I turned up to my village English club this afternoon to find students sadly lacking. “Voch inch” I said to myself like a good Armenian ” it is a lovely day for a walk”. I picked my way down the stony hill admiring the light over the gorge. “Amerikatsi”. An old woman sitting on a rock outside her gate sounded the general warning.
I said hello in Armenian and she asked me where I was from ” Goris” I said ” I live in Goris”.
“What are you doing here?”
“Walking, looking and taking photos. It is a beautiful day”.
” She’s walking, looking and taking photos” reported the woman to no one in particular. “She thinks it is a beautiful day.”
I continued my walk past a donkey saddled for work, a cow or two grazing by the roadside and another couple of cows sitting in the sun. A woman was sitting on her step shelling walnuts.
“Ooh walnuts” I said
” You are welcome to eat some” she said. I did.
By then I could see the younger half of my English class playing volley ball in the street, a length of string strung between the houses. The girls ran towards me squealing. Kisses all round.
“We don’t have class today ” Shushan said. “I see” I replied “so I am enjoying myself and having a holiday”
“It is my birthday” said Heghine ” come and eat cake”.
We sat outside Heghine’s mom’s kitchen door and had cake and peach juice. Heghine’s mom didn’t seem at all surprised to find an American stranger speaking English in her back yard. She made me a cup of coffee. The view, the company and the food were all delightful. The girls picked some narcissi and tulips for me and went back to their game. Class. It’s overrated.
It is fair to say that Haykush and I consider ourselves unlikely pin-up material, particularly perhaps in this picture. Nonetheless, we are the poster girls for this year’s 
Artem is everything you want in a wine-maker from a country that has been busy with amphoras, juice and presses since Noah was a boy. He has ink-black hair that follows him at an angle of 45 degrees, and a nose that can get deep into the glass. Another great thing about Artem is that he is not at all pompous about wine. He knew we were there for the tasting, and encouraged hearty consumption, although he himself used a little silver bucket and spat instead of swallowing.
St. Patrick’s Day in Armenia. Well, now at least there’ll be an entry should anyone else ever Google this phrase, which seems unlikely. St. Patrick’s Day will not be as big a deal here as it is in my native Ireland or in most cities in the U.S. In Ireland, we pin bunches of shamrock–the national symbol of Ireland–to our lapels and maybe watch a game of rugby before enjoying a plate of champ–mashed potatoes mixed with spring onions and a lot of butter, salt and pepper–washed down with a glass or two of Guinness, or the libation of our choice. There might be a parade, but it is nothing compared to the excess of celebrations in New York, and other places claiming Irish-American heritage in the US. St. Patrick’s Day in the US is distinguished by pints and pints of green beer, people dressed up as leprechauns, and rowdy singing of songs that are often Scottish not Irish in origin. In my authentic Irish opinion it is best avoided.
I am serving my country abroad, and my country is America. I can’t quite believe it myself. The words conjure pictures of soldiers, brave and resolute in uniform, or Ambassadors, smooth and sophisticated. I am neither of these, and I am a novice American. I was born in Ireland, a British citizen from Belfast. I moved to the U.S, to Maryland, and to Shady Side in the early 2000s. I was working for the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) then. I was lucky enough to get a green card not long after 9/11. That sufficed for a while, but, as I became more committed to the American way of life—and American founding principles—I took advantage of my option to become a fully-fledged citizen. Adopted as one of America’s own, I felt I owed a debt of service.
My own day-to-day work? Well, this week I used a pack of playing card illustrated with pictures of Ireland to prompt some village teenagers to talk in English about landscape and weather. I wrote a grant to try to win funding for a summer school. I ran a creative writing contest. I made a video to encourage people to come and spend money at a fair my host organization is running. No digging is involved. For fun, I work with middle and high school English-language students who are taking part in a recitation contest. This year’s theme is What Makes Us Human and the students are learning poems by Maya Angelou, Robert Frost, Langston Hughes, Sylvia Plath and Mary Oliver, among others. It does my heart good to hear them. It does my health good to eat the homegrown fruits and vegetables prepared by my friends. The exercise afforded by the hills helps my poor old knees. I will not be the first U.S. Peace Corps Volunteer to feel that I am well served by serving America here in Armenia.
Garik our office accountant brought me this beautiful plant. Ashot and Davit spent their own money to bring me another one just as lovely. The lady in the flower-shop, busy with the annual rush that comes on Women’s Day every March 8, shouted a cheery Shnorhavor as I walked by.
yellow flower in a tiny pot. The streets were thronged with people out to visit and chat. I caught up with Haykush as she made dolma, and interrupted Nina as she was mopping the floor. They were both in high good spirits, but Women’s day didn’t seem to have reduced their workload very much.
An elementary school girl, asked to draw a picture of a local icon a couple of weeks ago produced this picture of a Hay woman in traditional garb.
Marigold Moment 