Dsenund

Yesterday was easily one of my favorites in this country so far. But not due to how it started. A more grueling than average Armenian class lasted from the morning until 1pm, during which I was at one point falling briefly asleep, then being suddenly called upon by the teacher in Armenian to answer “what day of the week Tuesday is” I would force the wheels in my head to turn and respond “Tuesday is the third day of the week,” (Yerkooshabtin shabatva yerord orn e) and then slowly drift back out again. Dono know why I was so tired. It comes and goes here like the tide rolling up and down a beach and tries to swallow you in. After classes a discussion with the other volunteers about what to do for the Fourth of July finally made some headway. There was enough positive energy in the room to determine that we’d be buying 10,000 drams worth of fireworks (i.e. the entirety of the budget the Peace Corps gave us to hold this event), have cake and candy and games for the village kids, do some American factoid trivia and then give a speech about what Fourth of July means to us before firing off our modest explosions into the night. Should be pretty great. Two volunteers who have been a bit overwhelmed of late were being consoled in the next room and were not part of the discussion. Hopefully our shenanigans the coming evening will cheer them up.

I came home and started trying to help my family out a bit in preparing for Harutyun’s big dsenund (birthday), for which a ton of family would be coming over in a couple hours. The large, open concrete room which usually houses only Parandzem’s small shrine of Christian icons in a far corner was now filled with tables and benches draped with linens. They were set with cold salads: one of cabbage, corn, carrots, another of cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers, and another fresh dill, basil, green onions. Bottles of vodka, mineral water and soda were being set. Really, all I needed to do at this point was kick back. They had done all of the leg work while I was at class.

Folks started showing up around four and five. One of Harutyun’s uncles brought over a huge, plastic sword with lights and sound effects, but no batteries, or as they call them “element.” Eager to help/communicate/do anything at all really, I ran up to my room, grabbed to double A’s and a screwdriver (which has come in handy multiple times already) and placed them in the sword. It now lit up and made obnoxious laser sounds at the slightest push of a button, and Harut went nuts with it. A good deed done, I think.

The men who had shown up so far and I played cards with my American deck, which they commented on as being very, very nice. I’m pretty sure I picked it up in the checkout lane at a walmart right before I left, for mad cheap. Geras, a man who I had just met, schooled me in Doorak, a game which I’m still picking up the finer strategical points on. I shook his hand and accepted my defeat. The men then attempted to show me another “Haikakan” game to me to no real avail. There was a round of some sort of out of turn wagering before each hand, a number would be written down, and then cards would be laid down in a fashion similar to Hearts, but this was totally not Hearts. I was baffled by it, but the way I see it, I’ve got two years in this country to get awesome at whatever it was.

Finally, we all shuffled inside to start eating. As seems to be customary, I sat at one table with the men, while the women populated another. Around me were Andranik’s sisters’ husbands (he has five) and their sons. Tonya and Parandzem came around with dishes of lamb and potatoes. We feasted, and we toasted.

I should mention that the toasting of vodka shots is an affair that happens multiple times at almost every dinner I eat with my family, and the nuances of the toasting, while always there, are particularly pronounced on occasions like this. Before taking a single bite of food your shot glass is filled for you by one of the men at the table. This continues happening until the meal is over or you make it absolutely clear that you do not want to drink anymore. A man will raise his glass and begin uttering his two cents, and all others follow his lead and raise their glasses in unison as he speaks. All then clink their glasses together, each one making sure to touch everyone else’s glass to his before drawing his glass back toward himself. At this point another man will often pipe up, offering his piece on something that he feels should not be forgotten. Glasses are then clinked once again in approval and drawn back in. A general muttering ensues, finally someone puts the glass to their lips, and all see this and take down the shot together. A quick, one speech, one clink and then take the shot toast almost never occurs. At least two and some times three or four rounds of speaking and clinking the glasses before drinking them is more common.

A really great part of Armenian drinking culture is that these toasts, whether they are with wine, beer or vodka, are pretty much the drinking that is done, and they are only done during meals. In other words you can only get as drunk as the length of the meal allows, during which time you are also stuffing yourself with lamb and chicken and greens and potatoes and lavash and other absorbent stuff. And then you’re done. By the end of the meal you should feel a little light headed, maybe buzzed, but not sloshed by any means at all. And that’s exactly how I felt on Harut’s birthday.

I exited out into the fresh air and sat down for a long, hilarious conversation in broken language with three of Andranik’s nephews around my age. We were brought coffee and one of the nephews, Geras, started very excitedly asking me what coffee was like in America and how I drank it there. I told them I drank it black, and they nodded in approval. This conversation sounds like it would last about 30 seconds, but it actually took about 10 minutes or longer because of repeated miscommunications and laughter. We were getting pretty silly. A lot of other side talk ensued and they complemented me on my improving Armenian skills. I told them it was because of the vodka, which was totally true. Drinking, to a point, is probably the most effective language aid I know of.

A godsend showed up now in the form of Vrooyr, Andranik’s neice’s husband. A man of about 30, he manages two hotels in Yerevan, had lived in California for four years, and spoke perfect English and Armenian. He came over, sat across from me, introduced himself and then in so many words asked me what the hell I was doing in Armenia. I’ve gotten pretty good at answering this question. We got to talking and he pretty quickly warmed up to me, to the whole idea of this American living and learning amongst the people in this village, picking up their language and becoming a teacher in the fall.

Since more family had now arrived, we headed back into the dining hall for round two, not even two hours after finishing the previous meal. The tables had been re-stocked. I ate a bunch more lamb and lavash and greens and cheese, and drinks were poured. Andranik made one toast to the men of the Armenian military, past and present. For another one, I took advantage of having Vyooyr next to me and had him express my gratitude –much more eloquently than I would have been able to—to Andranik and to his family for being so blindly welcoming to this wandering American. We toasted to my translated words and I have to say it was a great feeling. I wasn’t with any Americans at the time. I had no one to relate with really that had had any similar life experiences at all. I just felt like I was actually at home in Armenia and immersed and content. I was proud of myself, I guess.

Arevik, Andranik’s 21 year old niece who has multiple times dropped some really unsubtle hints about getting married (I was warned this sort of thing would happen here) was smiling at me coyly from across the room at the women’s table. She had no idea that there was matsun (Armenian yogurt) on the outer edge of her bottom lip. I smiled back, almost laughing, deciding not to let her know.

I exited the food kingdom again for the fresh air and started chatting it up seriously with Vrooyr. I don’t usually take a liking to a guy so quickly, or vice versa. I told him he was a smart dude for mastering English so completely without much formal instruction at all. He told me I was smarter, but I think he was just being Armenian. We had more coffee, of course.

The night rolled on. I was in a deadly good mood. We were done drinking, which was just as well because any more and I would have passed on from the “I’m actually better at speaking Armenian right now” phase and moved into the “I sound pretty dumb right now” phase. We drank coffee and chatted, Vroory translating for me flawlessly. The stars came up. The pleasant wind that hits Nurnus every night during the summer nights like clockwork came in like clockwork. Arevik kept giving me looks, except that without yogurt on her face it made me a bit more uncomfortable. I danced with the kids for a song and as some of the last guests were leaving I said my goodbyes and said goodnight, saying something to Andranik that sounded along the lines of “This Birthday…very good!”

I wanted to hit the sack, but not before calling someone from my own family. Michael picked up, and we rattled away about our lives for 700 dram or so’s worth of time, which was something like 40 minutes. The nice day with my Armenian family had left me pining for my own, and talking to Michael really rounded me out. He’s having a good summer. I think I am too.