazing breakfasts

Mama Zina's lovely mountain home and gardens, with her daughter Susu in the back

Mama Zina's bizarre, yet interesting, living room diorama

Some of her many collections (notice the cigarette lighters)

Most of the small towns and villages in Armenia are quite sad and destitute in appearance, with many abandoned or unfinished structures and dilapidated, antiquated infrastructure. Dilijan wasn't much different. However, as is the general trend of this region, the most colorful attributes of Armenia reside directly within the people themselves. From the sweet old ladies selling wild berries by the roadside to the smiling young men cutting fresh hay in the fields, there's always a sense of warm welcome despite the cold Soviet overtones of the suburban environment. By a wonderful coincidence, I stumbled across a youth traditional dance recital filled with local families and adolescents in colorful Near Eastern folkloric costumes. Expecting an amateurish performance, I was completely blown away by a precision, speed, and energy that kept increasing with every whirl and foot stomp. The dances themselves reflected the influences of the many cultures to have passed through this Eurasian region. Line dancing reminiscent of Levantine dabkeh and Turkish folk dances were juxtaposed against graceful Persian-style hand gestures and fierce Caucasian, possibly Cossack footwork. Even the children were phenomenal, enthusiastically showing off their skills and eager to have their photos taken with me.

Dance with distinct Persian and Central Asian overtones

Dance with complex Georgian style footwork and even a classic Caucasian sword fight

Dance reminiscent of Middle Eastern style line dances and dabkeh

Life in the Armenian countryside is very relaxed. The road leading through the dense deciduous forests to the medieval Haghartsin monastery was lined with stone and wood gazebos (all with built-in kebab grills) for picnicking families. Picnicking is a national pastime, with entire families flocking to cooler mountain regions, usually along streams, to light their coal grills for some serious barbecuing. The savory charbroiled aroma could even be detected wafting around the ancient monasteries, where families frequently visit on sightseeing day trips from Yerevan. With a freshly grilled kebab wrapped in lavash, I myself soaked in the refreshing forested surroundings and daily local life in the tiny village of Gosh, having gotten a ride far out into the hidden valley with no clear idea as to how to get back to Dilijan. But oddly enough, I couldn't bring myself to be concerned. In the back of my mind I figured somehow everything would work itself out, something I likely would never feel back in the US, back in a lifestyle of schedules and deadlines. And it was a genuinely blissful feeling, just sitting for once and doing absolutely nothing (with yet another lovely medieval monastery before me). I ultimately did get home, having a church parking attendant kindly call his friend to come pick me up.

Priest reciting prayers in the depths of the Goshavank monastery

Detailed carvings on the church walls

Picking plums outside a ruined shrine

Slow and easy life in the tiny village of Gosh

Men typically tend to the farms, while women raise families or sell produce on the road side

I was the only customer that day, but the kebab grill was fired up just for me

Walking deeper into the quaint village to find local treasures, like this (very) little cafe

Tender braised beef in a zesty beer broth at Kchuch

 

The haze was thick and murky. Isn't it supposed to be visible from Yerevan? Is the pollution that bad, bad enough to completely mask the sleeping giant next door? I was starting to get a little nervous as we drove down the highway towards Khor Virap, a pilgrimage site just outside the capital that is famous for another, bigger feature besides its fortress-like monastery. But there was no sight of it. And then, slowly revealing itself in a soft evanescent fashion, its snowy peak peeked through the cloud. Ararat - the sacred and legendary mountain, the final resting place of the Biblical Noah's ark, and the jewel of the Armenian people - rose before me in all her glorious magnitude. The only problem was that it's technically in Turkey (a sore subject in this country). But for what it's worth, it was absolutely thrilling to finally check this peak off my list of must-see mountains, which includes Everest, Kilimanjaro, and Fuji, among many others. But there was also a more personal reason for my excitement. Back at UC Berkeley, I used to keep track with my Armenian friend, Eddie, about the number of times I'd watch the genocide drama film "Ararat", watching it every year for about six years around the anniversary of those tragic events. As quirky as it seems, it felt delightfully satisfying to tell him I've finally seen Ararat, alive in the stone. At the top of the citadel, I could see all the way to the base. The border between Armenia and Turkey snaked casually around the monastery, a simple fence-less road separating two nations that have essentially built firm walls around their hearts in light of a dark mutual past. As tempting as it felt, I knew this was not the right place to play a game of border hopping.

The plains before Mt Ararat's two peaks, with the Turkish border road in the foreground

Road side organic produce for sale in the vineyard near the monastery

The fortress monastery of Khor Virap before Mt. Ararat

East of the plains around Khor Virap, rolling grassy hills and arid stony mountains rose up to form a landscape of deep gorges. In many ways, the landscape was practically Californian, a taste of home in a place that has come to somehow feel like home as well. It was in one of these hidden canyons that I came across my favorite of Armenia's many ancient monasteries. Gerghard captured the imagination in a way that Cappadocia does, its cliffs covered in rock cut chambers and cells that served as chapels, shrines, and monks's quarters. Elaborate networks of passageways led from one intricate room to another, all hollowed out of the mountainside and decorated with intricate carvings of medieval European crosses, geometric arabesques, Persian floral designs, and stalactite muqarnas. Yet even with centuries of foreign artistic influences cut into the walls, seeing the giant stone lions and eagle, elements of Armenia's coat of arms, reminded me that this crossroads nation is still a unique treasure with a distinct identity. 

Entrance to Gerghard, whose monastery is filled with cave chambers and passageways carved into the mountain side

Intricate Khachkar crosses carved into the cave walls

Intricate Khachkar crosses carved on the rock cliffs

Looking down the gorge from Garni

The ancient Roman era temple at Garni

Selling all natural, organic honey and dried fruits at Garni

In my last few days, I bounced enough around Yerevan to the point of practically assuming this Armenian identity myself. It essentially became a routine: a baklava breakfast at Kenafeh World on Masrop Mashtots Ave, followed by Armenian coffee at Jazzve on Abovyan St, a walk around Republic Square towards the Vernissage Market where I'd struggle to get a good deal (vendors there oddly refuse to make better offers), then lunch at Karas national fast food, an afternoon iced cafe glace next to the opera house, browsing for oil paintings near The Cascade, a stroll along the upscale Tashir shopping street and underground mall, finally concluding with a barbecue feast at the lively local hotspot Pandok Yerevan on Teriyan St. With every turn, I'd find someone who'd resemble or remind me of one of my many Armenian friends - a Raffi here, an Artin there, Narbes everywhere. Garen drove me to Garni, Marineh sold me mulberries, Paul tried to pawn paintings... was Yerevan subliminally telling me that I miss home?

Armenian coffee is the same as Turkish and Arabic coffee

Taking the "become a local" thing a little too seriously

Republic Square, every night during summer

The pomegranate is the national fruit of Armenia. It is literally everywhere, in parks and gardens, in the art and architecture, in the food and souvenirs. And in many ways, after more than two weeks of seeing it in everything, I've come to view it as a decent metaphor for Life. Behind its tough exterior, easily hardened and sometimes difficult to break into, there are innumerable little kernels that make life diverse and amazing. But one kernel just isn't enough to get the full experience. Only when we bite into a whole cluster of kernels can we best savor the rich ruby juices, tasting the tartness, sweetness, and even the occasional bitterness that uniquely define our individual lives. Those kernels are our family and our friends, our blessings and our misfortunes, our pleasure and our pain. When we proactively choose to take a bite out of life, we consciously take in all of these flavors, hopefully grateful and appreciative of whatever the outcome. I am ready to return home with a newfound peace of mind and more positive outlook towards the future, an idea cultivated in the Caucasus but ultimately rooted in California.