The other evening I went with some new friends to a local bar in Armenia. After stopping in at a brewhouse for dinner and flights of beer we made our way on through parks and alleyways and finally down a flight of stairs to The Venue. I had come to this place last year. Then it had been seemingly filled to bursting with dancing and singing Armenians. Dancing their traditional dances of which I knew none and singing System of a Down songs, which I also knew none. It was raucous, it was wild, it was beautiful. It was that free cry of expression which I think we all yearn for at some point. The only tradition I came away from that night with was a firm grip on the fact that if you finished a bottle of liquor in the bar you got to sign it and it would be displayed above the bar. That was the tradition our group intended to carry on. When we got to the bottom of the stairs and through the door to the Venue, we were greeted by a scene I wasn't expecting. Everyone was seated quietly in the deep couches and high barstools. Silently they listened on as a trio of musicians played out soft music to the crowd. A man with a full grey beard and bright wrinkled eyes sang softly in Armenian while he strummed his guitar. A tall woman with bright red lipstick poured all she could into a flute, leaving her lipstick on the mouth piece. The pianist bounced around on his stool. Mouth popping open joyfully with every note. When he switched his keyboard over to the sound of an organ he began to make sounds as he played as soulfully as he could. We were seated right next to the stage and worked our way through a bottle of Jameson. By the end of the evening we were dancing and singing as much as those Armenians I had seen a year before. Our bottle sits above the bar now. For the time being here will be solid evidence that Levon, Santiago, Katie, Lillie, Bethany and Eamon had a night to remember there.
The following day was mostly spent reserving the little energy we had spared from the night before for a trip out today. I was picked up this morning by a cab playing Louie Armstrong's Go Down Moses as he rocketed through the morning traffic in Yerevan on the way to meet up with the group. Not long after the last warning to the pharaoh, we were all in a van cruising along to the historical sites of Garni and Geghard. Garni is a first century CE temple that has been inhabited on and off since its construction. A temple was built, kings moved in, the town grew, kings died and so did the town. In the 1600's the temple itself came crashing down after an earthquake. It was largely left alone for some time, only being mentioned in passing by a handful of European travelers. Not till a couple centuries later did permanent residents return to the area. Markers at the temple say it was Armenians seeking safety from some persecuting power. A story that is sadly all too similar in Armenian history. A town grew and the temple was rebuilt to its original form. To this day Garni stands on a cliffside surrounded on three sides by the ravine the Azarat River that has carved through the landscape over time. It is the only standing Greco-Roman structure to survive the rule of the Soviets in all of the former USSR.
Walking around the grounds I ran into a small group of boys playing cards. They'd shuffle, begin slapping down cards and continue on for a while before someone would be caught cheating or play a hand that blew everyone else's away. Then the cards would be tossed down and the slaps would be directed at the offender as they all laughed and carried on as boys do. They'd be back into a new round as quickly as the last had ended.
Soon we were off to Geghard, a Christian temple built in 1215 to be part of the mountain side. To step onto its grounds is nothing short of breath taking. Nestled in the Azarat river gorge, a temple sprouts out of the mountain side. Parts of it even receding into the cliffs. Dark caves turn into beautifully carved rooms where you can hear the echoes of time. Geghard translates to "The Monastery of the Spear" named as such for the spear that is believed to have wounded Christ as he hung on the cross in his dying days. It is believed that the Apostle Jude brought this spear to Armenia after Christ's death. Along the exterior of the chapels you can find little niches carved out of the stone walls and it is believed that if you can toss a stone into the small holes you will have a wish granted to you. Children work at the walls in a frenzy of stones flying through the air. Most with too much power behind them and they come rocketing down into the crowd as fast as they flew up. Every now and again though someone will land theres neatly into the small pile of stones that already sits in the niches. Adding their wish to the rocks that had been thrown before.
If you walk through the courtyard you can find your way over a bridge to a grove of trees. Each branch tied with dozens of strips of cloth from the thousands of visitors the monastery hosts each year. Each strip holding some intimate prayer or wish from someone who had come before. We made our way through the trees towards a small peak overlooking the grounds. When we came into a clearing on our way up, we crawled past a couple who sat together quietly enjoying the time spent with each other. As we passed they offered us coffee to take up to the top. They poured some into a small plastic cup that we carried up to the outlook as delicately as we could. At the top the group of us sat for a while talking and sharing the coffee. After some time we made our way back down. On the way out a crowd had gathered in the parking lot as a newlywed wife and her groom made their way slowly into the chapel. The crowds stilled as they moved past. They moved through grinning at each other with their family tailing behind them walking proudly in their Saturday best.
On the drive back I asked my cousin Levon what the the strips of cloth tied to the trees had meant. He told me he had been told a few things. One person had said you tie a strip for the passing of someone you love. Someone else had said you tie a strip for the birth of a new love. As we drove through the beautiful Armenian countryside I couldn't help but think of the newlyweds we had seen. Had he wished for her hand one day by tossing a rock into one of the small holes on the church walls? Did they stand together in the grove of trees that sat next to the Azarat River? Did they tie a tiny strip of cloth to a tree branch dotted with countless other tears of fabric as the water whispered blessings behind them? From the looks on their faces as they caught sight of each other out of the corners of their eyes as they parted the crowded church grounds, I think they might have.