When my school director and friend, Varsik, called me up and
asked where I’d like to have my final going away “kef” (Armenian word for
feast/party) with the rest of the teachers from the village, I decided I wanted
to do it in true Armenian style, outside in the elements. The rest of the
school staff that were still in Lehvaz and weren’t in Yerevan or up in the
mountains somewhere at their “dacha” (summer home) at the time comprised mainly
older to middle-aged women, and so there was a bit of hand-wringing that doing
it outside wouldn’t be comfortable, or that the weather would be too cold, etc.
I told them I just wanted to do a traditional khorovats, and reminded them that
it was still summer – early August to be exact – so the opposite of cold. It
took a little bit of convincing, but I didn’t budge on the issue. After all it
was my going away party. Anyway, I’m not too big on going away parties,
especially for myself, and I figured a nice simple outdoor khorovats would be
as painless and unimposing as possible.
On the day of, we met up at the village center. Some of the
usual suspects were there: Ophelia – the school’s elementary Russian teacher;
Valentina – Phys-Ed teacher/Master of soviet-style morning exercises; Rita –
something like Biology; Yana – upper-level Russian teacher; Lusine – the school vice director; and Varsik – school
director. Also in attendance were Samvel, Ophelia’s husband, and Slavik, who
drove some of us there and is also a good friend of mine from the village. The
plan was to head to “Nersesi Aghbyur” in the woods just north of the village,
and set up in one of the many khorovats spots there. (Aghbyur means “water
source” or “spring,” and there is almost always a nearby spring or fountain in
places where Armenians like to cook out and relax). We ran into an unexpected hang-up pretty
quick, though, since all of the good outdoor khorovats spots were already occupied
once we got to Nersesi Aghbyur. I guess there were a lot of birthdays that day,
or son’s being born, or any of the other myriad things Armenians like to cook
out for. This was much to my chagrin, since the whole doing it outdoor in the
elements thing had been completely my idea, and now we couldn’t find a space.
After some discussion, though, I was told that we could go over to “Simoni
Aghbyur” instead, which was apparently another khorovats spot nearby. Despite a
slight tone of reservation in their voices when they talked about going to Simoni
Aghbyur, they seemed pretty sure that it would be free. I couldn’t imagine what
could possibly be wrong with it, and was game.
Simoni aghbyur was definitely free when we got there, the
chief reason being that it was directly on the premises of a small strip club.
Everything clicked in my head pretty fast when I looked into the shabby little
building next to us and saw a single stripper pole and a bunch of creepy
mirrors inside. I laughed out loud and so did Yana, the Russian teacher, when
she saw my reaction. I’d been asked to come here before by men my age in the
village plenty of times, but had always turned them down and never knew exactly
where it was. But besides the depressing, shabby looking strip joint right next
to us, the rest of the grounds were nice. There were woods nearby, and a nice
view of the mountains. There was a fire pit to do khorovats, and a nice big
table for us to sit around. Plus, it was a weeknight and the club was closed,
which was certainly a good thing.
The women got to setting up the table and laying out cakes
and coffee, while Samvel, Slavik and I went over to the fire pit and got the
fire going to barbeque the vegetables and meat. I had put an American style
barbeque rub on the meat (leftover from a care package my mom had sent me a
while back) and had also brought some sweet American barbeque sauce to see what
my Armenian colleagues would think of it. The rest of the teachers had brought
all sorts of homemade goods, from cakes to fresh bread and cheese, to compote. We
had the vegetables and meat done in no time, and were soon seated around the
table and feasting. Slavik went over to buy a liter of homemade vodka from the
proprietor of the strip club, so that we had something to toast with, and also
just to give him some business since we were technically using his property.
The food was delicious, and they loved the American barbeque sauce. A couple of
toasts to me were said right off the bat, which mostly focused on wishing me a
very happy future with a BIG family and lots of kids (Armenians love to give
toasts like that to people my age, and I think there’s a not so subtle sub-text
going on here of “hurry up and get married!”). I toasted back to the school
teachers and staff and thanked them for being great friends and counting me
among them for two years. I truly was going to miss them.
The homemade stuff that Slavik got turned out to be a bit on
the strong side. I was trying to sip it slow after catching a scent of the
fumes. Yana, the only female present who was having vodka, refused to have any
more after her first sip. Slavik wasn’t really drinking it either. Samvel, on
the other hand, was. The old man downed a full glass after each toast, and
after only the first two or three started knocking his glass over. This was
surprising; if a wizened Armenian man like Samvel is showing signs like that,
you know it’s powerful stuff. He then put his arm around me and was mumbling long
winded toasts to me that I didn’t fully understand. His wife, Ophelia, started
shouting at him, “speak up! He doesn’t understand you.” It was no use. He was
not hearing her, and continued to mumble stuff about “my health,” and how I’ve
“done good work.” He’d then raise his glass up as if it was time to toast, but
then some other thought would come to him all of a sudden and he would lower it back
down and continue his muttering for a while.
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