Awkward

Are you married?

No

Why not?

(Laugh) No one asked me. (This is not true)

But you have had a boyfriend?

Yes 

Do you have a brother?

Yes, I have a brother and a sister and I have two children. 

You have two children? But you said you weren’t married?

I adopted them. (Why did I say that? Why? Why did I want this stranger to think of me as ‘good’ rather than ‘fallen?)

Do you have pictures?

Yes (I hand over my phone)

Why did you adopt black children?

Washington DC is a black city. All the children available for adoption are black. 

But I have been to Washington…

The people you see in the center of the city are not the people who live there. White people are the minority in DC. (This is not now true, but was until very recently. I do not have the language skills to explain urban regeneration, gentrification and suburban spread)

She is light. Not too black. 

(Firmly) She is black

Yes, but light. That’s good. 

(Stiffly) I don’t think it is bad to be black. 

No, but we don’t have black people in Armenia. We are not used to–dark

There are millions of black people in the world. And people of all colors in America. We like it. 

Yes. Is your daughter married? 

No, but she has a boyfriend. (Again, why?)

And your son, is he married?

No.

But he has a girlfriend? 

Yes.

(I didn’t mention my granddaughter, my son’s baby. I am ashamed of that, but not of her. I just think this was enough chat for one day. Awkward.)

The Fool English

My infirmities have forced me to spend a lot of time in front of Armenian TV in the last few days and so I can report in detail on the schedule of the network channels.  There are prime time Hayastan versions of The Doctors ( the Phil McGraw format), Full House, and the Jeremy Kyle/Jerry Springer show. These are no more edifying here than in your homeland, but are of course cheap to produce in bulk and easy to repeat. This being Hayastan,  problems on the talk show are perhaps less scandalous than they would be in the US or the UK: “My wife doesn’t always provide a full, hot dinner at 5:30pm. How can I get through another 50 years of marriage?”  “Everyone else’s husband spends most of the year working in Russia. Why does my husband lie around at home?” “My daughter wants to go to college. I would prefer her to live at home and marry the boy next door. Which of us is right?”  “Am I wrong to wax my six year old?”  

Then there are dubbed versions of Indian soap operas. The sets and costumes are high-colored and so are the plots. It doesn’t take a lot of acting talent for the voiceover artists to match the skills of the original actors, but the whole spectacle is hugely compelling.  We are on the edge of our seats as marriages break up, beautiful women cry, evil children concoct villainous plots, and good looking men pine for lost loves from miserable prison cells. Everything but the fabrics are terrible. We are all completely hooked. 

And then there are the Hollywood movies dubbed into Hayeren. I watched something in which Brad Pitt romped about in hopsack and a ridiculous hat. Whatever the failings of the movie, best I could tell, the voice stand-in was rather good. Then I saw Ashton Kutcher as Steve Jobs. Again, the vocal understudy was entirely convincing. The following day I watched some of a children’s film–really high quality but not familiar to me. It must have been Disney or Pixar though. The voiceover work was great– characterful and nuanced: great acting in Armenian. 
So who is providing these voices, and where?  This is a small country with 3 million people at most. How many of these are top quality actors able to stand in for all the Hollywood greats?  Who directs their performance behind the mic? 

Ah, you say, the work is done in Hollywood where the studios dub versions of their movies for distribution all around the world. Well, maybe. But even if these movies first had theatrical distribution here in Armenia, I fear that the budget for the Hay entertainment industry doesn’t stretch to Hollywood rates; plus I believe that most of the Armenian diaspora in Glendale CA speak West Armenian, not East Armenian as we do here. (The people who fled 100 years ago from land now claimed by Turkey spoke a language that moved with them to the States. We speak differently here and now). 

Curiosity drove me to the Disney website where they proudly record all the languages into which their films are dubbed. Armenian was not listed. The film I glimpsed may not have been Disney (it seemed to be a meld of Toy Story and Cars), and even if it was, perhaps the work was done without the express permission and involvement of the originating studio? If so, it was a marvel of mixing: there was both dubbed dialogue and background music/ effects.– difficult to do without a do-it-yourself voiceover track made available on the original film.   

Watching Armenian media has made me appreciate my luck in being accidentally born in a country that speaks one of the world’s most common languages: English. Those of us lucky enough to speak English, Chinese, Hindi, Spanish, Russian or other key world languages have almost unlimited access to great storytelling: the stuff we generate, and the translations from other cultures keen to access our pounds, euros, dollars, rupees, rubles, and whatever they spend in China.  Armenians are not so lucky. No wonder so many of them work at learning three or four languages. It is not uncommon to find young people from small villages like mine who speak Hayeren, Russian, English, Spanish and perhaps also some French or German. Literacy in this country is at 96% and families and schools expect a great deal from their children. In a country where jobs are few and far between, language skills are both a passport and an employment guarantee. Brad Pitt and Ashton Kutcher are big deals in America but they wouldn’t be all that here in Armenia. Not unless they could do their own voiceover in half a dozen major markets. 

One of our program managers in Peace Corps is an Armenian with a PhD in English Literature. His dissertation discusses the role of the fools in the plays of William Shakespeare. Not only does he speak perfect English, he reads and analyzes Shakespeare in a language not his own. Stepan has not visited England and has yet to see a Fool on stage at the Globe or in Stratford on Avon. He spends his working life teaching (mainly) monolingual Americans like me how to fit in here in his homeland. Good job he knows what fools are for…

Bubble Trouble

I have been trying to make the perfect bubble mix in preparation for a community event on Sunday. The recipe promises giant, long-lasting rainbowed spheres and calls for ingredients including baking powder, cornstarch and glycerine in addition to liquid detergent and tap water. This wouldn’t be a problem in the US or UK where we all know the colors of the packaging for these items, and the whereabouts of the bakery aisle. But in Armenia?  

So far I have made sample batches of bubble mix with substitutes as diverse as potato starch and,tonight, polenta, which my teacher bought for me in Yerevan. Well it did say Corn Flour on the packet… I have found baking powder imported from America that has cost me two days of volunteer stipend–$6.  I have constructed perfect blowers from neon-colored pipe cleaners, but otherwise the bubbles have pretty much been a bust,  proving no more amazing, robust or outsized than those generated by ordinary efforts with dish detergent alone. I suspect that even if I source the right super-ingredients I don’t have the patience to measure well enough to make the chemistry work. I am sensing that the other volunteers, who are planning football games, army maneuvers and dance-offs for the field day, are already tired of my pipe dream and have serious doubts that bubbles of any size will hold the attention of 21st century kids for very long. They don’t like to burst my bubble but…

Well, tonight I was walking from class and was met by the two kids involved in last nights bubble trials. They were dancing up the street carrying sticks to which were appended plastic bags. Further they were followed by half a dozen other kids, all carrying similar sticks and bags. 

“We were waiting for you to come home” said Lilia, aged nine. “We made bubbles to carry until we could blow some with you” She mimed most of this because she knows my Armenian isn’t up to much.  I was highly relieved that I had a third batch of bubble brew in a basin on the bathroom floor.  I set up shop in the street and hoped these bubbles would do the business. Sadly, they proved no more successful than the last, but everyone squealed with excitement and fought for access to the tub nonetheless. Now, sticky with soap and smelling of lemon and lime, the kids are playing football and I am thinking that there won’t be soapy bubble (rhyming slang for trouble) on Sunday if my fairground attraction really blows. In this sphere, I can only succeed. 

Congested in the Caucasus 

I blame the blossom. And then there’s the dust and the mould. What started as seasonal sneezing due to inhaling pesky pollen, motes of dried mud, and creeping black spores quickly led to sinus havoc. My ears popped crossing the mountains when I went to Goris. I was deaf, stuffed up and generating enough phlegm to allow fluent if fluid pronunciation of difficult Armenian double consonant sounds. By the time I came back it was showtime for three Irish pipers, playing badly in my chest.  Now I have been diagnosed with bronchitis and confined to quarters, coughing. 

Elsa of course has no truck with my arguments against the environment. She knows I am ill because I won’t wear socks, will leave the house with wet hair, and don’t have enough warm clothes. She has now made socks mandatory. I am not allowed to wash my hair. I am too weak to argue. 

Elsa has very clear ideas about how to treat my illness, or indeed any illness. She feeds a cold and gorges everything else. Things that are good for what ails me include: tea sweetened with black currant jam, vodka, (but only if swallowed from a shot glass in one large gulp), and butter–by itself is best but lavash can be permitted. The important thing is to get through half a pound at each sitting. If bread helps, so be it. Cherries, strawberries, and unripe small green plums eaten with salt (seed and all ) are also cure-alls. And of course there is spas. (SehPASS). 

Spas is the Armenian equivalent of chicken noodle soup. It can cure anything. I asked Elsa to write down her recipe. She laughed and said I could watch her work. The prep is a speedy process so I was able to fit it in between bouts of coughing. I urge you to make some. It is definitely restorative. 

Elsa’s Spas

Two cups of Barley (rice or buckwheat would also do)

Six cups of plain yoghurt — or use one whole jumbo tub

Six cups of water– or fill the empty jumbo tub with water

2 heaped tablespoons of flour. 

1 egg

Several handfuls of fresh dill, cilantro and tarragon, finely chopped with spring onions (use any other fresh herbs you like as well). The spring onions are key here– but you can be free form with everything else. 

Mix all the ingredients in a pan, beating in the flour and the egg so the liquid is smooth. 

Cook over a low heat, stirring occasionally until the barley is well swelled. About 40 minutes. 

Serve warm in a mug with a spoon. Add salt and pepper to taste. Get well soon. 

 Between the vodka and the NyQuil (reccomended by the Peace Corps doctor), I spend a lot of time asleep, or at least speechless, glassy-eyed and immobile in a chair. I haven’t been to class since I returned from Goris and so I am at home during the business of the day. I watch Indian soap operas and American films, all dubbed in Armenian. (I saw Brad Pitt and Ashton Kutcher in something yesterday. Or was that just the drugs?) Elsa is usually working– hens to tend to, sticks to break and stack, weeds to pull, floors to clean–but sometimes she finds a task she can fit in while visiting the sick. Yesterday it was canning vine leaves in preparation for dolma demand this winter. As high drama played out on TV (someone in a sari has been kidnapped) Elsa created neat piles of about a dozen grape leaves each, smoothing each leaf as though it was filmy, fragile lingerie she was preparing to pack. Then she gently laid each pile in a colander over a pan of boiling water and covered the pan to steam the rosette. She then folded and tamped the batches of softened leaves into mason jars and sealed them tight. This was the first crop of this year to make it to the pantry shelves. 
Neighbors are in and out all day. Tamara brought me cherries and strawberries from her garden because she heard I had the grippe. “Butter” she said as she heard me speak   “Butter’s what you need for a sore throat.”  Sada came and sat for a bit and put a rug round my shoulders. “Stay warm” she said. “You need more clothes.” She hugged me when she left “Butter” she said “Plenty of butter.” Like Elsa, both these women are the same age as me. They must wonder how Americans survive past childhood when we are so ignorant of basic wellness techniques.  

Right now, Elsa is boiling me an egg, laid by one of our hens this morning.  It will be perfectly cooked, the bright yolk just set and no suggestion of a tired, grey outer ring. She will peel the egg straight from the pan–her fingers are asbestos. She will mash the egg on a small plate with salt and pepper and maybe a side of herbs. Before she gives it to me she will add a slab of butter. “Kerr, Kerr” she will say. “Eat, Eat.”  Let’s hope the cough goes before my heart gives out. 

From Anne Arundel County to Armenia: Week One as a Peace Corps Volunteer.

FullSizeRender (6)I have a view of Mount Ararat from my bedroom near Artashat in Armenia. The mountain, the national icon of Armenia, is now in territory claimed by Turkey, but the people here still consider it very much their own. The peak dominates the landscape, flat land that doesn’t see much rain. Every day in Shady Side, I was awed by the beauty and size of the Bay. Now I am in a landlocked country, but fortunate to look out upon another wonder of the world: Noah’s mountain, the peak where the Ark is said to have run to ground.

I live within five miles of the Turkish border, closed because of century-old tension between Armenia, and its neighbor. All around are lookout towers, small huts on stilts from where the Armenian army can stay watchful, night and day. 1915–1918, the Turks killed as many as one and half million Armenians living on land the other side of the mountain. Not for the first time in this part of the world, borders were brutally redrawn. Every day the people in this village see the mountain they can no longer climb. It reminds them of the relatives and land they lost.

FullSizeRender (7)My village is much the same size as Shady Side and is about the same temperature at this time of year. There are a couple of small general stores, but there the similarity ends. There are no bars and restaurants. Certainly no dry cleaner or bank. The roads here are impacted dirt and there are no sidewalks. Some men work on Soviet-era cars in front of their houses. Others try to keep all-pervasive dirt off their Mercedes. As in America, people choose to spend their money in different ways. Older women sit outside in the sun, hailing everyone who goes by and taking particular interest in the sudden influx of Americans—20 of us enrolled in an intensive 10-week language program, to prepare us for two years’ service in this country the size of Maryland. Everyone knows we are here and is eager to talk. They ask questions about our families, and houses, and life in America. They marvel at American house prices. The average wage here is $300 a month. Every house keeps chickens—my host family has five—and a garden with apricot, cherry, walnut and apple trees. Sheep are never far away. Our village name translates to “Garden of Jewels” and Elsa has planted tulips outside the front door. They aren’t in bloom yet, but it won’t be long.

IMG_2657 (1)I am involved in a youth development program which the US Peace Corps has been running for the last twenty-five years at the invitation of the Armenian government. In order to prepare, I take language lessons for 4 hours every day, and then afternoon classes on the country’s economy, politics, social and cultural norms, and its development needs. Elsa packs me a lunch of red bean salad or coleslaw (cabbage is big in these parts); lavash (paper-thin bread ) rolled into a burrito and packed with egg, spinach and cheese; and a locally-grown apple the size of a grapefruit. An old plastic bottle is filled with water from the tap. No Pepsi or Coco Cola products in this house.

After class, I stop to mime a chat with Malan in the small local shop. Her shop is next to the hairdressers where I might splash out on a wash and blow out next weekend—a good way of getting to know my neighbors. I could easily do my hair at home though, where Elsa and Gevorg have a beautiful tiled bathroom with a hot, powerful shower. I have my own bedroom, much bigger than the one I left in Avalon Shores. Someone—I don’t yet have the language skills to find out who—has painted the bedroom walls in the manner of a French chateau. It might be Alla, Elsa’s daughter, who has taken cake FullSizeRender (4)decorating lessons. Now that I have seen what she can do with royal icing, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was the one who turned the first-floor bedroom into Marie Antoinette’s boudoir. It is quite the most beautiful bedroom I have ever slept in. The furniture is mid-century style, but lacquered, and the sheets are 70s retro. My house in South County is often described as eclectic, because it is furnished with a million yard-sale finds. It is pure serendipity that Peace Corps has placed me in the home of people who like color and pattern just as much as I do. I don’t suppose my luck can hold. In June, I will move on to another family, and another part of the country where it is likely that life will be much more basic. Other volunteers have told me about their “lick and promise” washes deploying a tea kettle and wet wipes, and many houses in this village still have outhouses. For now, I count myself lucky to have a washing machine and western toilet to use.

FullSizeRender (2)Elsa is in her 50s, like me. She is a great cook. I come home every night to omelette and fried potatoes, or pork and tomato stew, or maybe a delicious Armenian soup called sepass. This is made from yogurt and barley and is served with cilantro. Served hot and eaten with bread, it is the ultimate comfort food. There is always a chopped salad of an imaginative and colorful variety, a bowl of plain yogurt to use as a relish, and a platter of fresh dill, watercress, tarragon and cilantro. The children eat the herbs in handfuls. Dinner is served with homemade apricot juice and followed by coffee, strong and dark in tiny cups. Over dinner in the kitchen, the family quiz me about my day’s learning and laugh when I pull faces and try to act out incidents I don’t yet have the words to describe. The smallest grandchild, Gayane who is 3, knows the most English, for she listens to pre-school rhymes on her mother’s iphone. I don’t yet have a phone data plan and the house has no internet. The lack of digital access is the thing that that we volunteers find most difficult. Most of our group are in their 20s and have boyfriends, girlfriends, and family at home who expect to talk or message with them every day. It’s just not possible.

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After dinner, we sit in the living room and watch Indian soap operas dubbed into Armenian. At the best of times, I can be overly dramatic. It is probably dangerous that I am picking up vocabulary and accompanying hand gestures from Bollywood actors. Arsen, aged 6, watches Japanese anime, also dubbed into Armenian, a unique and ancient language dating from 450 BC. There are elections here today, Sunday (April 2) and so last night we watched a debate and town hall discussion. The political make-up of the government is not expected to change here but big constitutional change is underway—a shift of power from the role of President to the role of Prime Minister. More than that, I don’t yet know. Voting is at the local school. Later, we are going to the farmer’s market. This is an Apostolic Christian country and was the first place outside the Middle East to follow Christ’s teachings, way back in the 3rd century AD. Despite this, there are few signs of active worship in my new community. I haven’t seen a church yet—or any other house of worship. Across the country, only 3% of the population regularly attend Apostolic services.

The coffee table in the living room is always piled with chocolate, wrapped candies, pomegranate, orange slices, dried fruit and cake. Neighbors, family and friends will be in and out all evening and must be (over)fed. In Armenia, hospitality and family closeness are key: all are welcome and grown children stay close. Elsa’s daughter Alla and her husband Ararat and their children Arsen and Gayane live just a few doors away. Alla’s sister Lala and her brand- new husband Edgar live in the nearest town. Lala is working in Moscow this week, but she calls home every night. Elsa works in the house all day, and has her grandchildren after school. Gevorg, her husband, goes out to work but I have no idea what he does. I only know how to say Volunteer and Teacher and he is neither of those.

I met these people only a week ago, but it is not at all awkward to live in their home. I have watched videos of Lala’s wedding. I haven’t met her yet, but we are already friends on Facebook. (I am able to connect via my teacher’s hot spot during break at school.) Gayane and I sing “No more Monkeys…” while she jumps on the distinctly non-bouncy divan in the living room. My tablecloth with the map of America is on the table in front of the window and has a large vase of artificial roses keeping it in place. Arsen has told me about the Armenian player who is part of the Manchester United soccer team and laughed when I mixed up the word for swimming with the word for shower. He hopes to swim to America, and visit New York and Los Angeles, he says. Gervorg pretends to be a professor and bellows questions at me in louder and louder Armenian tones until I put my head in my hands and say “Che gitem. Chem haskanoom.” I don’t know. I don’t understand. There is a three-bar heater in the living room, and an overhead light. There are family photos on the credenza and a framed photo of a woman I think is Gevorg’s mother in pride of place above the flat-screen TV. Every house I have visited seems to have something similar. We volunteers have compared notes and think that photos in this style –formal, solemn and large—must be a tribute to honored, dead relatives. Elsa and Gevorg had three children. Their son, Geram, died last year. He was 26 and killed in a traffic accident in Moscow. Geyorg told me about him, showing me a snap of all three of his grown children. I looked at the photo and touched his forearm. There are no words in any language. Roads and cars and drivers here are dangerous. As in all other parts of the world, Peace Corps Volunteers are forbidden to drive. Works for me.

I have to remember to take off my shoes inside the front door and change into slippers. Notice has been taken of my lack of socks. Everyone was more comfortable today when I swapped dress pants and bare feet for a dress and panty hose. My purple dress is set off with a green, chunky necklace. Alla asks me, through pointing at her own jewelry, why I don’t wear gold: voski. After many dictionary consultations, I explained, haltingly, that it is too expensive, and I tend to lose things. The conversation turns to wedding rings. Why don’t I have one? I shrug and dip back into the dictionary. Gevorg promises to find me a good Armenian man. I feel I could do worse.

Will I enjoy two years in Armenia? It is too soon to say, but the signs are good. Ask me again in June when the irises are blooming in Shady Side, and the day lilies are about to open. Ask me when Pete is serving fresh rockfish and soft shell crabs at the Brick House. Ask me when it is my friend’s birthday and I can’t buy him a Famous Grouse or a glass of Pinot Grigio at Petie Green’s. By June though, I will have been sworn in as a fully-fledged Peace Corps volunteer (the US Ambassador may attend the ceremony, because this is the silver anniversary for Peace Corps in Armenia. This is a very big deal.) By June I will know what and where my two-year volunteer project will be. I could be working in a big town, or a tiny mountain village where it is winter for 6 months of the year, and the water and electricity supplies constantly fail. In June, here in my new home, the apricots will be ripe and it will be time to make jam. Arsen’s piano performance will have taken place at our village school, and Alla will be icing a cake for her little girl’s birthday. Ask me again then.

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Home thoughts from abroad

 

Armenia2
A little bit of love from Liz in Armenia

I didn’t hear about the Westminster bombing until 24 hours after it happened. I was in transit, and then in a place without papers, TV or internet. This saved me hours of worry because the dead and maimed had been named by the time I caught up with the news. When I saw the pictures and read Facebook reports of the fear and chaos, I had a flashback to 9/11 in Washington DC and the Al Quada atrocities in Pennsylvania and NYC that day; to the Paris restaurant bomb where my friend’s son and his new wife stepped out over the dead and injured to survive; and to the many bombs and shootings that killed more than 3000 people over 30 years in Northern Ireland.

 

I lived in Belfast from 1968 to 1979, and went back  there to work on and off in the 1980s.  I still shudder at the memory of the minister’s son– 12 years’ old I think–and the others blown up at the bus station I passed through every day on my way home from school. That was the IRA. I remember too the red-haired girl my age who spoke so well at her father’s  funeral: her dad shot dead in a random attack by loyalist paramilitaries. Could the same thing happen to my dad? Fear clutched at my teenage heart. I think back to the undercover police car on our street, protecting a neighbor who was senior in the RUC, and the time when 25 year old Elizabeth McCracken,who worked with my father, was killed by a bomb at the La Mon hotel, maybe 10 miles from our house. As a young journalist I interviewed a man hit in the head by a British soldier’s plastic bullet. He had a crater in his skull and permanent headaches. He was hard to interview because he had difficulty remembering and ordering his words.  So much loss.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, to indicate the deep damage terrorism does– not only to those hurt and bereaved, but to those on the periphery. The blood seeps everywhere and leaves an indelible stain.

Passing though Paris Charles De Gaulle Airport last week, I heard of the peaceful death of NI Deputy First Minister and former IRA strategist Martin McGuinness. I did not mourn his passing. By the time I clicked into my computer 24 hours later posts on my Facebook feed were full of praise for his part in the Northern Ireland Peace process. From what I saw, it took two Northern Ireland-born journalists– the Spectator’s Jenny McCartney and NBC’s Bill Neely –to temper the adulation for McGuinness’s work in the last 20 years with a reminder of his early days, directing, if not himself detonating, bombs, and sending street fighters on killing sprees. (See their journalism below.)

https://www.spectator.co.uk/2017/03/what-martin-mcguinnesss-eulogisers-would-like-to-forget/

http://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/ex-ira-commander-martin-mcguinness-leaves-divided-legacy-analysis-n738006

Like me, Jenny and Bill come from the Protestant tradition and were raised and educated in varying degrees of affluence in Belfast. They are about my age. Martin McGuinness was born 10 years before us. He was Catholic and brought up in Derry at a time when voting rights were skewed in favor of educated Prods, and when people living in poverty were denied jobs because they had a Bogside address.  He had a lot to be angry and vengeful about. He was right that much needed to change in Northern Ireland.  In Belfast in 1968, (of course influenced by my family– I wasn’t THAT precocious) the tween me supported the peaceful protests of the civil rights movement. But if I had been in Martin’s DM boots, would that have been enough?  I don’t know. Would I have picked up a placard or a kalashnikov? I can’t say I’m certain.  I don’t like McGuinness’s choice but I understand what drove it.

For the record, neither did I  mourn the recent death (quiet, peaceful) of Northern Ireland First Minister Ian Paisley. Mr Paisley did not himself commit acts of violent terrorism, but his words in the ’60s, ’70s and ’80s were often dangerously inflammatory and I have no doubt provided fuel for loyalist paramilitary firebombs. His hands were clean, but his tongue was a terrorist weapon. His speeches and preaching fired up disgruntled working class Protestants who, with their jobs at the shipyard fast disappearing, needed territory and hegemony to feel powerful and relevant. I find Paisley harder to understand than McGuinness. Just as Trump is not my President, so Paisley was not my Protestant.

It is good of course that both McGuinness and Paisley bought into the Peace Process, working with the British, Irish, American and European governments — and Nobel prize winners John Hume and David Trimble, loyalist paramilitary leader David Ervine, countless church leaders, and endless community advocates–to agree an uneasy truce that saw them work together fairly well for 20 years largely blast-free years. Thank you for that, gentlemen.

But can one belated right undo countless, terrible wrongs? Think of the lives and time and money that could have been saved if angry people could have sat down and talked in 1968, instead of leaving it for thirty years…

When I and my siblings fought as children my dad would always say “You’ll have to make it up in the end so you might as well make it up now.”  We never listened to him and I don’t suppose the world’s most recent batch of terrorists, or those still to hatch, will heed these words either. It will mean more broken lives, broken hearts and broken countries.

Sit down and talk about it, damn you, and stop blowing up our iconic buildings and best people. There’s something in it for you. There is no such thing as suicide peacemaking. You’ll likely live a long and happy life.  I’ll get Bill Clinton to speak at your funeral.

From Washington DC to Yerevan

You’ll have heard of the Smithsonian of course. And the Lincoln Memorial. And the US Capitol. These are the icons and institutions for which Washington DC is rightly famous. You will not have heard of the Hyatt Place hotel, built where an unlovely part of New York Avenue meets rundown North Capitol Street. This is a hotel struggling to do business in one of the worst parts of America’s national capital. I want to give the Hyatt Place staff and management a shout-out, because they are doing a great job against unfavorable odds.

When I heard we would be staying at the hotel for our volunteer staging, I will admit my heart sank. The stretch of street, which for years has been known only for its gas stations, liquor stores and homeless population, has no good restaurants and is not the sort of place that invites visitors to take an evening stroll, an outdoor phonecall, or anything other than a speeding Uber.

untitledI was pleasantly surprised by the hotel. The rooms are large and well appointed. The beds are super comfy and the hot water is instant and plentiful. The bar serves great food 24/7 (try the hummus trio). But the hotel is really distinguished by the excellence and attitude of its team. Reception staff greet guests with a warm hello every time they see them pass. The check out guy manhandled my luggage today without complaint— the bell hop was busy at the time. A number of us were confused about breakfast times this morning and turned up 40 minutes late. We inquired about leftovers and were passed great plates of waffles, bacon, egg, biscuits and fried potatoes through the kitchen serving hatch, all without complaint. The coffee guy stopped his clear up, righted the urn, and left the maple syrup sitting until we’d finished eating.

Signs in the elevators implore guests to root for the hotel as it perseveres through the slow and painful regeneration of the area between Union station and Union Market (both of which are worth a visit) in Washington D.C.  The image on the poster implies that guests may be disturbed by ongoing neighborhood construction, rather than rolling drunks and pushy panhandlers. But the overall message is clear: give us a chance, we are trying really hard to make this work. I hope they do. I am on their side.

While I am doling out kind words, praise to Air France with whom we flew first to Paris and now to Yerevan. Airplane food included a very respectable celeriac remoulade, Camembert and prune tart. Pasta was served with tomato sauce, feta and fresh basil. There was free champagne. Shat Hamove as we say in Armenian– very tasty.

In a post-prandial line for the toilet in the plane, I struck up a conversation.

“Are you Armenian?” I asked the man in front of me. My tongue’s first formal outing in this strange new language.

He said that he was, and offered me his place in the queue.

“I am grateful” I said, and was flattered when he said “oh, you speak good Armenian.”

“Yes”. I wasn’t preening:saying “oh you are too kind. I speak only a few words” seemed much too complicated to try out just then.

I explained we are volunteers from the US Peace Corps. I told him I was American and Irish. He liked that.” Irlandatsi.”.

I pointed at the bathroom and named it, rather like a toddler being potty trained. He nodded encouragingly. “Shat lav. Shat lav”. It sounds scatalogical to ears attuned to English, but it just means ‘very good’.

A few minutes later, I told him I was happy, satisfied and grateful. He showed polite interest but wisely asked no follow up questions

We said goodbye and he took his turn in the stall.

A successful exchange on bathroom matters.  It is the beginnings of a good start.