BY ASSADOUR TERTERIAN
I am on a long visit to Armenia, where I am staying at my cousin Hrair’s apartment, situated on the third floor of a half-round building in the Verin Antarayin neighborhood. Oddly, while the address is printed on the building, it is not listed on Google Maps—an anomaly that seems to be the norm in Armenia, or Yerevan in this case.
Hrair and his family live in Dubai, where he works as a business analyst, and his wife as a math coordinator. They visit Armenia as a vacation hotspot almost every time they need to take a quick break from work. The flight duration is roughly three hours, so it is very convenient.
In our most recent WhatsApp conversation, Hrair noted that he and, possibly, his new daughter and wife, would be visiting Armenia as well. The exact date was not certain, but it was expected to be between late February and early March of this year.
I decided to take a mini tour myself. As his arrival approached, I decided to visit Tbilisi one more time.
My first visit was roughly ten years ago, when I spent one night there and left the following day.
From what I observed, the city seemed rather appealing. Nestled between hills and mountains, it exuded an aura of both history and youth.
I received a WhatsApp message from Hrair, informing me that their stay in Yerevan would be from March 4 to 7. So, I adjusted my plans accordingly and made arrangements. I scheduled my trip from Saturday, March 2 to Thursday, March 7. I needed to book the cleaner for Sunday, March 3.
I booked a widely-recommended hotel on the northern side of the Kura River at a reasonable price. I knew that a well known hotel and a reasonable price rarely coincided in this part of the world, but I didn’t have any other options in mind.
It was a small hotel, indeed. It was rather topsy-turvy, with the entrance situated on the third floor. The dining room was on the second floor, while the rooms were spread across the first, fourth, fifth, and sixth floors. And though its location was clear on Google Maps, it was hidden in the northern part of the river, nestled amid streets housing old homes, tiny hotels, coffee tables, and young lovers.
“I want to see the Armenian church,” I said.
The worker smiled. “No problem,” he said. “It is nearby. We’ll call a taxi driver who will take you there, and when you are done, just WhatsApp us, and we’ll send a taxi to bring you back.”
“Could you please add the cost to my room?,” I asked.
“It will be our treat,” he said with a smile.
About ten minutes passed before the taxi arrived, and we left.
Upon arrival, I was dropped off on the right side of the Etchmiadzin Armenian Church, along a non-asphalted bumpy road. I got off, crossed to the left side of the road, and walked down to the lower side of the church.
The ground was damp so as to keep the place clean. So I walked slowly to avoid slipping. I looked at the doorways, the initial one obscured by stairs.
Two girls came down from the upper garden, passing by me.
I walked up, turned left, and saw a khachkar, or a cross-stone. A short distance down, and I found yet another khachkar.
I went into the church, took a few more pictures, and left.
Our car was parked on the strip between the borders of Georgia and Armenia, where people parked on the right-hand side of the road with hope of getting a tax-free purchase.
A little up front, you saw a line of trucks awaiting entry into Armenia. A group of wild dogs chased passing cars. A slim Asian woman took selfies with her iPhone. A few feet away, a kid was jumping up and down the sidewalk next to his dad, and a few feet further, a blond female stood observing the market’s exit.
About thirty miles before we reached Lake Sevan, I told the driver that I was feeling hungry and that we should find a place to eat. We stopped at a few places before settling on the Haleb Hotel and Restaurant. As we walked toward the restaurant, two workers came out to welcome us.
At the entrance, the husky one asked, “Is your name Assadour?”
I looked at him, surprised, but confirmed. ”Yes. Do I know you?”
“I am Jozig’s older son,” he said.
Jozig was a relative of mine and our neighbor in Kessab, Syria. I think his grandfather’s father and my grandfather were cousins. It was such a strange but happy coincidence, I thought, to find a neighbor from a tiny village like Kessab in a random restaurant in Armenia.
We sat down, ordered food, and rested.
We entered a long tunnel, which meant that Lake Sevan was not too far away.
The road divided into a two-way highway. It seemed it had rained earlier.
As we descended downhill, the driver appeared sleepy, struggling to keep the car within the lanes.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I think I should rest for fifteen minutes,” he replied.
After we pulled over, and as he slept, I decided to step out of the car. As I opened the door, he startled awake, reaching for his own door.
“No worries,” I said, “I can handle it.”
The sky had shed its tears; I thought it was time to shed mine.
