Cold Feet

It’s dark out. At the minute, I’m sitting under my thick wool covers, drinking what I call Hay Chai – a blend of fine green tea that my host sister sent from China and wild mountain thyme that Armine and I collected in July, rounded off with a dollop of village honey. If one must be sick, it’s a lovely drink to take away the ache.

There’s a good bit of pressure in my sinuses, but it’s nothing to worry about. To be honest, I’m just a tad annoyed about the “I-told-you-sos” I’m getting from my friends and colleagues. For better or worse, I have a habit of coming to work with wet hair and then removing my shoes and walking barefoot down the halls. This practice alarmed many of my colleagues who told me I would become ill (and, might I add, infertile – one middle-aged female friend informed me that the the cold would travel up through my legs and freeze my eggs. When I asked for some proof of this phenomenon, she simply said ‘woman to woman.’)

Another tiny chapel discovered on a run.

My feet were never literally cold, but alas, I did get sick. Instead, I’ve begun to get cold feet about my winter plans.

Mnalu es Gyumrium dzmerva hamar? (Will you stay in Gyumri for the winter?) my Armenian teacher Hermine asked me yesterday.

I don’t like this question, because I feel so torn. Initially, I’d planned to head south to Yerevan for the colder months. The English-speaking church, dear family friends and milder weather there are all attractive to me, but I’ve had serious second thoughts since become more connected here. How can one think of leaving a happy home life, good friends and fulfilling work for the unknown? (Of course, I recognize that this is exactly what I did when I left the U.S. and naturally I’m pleased I did.)

When I expressed my conflicted thoughts, Hermine’s words turned to the weather. Two years ago, she said, the weather was sarsapeli – terrible. It was bitter cold from November until April, a full half of the year. She didn’t hold back in telling me about the difficulties of the -35 C deep freeze and the struggles of the poor and pensioners to acquire enough gas to heat their homes. It was sobering. Should I leave Dodge before it becomes a frozen wasteland, or stick it out? 

To be honest, I’m inclined toward the latter. Of course, I’m still basking in the golden rays of a beautiful October, so I ain’t seen nothing yet. But last week was a swell span of seven days, and as I straddled Gyumri and Yerevan over the course of them, I’m inclined to keep Gyumri as my home base and visit Yerevan more in the coming months.

Last Wednesday, I left work early to catch a marshutka to Armenia’s capital. It was a doubly celebratory occasion: the 50th birthday and 24th wedding anniversary extravaganza of Vardan and Neira Blbulyan, my dear friends in Yerevan. The journey was typical. I waited for an hour for the car to fill up, and during that time I got a dose of Armenian bread and circuses: my driver gave me his leftover grapes, and two overly hormonal young men struck up a fight outside the bus station.

I was unnecessarily anhangist (worried) about my tardiness, and I knew I shouldn’t be. Nevertheless, after exerting many efforts to increase my speed to the party venue, I arrived ten minutes late… and before the Blbulyans.

Replete with dancing, singing, new friends and a smorgasbord of fresh foods, the party was one to remember. I was also thoroughly pleased to meet a contingent of American pastors who informed me that they could connect me with a group of Christians in Gyumri. …Another reason to stay?

The venue gave us all the leftover food (including an ample lot of lemons) after the celebration – and when life gives you lemons…

The following day, the Blbulyan young folk and I headed to Republic Square for the grand concert of the Francophonie Summit, the annual convention of French-speaking countries that happens every year in a different country. To be honest, I don’t understand how Armenia got the honor, but let’s just say it was fun to stand fifty meters from Justin Trudeau and Emmanuel Macron. The show itself was spectacular, going through each phase of Armenian history from Noah’s Ark to the arrival of Christianity to the Genocide and Soviet Times. It was easily the most impressive display of music, dancing, fire and special effects I’ve ever seen.

During the event, I looked at my phone and got another reason to smile: The Armenian Weekly had published an article I wrote about Aregak Bakery! A few days later, they then informed me that because the piece had done so well, they wanted more from me on the subject of disability rights.

Work is exhilarating – there is so much that can be done, and I love that the possibilities are endless. Today, my colleague and I began a new partnership with the Gyumri Technological Center, my city’s flagship hi-tech incubator. Youth development is one of the big goals, and the business development director, Bella, has organized a team of teens to create a website for the Bakery. Clearly, it’s great practice for the youth and a great boon for us. And I will get to write the content for the website, which is one of my favorite tasks.

The week ended with a long hike through the forested hills of Dilijan, known as Armenia’s Switzerland. I’d wanted to go for quite a while and managed to round up a group of various friends from work and Birthright to come along with me. The leaf colors were muted because of the heavy cloud cover, and the poor path markings and rumbles of thunder had us worried for a moment, but I thoroughly enjoyed experiencing the yellows, oranges and reds of Armenian autumn.

Bottom line: if the change in this beautiful weather becomes intolerable, or work ceases to be ample and fulfilling, I’ll consider a move.