meeting halfway

 There's a phenomenon I used to call the "cute American discount," and I've experienced it almost everywhere in the world I've traveled, but I think it may need to be renamed.  At 44, I'm closer to crone than maiden, so I don't get to call myself "cute" anymore; most people don't clock that I'm from the US, instead guessing all kinds of other nationalities; and it doesn't always involve money. Let's call it the "earnest foreigner phenomenon."

This usually happens outside the cosmopolitan cities, in places where foreigners are less a quotidian part of the landscape. Recently, a classic earnest foreigner phenomenon occurred on my solo trip to Lake Sevan. On a warm, sunny Friday, the peninsula was packed, and the stairs up to the monastery complex were full of tourists speaking Armenian, German, Russian, Italian. At each landing on the staircase, a local vendor was hawking souvenirs and trinkets, but not a lot of commerce seemed to be happening. 

On my way up, I was struck by one vendor's display of bells hanging in the tree across the path from her booth. When I stopped to admire them on my way down, the woman popped up from her chair to come talk to me about them. 

Ի՞նչ արժի սա: -- I asked the cost, pointing to a bright silvery bell with a delicate pattern on its shallow cap.

Յութ հազար դրամ: -- she replied, apologetically, like she thought her own price was too high. Then she pointed to a different, less shiny, smaller bell that was only 5,000 drams instead of 7,000 (400 drams to 1 USD, so all of this is less than $20).

Նու...ես սիրում եմ սա զոնգ: -- I affirmed my choice of the first silvery bell, and reached into my bag for my wallet. 

When we moved back across the path toward the booth, the woman I had been talking to spoke to someone I hadn't noticed had been lying on a pallet in the shade of the sales table. 

Ես եմ վատ, շատ վատ: -- This second women wasn't feeling well in the heat, but was clearly the one the booth really belonged to. 

կներեկ, կներեկ ինձ: -- I tried to apologize for disturbing her rest, but I was at the end of my Armenian, and didn't want to switch to Russian. The women deflected the apology, and we exchanged cash and change. 

My new bell tucked safely in my bag, I navigated a glut of tourists to resume the trip down.

Ա՜ղջիկ, ա՜ղջիկ: -- I heard the voice of the first woman calling "Girl, girl!" and turned to look. She waved at me, so I went back up to the landing, filing away the information that it's possible to use this word for adult women this way in Armenian. When I got there, she gestured to a board full of souvenir magnets, and when I didn't respond quickly enough, she chose one and presented it to me with some words I didn't catch. 

Շնորհակալուտյու՜ն, շնորհակալուտյուն շա՜տ: -- I thanked her as I accepted the magnet, and we smiled at each other and waved again as again started down once more. 

Now, these women are old enough that they probably attended school in the Armenian Soviet Socialist Republic and likely speak excellent Russian. Given the location of this souvenir stand in a tourist zone, they may even have basic commerce English or other European languages. But when I started the interaction in Armenian, even though my Armenian is limited and riddled with errors, they stayed in that language. I didn't start the interaction by speaking in Russian or English and expect them to join me there. I took the step out of my comfort zone into their language. And they appreciated that I tried.* 

And now, in addition to this bell hanging from the arm of my Lamp that Stands and the magnet on my refrigerator, I also have the memory of a warm interaction with two strangers in a language I am struggling to learn. The earnest foreigner phenomenon.

It happened again the next week while I was traveling with Chris & Kendra. On our last day in the Lori region, we hiked from the town of Kobayr in the bottom of the Debed Canyon up to a twelfth-century monastery built into the canyon wall, which is currently under restoration. The hike is a kilometer of relatively gentle rise on a one-lane unpaved track and then a hundred feet of stairs.

Three separate times we had to press ourselves into the underbrush at the edges of the road to allow the restoration crew's vehicles to pass. And as we got to the bottom of the stairs, they were taking turns bringing themselves and their materials up in a very scary construction elevator. 

The Kobayr Monastery complex is amazing in its current state, and I can only imagine what glory this crew will restore as they continue their work. 

We explored the main level chapel, churchyard, and the base of the bell tower slowly, taking in the intricate carving and well-fitted stonework. 

Eventually, Kendra and I made our way to the next terrace up the stairs between the bell tower and the canyon wall. We were happy to admire the view, then these guys caught my eye and waved at me.  

We're being invited into the bell tower.--I said to Kendra, and we made our way in. 

The restoration crew, men ranging in age from twenty-something to sixty-something and one young boy, had created an impromptu picnic table and had a common lunch spread out before them--tomato and cucumber, brown bread and lavash, smoked fish, smoked meat, local cheese. 

One of the younger men, standing up, held out a bottle of clear liquid toward me, a question in his eyebrows. I nodded my head, stepped closer, and held out my hand to take the porcelain demitasse cup he poured into. 

Это водка или самогон? -- I turned to the table and asked if I was about to drink homebrew or the commercial stuff. I would have drunk it either way, of course, but I would have steeled myself for the usual harsh tang of homebrew.

Водка! Водка конечно! -- the younger man turned the bottle and pointed at the official label, looking a bit affronted, but the older men laughed, and one of them winked at me conspiratorially so that I knew that he knew that this was not my first rodeo. 

 

I drank and handed back the demitasse cup. They offered more. 

Спасибо, но нет -- I demurred -- я за рулем, and I made the steering wheel gesture to reinforce that I was the day's driver. 

Ну тогда надо что-нибудь съесть! -- they insisted I take something to eat, and I reached in to nab a ripe, juicy wedge of tomato. 

We chatted more in Russian. They asked about where we were from--all of us from Washington, DC, but I live in Yerevan. For ten months already. Yes, I've studied Russian for years and lived in Moscow. 

I asked about the restoration project--they've been at it for a while, but they're making progress. They enjoy the work. 

When Chris made it up to top of the bell tower to join us, the younger man stood again and offered the bottle. 

You're being offered vodka. -- I explained -- You should take it because it's really good. 

Chris accepted the offered cup and, to his credit, emptied the generous pour in one shot, earning respect from the table, who all gestured toward the food. 

You have to chase it with a snack. -- I interpreted, and Chris took a morsel, nodding his thanks to the crew. 

We spent a few more minutes admiring the view and taking pictures, and the crew went back to their meal. 

Շնորհակալուտյու՜ն, շնորհակալուտյուն շա՜տ: -- I thanked them in Armenian as we left. 

That initial gesture by the younger man with the vodka bottle was a test, and as the older men surmised, this was not my first rodeo. Vodka, stereotypically speaking, is a men's drink. Russian women, at least the respectable ones of my generation and older, often don't drink vodka, or at least not in the company of men. In my travels on overnight trains, in regional cities, and in remote villages throughout the former Soviet Union, I've found that my willingness to violate this stereotype--sometimes shot for shot--usually leads to good conversation, impromptu language lessons, and lots of stories.

On this day, Chris and I passed the test, and now both we and they have fun stories to tell. Us about the oddity of doing vodka shots with strangers in the ruins of a twelfth century monastery. And them about the Americans! who came to their monastery and drank with them. 

Had I been carrying any food in my backpack--even just the dried fruit, corn cakes, and chocolate Kendra and I had stashed in the car a lot of stairs and a kilometer away--I would have added it to the table, and they would have made room for us. That story would have been even better. 

These kinds of moments of connection don't happen to me every day. I never expect them, but at this point, I'm not surprised. I can feel an interaction starting to go in this direction and do my best to stay open to the possibilities. It is invariably worth meeting people halfway. 

_______________________

*They may also have appreciated that I didn't haggle, which I generally don't do because 1) I hate it, and 2) my salary is well above the local average so I can afford not to. Not haggling is an act of social justice.