Playing House in Yerevan (9 July 2017)

Once I returned to Yerevan after my stay in Gyumri, I quickly moved into a AirBnB I had rented for most of the time I have left in Armenia. My main motivation being that ever since I began staying in Yerevan my cousin has refused to sleep in his own bed. To rebel against their hospitality I got my own studio apartment. A sofa mattress and a fridge of lavash (Armenian flat bread), cheese, sausage, Nutella and beer and I was set to go about playing house.

I knew that I liked Yerevan, but over the past few days I have grown to love it. Yerevan is a city of just over a million people. Not too big and not too small. Just right. Walking around there is something benevolently seductive about the city. There is a slow bustle to the streets. Most people seem to make their way leisurely around at whatever pace they wish. Tall warm stoned buildings line the sidewalk but you are never more than a stones throw from a park or a boulevard reserved for pedestrians only. It seems on every street corner there are people eating and drinking on sidewalk cafes. Every park seems to be made up of about fifty percent lovers, holding each other and speaking softly so only each other can hear. The men who play backgammon don't mind sharing their territory with pairs. It is easy to enjoy the beautiful dry weather that makes 90 degree heat feel more relaxing than anything else. Even if the back of your shirt clings to the seats a tad. If there is anything that Armenia is suffering from a lack of it is a state sponsored siesta. Something that I was perfectly able to implement myself at my own apartment.

At night the city truly comes alive. It is not uncommon to see families playing together in the parks until late in the evening. On my walk to different bars in the area I found many of the children would be up later on the monkey bars than I would be after a few drinks in a pub. Of the bars in Yerevan there is no shortage of diversity either. The basement bar Hemingway, that displays multiple murals of a certain old bearded man and stormy, shark riddled seas. However they use the power of funk music to serve as a lighthouse of positivity among the late writer's portraits and musings on the purpose of life. 

 There is the strangely ethnic lounge Calumet, where the band Rozen Tal rocked the sardine can of people and densely packed Indian art we were all were nestled into. Finally one of my favorites, The Venue. A bar that serves just as well to sit at a table to drink and talk as well as let loose. A place where you can hear everything from Grand Funk Railroad, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Kendrick Lamar. Never light on the liquor it is easy to get swept away there in conversation, in dance or beer pong.

There is still much for me to see in Armenia though. It seems like every nook and cranny of this country is steeped in lasting tradition that sadly is relatively unknown to the world. A notion I was reminded of the other day when I took a tour of the Ararat Brandy factory just outside of the city. The tour consisted of a brief trip through the Ararat Brandy museum. Here guests learn about the process of brandy making. From selecting the perfect blend of grapes to hand making the aging barrels and even replacing the corks of brandy bottles so that the corks don't dry out and allow air to taint the brandy. Of all the long history of the Ararat company I was presented with two things stood out to me the most. In February of 1945, while the heads of the Allied Powers met in Yalta to discuss the plans for a postwar Europe, Winston Churchill was presented with a bottle of Ararat Dvin Brandy by Stalin. He took such a liking to Armenian brandy that he began to import it straight from the USSR. He would import over three hundred bottles a year for the rest of his life. A bit closer to the current era, the Ararat Brandy Company was intensely disturbed by the ongoing territorial conflict between Armenia and its neighboring country of Azerbaijan. In an effort to highlight the conflict the brandy company filled up a special barrel that would only be opened when Armenia and Azerbaijan come to an official end to the hostilities. Here guests were invited to sign anywhere they could find a place to write a message of peace. The walls were coated with well wishes from all over the globe. 

The following day I jumped on a tour bus to take me around to a few historic sites in Armenia. The first stop, Alphabet Ally. Here thirty eight giant statues sit against a grassy hill lined backdrop. One statue for each character in the Armenian alphabet. The Armenian alphabet was first created in 405 CE by Mesrop Mashtots. It was used to create a common link between the Armenian people who at the time were divided between various civilizations. The language spread like wildfire and became a widely visible sign of Armenian culture. After a the quick stop we continued on up the Aragat Mountain Range. Aragat translates to "Ara's Throne" it is believed to be the location that former King Ara's throne was hidden from a jealous want to be lover after he was slain in battle.

As we climbed up the mountainside we passed flocks of sheep and tents of the shepherds who tend them. In these tents live the Yazidi people. A nation of roughly 700,000 without a home, the Yazidis are spread out through the area. Making homes wherever they can in Armenia, Syria, Russia, Iraq and even parts of Europe like Germany and the Netherlands. Adhering to their own belief system that contains parts of Islam, Christianity, Judaism and Zoroastrianism they mostly keep to their own, almost never marrying outside of their faith. In Armenia these people have found a home with welcoming arms. Some Yazidis even serve in Armenia's governing bodies. As we moved through the small Yazidi communities we came to the Fort Amberd. A 7th century fort nestled secretly in the mountains. I took a seat on a rock and began to draw while a few young calfs nibbled at the grass around me. Soon the cows were chased off by a group of children who came and surrounded me. As I drew thy watched silently and when I finished they flipped through my sketchbook before asking me to take selfies with them. 

Back on the bus I tried to paint my sketch as delicately as I could on the bumpy road to the Armas Winery. Here we were treated to a tour of the facility and a tasting of all the vineyards had to offer. We took seats around tables and a feast of cheese, mushrooms and bread was laid out. Each of which was produced right on the winery grounds. Then came the wines. First came Kangun, a white, dry wine that you could taste the apricots, white flowers and herbs so prevalent in Armenia. Next came a special Rose. Made from the Karmrahyut grapes that grow native in Armenia. In most roses, the juice from the grapes is distilled with the skins only for a short while to give it that tint of red. The Karmrahyut grapes however have a deep red juice so there is no need to distill with the skins. What comes out it is a plesant and soft taste that cannot be duplicated in any other rose that I've had. All three of them. Next came a dry red made from that same Karmrahyut grape. The soft finish of the rose became hard and powerful. The red of the wine was as deep as the flavor. Acidic, firm and fully balanced between the taste buds. Lastly a semi-sweet white wine that finished off the the experience with a sweet and fruity taste. Slowly and slightly buzzed we boarded the bus heading back to Yerevan. I passed some mints to the tour guide who didn't want to return to work with wine on her breath.

 

Football/Farewells/Fathers and Sons (29 June 2017)

A couple days ago I was lucky enough to attend a football match in the heart of Yerevan. The Armenian title holders, Alashkert were squaring off against a team from Andorra, Santa Coloma. Levon spent some time earlier that morning trying to get ahold of someone who could tell us how to get tickets. After waiting for call backs and fruitlessly searching for tickets online we received word that tickets would not be necessary. We could just walk right in. So right before game time Santiago, Katie, Lillie, Bethany and myself piled into a taxi for a trip to the stadium. There were police officers everywhere. I had a my green backpack with me and expected a search of some sort, at least a pat down or a once over with a wand. Especially considering how many policeman there were holding up the walls by leaning on them. However we were able to just stroll right through. No one seemed to give us a second look. We took some seats and watched ninety minutes of Armenia's home team playing quality soccer and Andorra's making a mockery of themselves. It seemed there wasn't a three minute stretch of the match when there wasn't an Andorran on the ground writhing in pain. After dominating play most of the game and skillfully dribbling in between downed Santa Coloma players, the Armenians came out on top.

This morning Santiago, Katie and Lillie all made their way out of Yerevan and back home. I left as well, heading to the second largest city in Armenia, Gyumri. The driver who typically would be recruited to take me from A to B could not make it this morning so he sent his son in his place. He looked to be in his thirties, still carrying a goofy schoolboy grin. The boyish manner matched with the black and white paisley shirt he wore might have made him look younger if it wasn't for the bald spot forming on the back of his head. Apart from appearances he was remarkably similar to his father. As soon as we pulled out music began to come through the speakers. It wasn't ABBA or various other 80's hits though. Rap began to thump in my chest. The car was filled with what almost sounded like what a Russian Geto Boys concert would be like. As we drove down the bumpy hills to Gyumri we tried to make conversation with each other as best we could. Him speaking Armenian an Russian. Me speaking English and English. After about an hour we pulled off at the same gas station his father had stopped at a year before on our trip to Gyumri.

 As I walked around outside taking pictures he bought me the same coffee as his father had. It was comforting in a way. I had never met this man and I was going off on my own to a town where very few people would be able to communicate with me unaided by a translator and yet I had been exactly here before. Same gas station, almost the same driver, music blasting as we scurried through the Armenian countryside and the same coffee his dad would buy for me. The only thing missing were the cigarettes and jokes about sex workers told only with the hands.

Once we got to Gyumri, my driver dropped me off at a BandB. A small woman met us on the street and lead me inside. In typical Armenian fashion, food began to seemingly pour itself onto the table. It seemed every minute there would be a new dish or drink for me to enjoy. Gata (Armenian sweet bread) came out first. Followed by a large class of something that had consistency and taste of yogurt and some hazelnut wafer cookies. I had finished a piece of gata when Turkish coffee, chocolate and apricots all appeared before me. I looked up for a second and by the time my eyes were back on the table lavash (Armenian flat bread), cheeses, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers were all waiting for me! My host joined the table across from me. Pouring herself a Turkish coffee and breaking off a small piece of the mountain of chocolate sitting in front of me.

Not long into the shared silence I was expecting when there is a considerable language barrier, she pulled out her phone and began to type away at a translator. I did the same. Soon we were talking as naturally as two people can. Her talking into her phone in Russian and it relaying the message to me in English and myself typing a response into my phone in English and replying to her in Russian. I was blown away at how easy and almost innate this was. We were just sitting there, drinking coffee, having a conversation. She told me she had lived in Gyumri since she came to the city as a bride. Once here she picked up teaching math at a local school. She had been working the day when the earthquake struck in 1988. I asked her if it was scary. She said the ground rolled in waves like that of an ocean, all the glass exploded out of the windows in the school and the children were caught in the middle of all of it. "It feels like yesterday." she said. I imagine that events as colossal as that must always feel like only a few days ago. I told her that the effects of the earthquake are very much part of the reason I first came to Gyumri. I explained the work of Levon and his Tuff Armenia team. She listened but seemed skeptical that much change could truly happen at this point. Thirty plus years after the event. I asked her if she thought the local government did enough to help out after the city was rocked. She didn't need her translator for the answer. She chuckled, "нет" and mimed taking money from someone and putting it into her own pockets.

 

Yerevan: Running Over the Same Old Ground (21 June 2017)

I landed in Yerevan, Armenia yesterday around two pm local time. I grabbed my pack from the baggage claim and made my way out of the airport. Not knowing who would pick me up I scanned the crowd gathering around the the exit of the airport. I couldn't find who might be picking me up. Then I heard it. "Eamon! Eamon!" I spun around to find an old familiar face. The cab driver who had driven me around last year was standing there holding  sign reading "Eamon Burke" a grin on his face and a cigarette clutched between his fingers. We hopped in his black cab and made out back to the main area of Yerevan. We weren't in the car more than two minutes before he was passing smokes to me and turning the radio up on obscure 80's dance music that most people who grew up then would struggle to place. It felt exactly the car trip I took with him last year towards the end of my stay in Armenia. The only difference was ABBA had been temporarily replaced. As we made our way through the bustling streets of Armenia we passed under a banner that hung over the street. "Welcome Home" was all it said.

This morning I made my way to the Armenian Genocide Museum and Memorial. A little under three miles away so I chose to start early to avoid the midday heat. I walked through the familiar parks outside of my cousins's home. The pedestrian tunnels to void the city streets where the only change was new graffiti on the walls. Most notably lyrics of Tupac Shakur urging me to "Keep your head up". After about a mile and half I began to walk down a road that winded down along the valley next to the Hrazdan River which divides the city. Trees that reminded me of cottonwood trees out West lined the road and their wispy, white seeds created almost a haze in the morning light. Dotted along the street were cab drivers. They busied themselves washing their cars in preparation for the day's work. I passed through largely unnoticed. It seemed like most were still coming to terms with the dawn that passed a number of hours ago. They worked. Most in an isolated silence. Some humming or singing along with the radio that danced out of their car windows. My Heart Will Go On became stuck in my head all day while passing down the road. Courtesy of a eccentric Armenian who was hastily sudsing his car while getting about as much soap on his white polo shirt as his white car. 

The Armenian Genocide Museum and Memorial are beautifully laid out. The museum is built as a spiral leading you further down into the horrific events that seemed the engulf the Armenian people from the late 1800's through the 1900's. Each step was greeted with a new story, a new face. The portrait of starving Armenian orphans being driven from their homes into the desert. The faces of the Ottoman political party of the Young Turks, the main perpetrators of the genocide. The story of a young woman named Aurora Mardiganian who miraculously escaped the genocide and found her way to safety. She would later write a novel titled "Ravished Armenia" which would become a silent film in 1919. As you walk around the galleries it is easy to become enveloped in the past. You may ask yourself why these things that happened over a century ago matter today. How all these black and white photographs and old stuttering movie clips play into the world we live in. One of the last stops out of the gallery is focused on the world reaction to the Armenian genocide. To this day only a handful of counties recognize it. As you climb the steps out of the museum galleries, out of the horrors of the starving children and the ravaged women, you pass by a quote on the wall. "Who, after all, speaks today of the annihilation of the Armenians?" a question posed by Adolf Hitler. 

After the sad but incredible museum trip I began to make my way slowly back to the apartment. Along the way I passed through a long pedestrian tunnel where a man sat busking to a crowd of no one. His guitar and voice echoed off the walls of the tunnel that seemed to stretch on for miles.  I listened to him for a while before we began to talk. He asked where I was from and what I wanted to hear. After some indecisiveness on my part he began to play saying he knew what I wanted. A slow tune sung out from his guitar. He sat in this dark tunnel and strummed a quiet storm that bounced off the walls. "So, so you think you can tell heaven from hell? Blue skies from pain?" he asked the air around us. I kneeled down next to him and we both continued on. Singing Pink Floyd as a handful of people passed before us. At the end he took a swig from his flask and I tossed him some money and went on my way. Slowly I made my way back to my cousins home. Giving myself ample time to do some wandering and chatting in broken English and unknown Armenian along the way.

It feels good to be back in Yerevan. Running over the same old grounds as I did a year ago. Finding the same faces as before. It does feel a great deal like the banner from the airport suggested. It feels almost like coming home. 

 

Vardavar in Yerevan (3 July 2016)

Levon and I woke up, donned our clothes and headed out into the madness of Yerevan. It is Vardavar today. It's an ancient tradition often associated with Astghik, the goddess of love, beauty, water and fertility. Now the festival takes place ninety eight days after Easter. People celebrate by creating the biggest drainage problem Armenia experiences once a year. The people wake up early, they grab water bottles, buckets, super-soakers, the containers ice cream comes in, anything at all that can be used as a weapon in the upcoming battle. Once they are ready everyone heads out into the streets to dump ludicrous amounts of water on anyone unlucky enough to get caught in their warpath. As Levon and I walked to the city center, I have never been more acutely aware of all open windows on the floors of buildings towering over us. Knowing that every step I take leads me closer to being drenched in water from unseen foes. We would stick to the trees, try to stay under cover or out of range. They would probe us. As we walked a gallon of water would rain down to our left, a balloon would burst to our right. But more frightening than the rain of balloons from above were those packs of insidious people that stalked the ground. Multiple times I witnessed first hand a pack leave weaker members to the beasts as they were set upon. Water would fly everywhere as screams of elation filled the air. By the time we got to the park, pandemonium had erupted. There was no law, no safety. Police officers cowered in their cars full of fear, children ran manically into the fury. Water flowed in the streets like...water. I cannot describe the incredible scale that these water battles took on and I am left bewildered by the realization that people were literally participating in the festival all day. 

Levon and I went back to his home after a while. Still being ambushed by people and then in turn attacking back. What beasts we all became. I sat on the balcony and dried off for a while. Before heading to the Sergei Parajanov Museum. Sergei was a very well known and respected artist and film maker in Armenia. After he came to fame on the international stage for his film Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, he became a target of the Soviet system he worked under. All of his projects from 1965 to 1973 were banned by Soviet film administrators. This all culminated with his arrest in 1973, on charges of rape, homosexuality and bribery. After being released in 1977 he was still kept out of the film industry and wouldn't be able to complete making his work until 1980. 

Sergei Parajanov has to be one of the most artistic souls I have ever come across. His house (now the museum) is filled with his art. Art from his youth which centered around the troubles of his family, art from when he was imprisoned that evoked heavy emotions with subjects of his fellow inmates and finally art from his relief and his subsequent films. He had a whole series on the Mona Lisa, which he almost had a love affair with one could say. She was an enigma to him. It stemmed from seeing her tattooed on a fellow prisoners chest one day in a work camp while they were breaking rocks. When he raised up his pick she would smile, when he brought it down against the rock she would grow sad, when he was relaxed so was she, his pain was her pain. His work was so expressive and beautiful and strange for Soviet Armenia and it was a such a phenomenal pleasure to see a glimpse at his genius.

After the museum I went off to a Yacobian family gathering with Levon's family. We drove up to a hill overlooking Yerevan and got out of what is easily the most impressive house I have ever stepped foot in. We were greeted immediately by a large guard dog, a German Shepard, running up to us howling and ramming his butt into us looking for petting. The Yacobian family was incredibly welcoming to me. I even found myself in family photos  practically in the front row. We feasted, I learned backgammon, we drank, we celebrated a wedding. I can't thank the Yacobian's enough for their hospitality. 

 

New and Old Architecture in Armenia (29 June 2016)

To start the day I woke up rather groggily to make my way to Hyur travel agency not far from where I'm staying. My exquisite hosts continue to outdo themselves with my lodging by finding then in turn booking a tour of two of Armenia's most beautiful sites of antiquity. Garni and Greghard. 

The tour bus left at 10 o'clock and it wasn't too long of bumbling down Armenian roadways out of the city of Yerevan that we stopped to soak in the views of the Ararat Plain. Miles and miles unfolded before me and I was quite anxious to begin taking the pictures I wanted to. I made my way to the cusp of the plateau only to realize I had forgotten my memory card for my camera back in Yerevan. But soon we were back on the road to Garni and I was too absorbed in the history our tour guide was relaying to kick myself too much. When we arrived at Garni, we toured the grounds and our guide explained every little piece of its history to us. Garni was originally an ancient fortification that was believed to be impregnable, and given its placement, I could see that to be the case. It is sitting almost on a peninsula jetting out into an incredibly steep valley below. An enormous wall separates the grounds from the rest of the world. Right as you entered the site you are greeted by a large slab of rock propped up. The inscription on the rock was in ancient Roman and told of a gift from the Emperor Nero to the people of Armenia. He was repaying a debt he felt the Roman Empire owed them, a debt of some 1,000,000+ gold coins from Rome's treasury. We walked on to the large temple at Garni, the only remaining Pagan temple in Armenia. Somehow, this ancient, beautifully decorated temple had survived close to two thousand years. It has remained standing through countless attacks from enemies, the creation of Armenia as the first Christian state, Soviet rise and fall and earthquakes that crumbled the structures around it. I was blown away by the beauty of Garni nestled in its quiet fortitude standing on her rock in the valley. But I had no idea what I was in store for. 

From Garni our bus set out for Geghard, a beautiful church carved into the rock of hill in the 4th century CE. From the outside of Geghard all you can see is a wall and a beautiful valley with a river flowing below you. But if you look closely at the rock face as you walk up to the monastery, you can see the beauty truly begin to unfold. Nestled away and almost hidden from view are little rooms carved into the wall of the canyon. Windows and elaborate, interlacing designs weathered by time adorn the walls. As you walk through the main gate of the enclosure a beautiful church stands before you. I say church and it is a church in stature, but in it's presence it feels more like a cathedral. Half of it is built standing out from the rocks and the other half of the church is carved out of the rock. There are a number of various cambers to the church. In one a skylight casts rays of sun through the light dust of a beautifully carved round room. It would be easy to think this room is just that until you hear someone sing in it. I was lucky enough to hear a group of girls singing old Armenian songs to the small crowd gathered in the room. I cannot do it justice, the acoustics of the room transformed these four teenage girls from America on vacation into a choir of angels that I believe heaven would struggle to match. The sound filled the room, your ears, your soul. It lifted you up to the point you were almost accidentally standing on your tiptoes. I could only part with the room when the singing stopped. In another chamber a spring from the rock empties itself into a small pool, people travel from all over to visit this spring for its spiritual significance and a line formed to only stick your hand out and take a sip from it. Everyone was so quite and peaceful. Waiting their turn to taste this pure water. The silence was only broken by the steady stream, flowing down to the pool, along a small channel that ran the length of the chamber and darting back underground. One of the final rooms was the actual church. Candles lined three of the four walls and their lights flickered and danced along the columns, in and out of the carvings only scattering to the darkness where light could not bend to keep up.

After leaving Geghart (which was quite a chore in itself) we made our way to a small orchard. Apricots and cherry trees littered the grounds while women worked to bake a special native bread called Lavash. The bread is much like pita bread except it is cooked along the walls of an oven dug into the ground. Dough is laid out on these things quite similar to pillows then pushed with the most graceful force alongside the walls of the oven. I enjoyed a lunch of lavash wrapped around goat cheese and various fresh spices still on the stems. After our meal I wandered the orchard sampling some of the fruit. I must have eaten all the cherries off of one of the trees they were so delicious and juicy. You could pull on the fruit and there would be a little pop of their deep red juice as it separated from the stem. They tasted so fantastic I didn't even want to spit the pits out.

Once I returned to the city I took a GG (the equivalent of an Uber) out to the AYB School where my host Sylvia works. She showed me the elementary school and then took me up the street to the facility where the middle and high schools are located. Astounding cannot even begin to describe how it was. The design of the buildings was quite nice. A modern look nestled just outside some of the oldest buildings in Yerevan. But that wasn't what sold it for me. Walking up there was a tube that snaked from the outside wall of the third floor down to the second. It was a slide. And this wasn't even the only slide students can use to get to one floor from another. There was another indoors. If I was a staff member there I'm not sure I'd be on time to my own class if I had unlimited access to slides that take you between floors. This isn't even where the magic stopped though. Every classroom is as close to state of the art as you can get. A beautiful theatre that at the top opened into the art studio, a robotics lab where students never use kits to build what's in their head, a fabrication lab where students work to create planes, 3D models and even award winning sumo wrestling robots. It is truly as Sylvia described it "The Google of schools". The vision of the school was something I believe a great many school systems couldn't have even if they were looking through the Hubble telescope. 

The last building I visited today was home to the headquarters of The Armenian General Benevolent Union (AGBU). It is a five-story structure with a roof terrace right in downtown Yerevan. The first three floors all are designed on the outside to mimic the design of old government buildings. Beautiful and colonial in a dark grey stone. But the top two floors spring to life out of the grey with two floors of almost pure glass. Once inside any trace of the old architecture is lost and it gives way to an incredibly open space with so much natural light and air if it wasn't for the hazy blue steps next to the reception desk you think you'd walked right back outside. Every floor had seemed to be the model of what an office could be. Open doors and walls of glass, everyone was accessible and it seemed eager to be so as well. To top the day off I got to sit on a screening of an old 70's spy movie, The Serpent. French, British, American and Russian spies all struggle to uncover the truth. It seemed like there would be no resolution, spare for one Armenian lab technician who found his way to the truth just in time.

 

First Day in Armenia (26 June 2016)

 I woke up this morning to a captivating view of Yerevan. As I stood out on the balcony, I shown all the city had to offer by my wonderfully hospitable hosts Vasken and Leon. The Mother of Armenia, the monument to the Genocide, Mount Aragats and so much more stretched out before me. There was so much to see I stayed out on the porch for some time just trying to soak it all in. 

Leon was kind enough to take the morning off from work to take me to breakfast and get me oriented in the city. On our way to the ArtBridge Cafe we passed what was described to me as an existentialist cafe. I have not investigated it any further yet, but I can only hope to take a break from this truly lovely trip at some point to contemplate the soul crushingly meaningless nature of existence and man's futility to justify our continued being. Despite this, the apple/raisin/cinnamon crepes at ArtBridge though was enough to put a smile on Jean-Paul Satre's face. 

From breakfast I wandered the city. The picture above is that of an old Armenian church undergoing restoration. The smaller one wrapped in green is actually one of the only (if not the only) churches in Yerevan to survive the Soviet era. It managed to outlive the Soviet state by hiding. The chapel is remarkably tiny and to make it so the Armenian people could continue to attend church (which was strictly against Soviet policy) they built numerous buildings around the church to hide it. When the USSR came down, so did the buildings. Now they are actually augmenting the small chapel with larger areas of worship around it (as you can see on the right).

I walked to a beautiful set of steps that climbs up a large hill called the Cascades. The Cascades are about as wide as a four lane road with beautiful flowering gardens on either side. The steps are tiered so there are a few stops with fountains and beautiful sculpture gardens at each break. There is also an art gallery at every stop nestled under the stairs. 

At the top of the Cascades I crossed the street into a public park. There were quite a number of fair rides that were overgrown. Signs asking for 300 dram to ride a merry-go-round with no one staffing it. Plants and ivy growing up along the tracks of a cart ride. It seemed almost like walking through a long forgotten place for bits of time. But then around the corner, life sprang into view. Kids were running with ice cream in their hands, old men played chess and lovers sat with their arms around each other enjoying the shade on the hot day. People were even enjoying the rides that looked as though no one had taken a ride on them in ages. There was a burst of life in what was otherwise seemed a bygone scene. Further down the path Mother of Armenia towered over the trees. She stood there, sword in hand facing Mount Ararat (a national symbol of Armenia that now lays beyond Turkey's borders).

Yerevan is such a beautiful city. There are so many nooks and crannies I believe no one has seen all of it. Hidden gardens tucked away behind soaring buildings and tunnels decorated with beautiful murals running through them. Areas so low and busy you feel as if the city will engulf you if the bustling cars don't first and spaces so high and open you can see for miles and miles past the sprawl of the city.