At the beginning and end of each work day, I look forward to what I’ve come to think of as comfort music. Being able to put on my ipod and tune out the hustle bustle of the streets is fun. The soundtrack to Yerevan, as dj’ed by moi.
(It also helps me tune out the small man in army fatigues guarding the State Assembly who makes hideous kissing noises every time I walk by. I am about 5 inches taller, maybe about 15 pounds heavier, and I think we are looking at a 2:1 thigh ratio that does not come out in your favor, amigo.)
So I was pretty upset when I slipped on the sidewalk and fell onto the hand holding the ipod. The screen went all white with pretty rainbows, but otherwise it works fine. I can skip forward and backward through the playlists, but I never know exactly where I am or what is coming next.
As I sit on the Soviet train to Tbilisi that inexplicably takes 14 hours when you can make it in 4 hours in a car, sitting next to my new friend, the 70 year old pot-bellied man who has just taken off his shirt to sleep in our cozy little compartment, I hope you will indulge me for a minute.
Perhaps life in Armenia, the developing world, on the road, or anywhere away from a place you can comfortably call home, is a little like an ipod with no screen. It’s the same song no matter where you are. What’s different is your ability to see the menu, and control it like you would at home. But with a deep breathe and a little relinquishment of control, my favorite song still comes on, eventually. And surprise and happiness it brings when I finally hear it is a greater reward than if I were to be able to pull it up on a whim.
Hearing the same songs that I listen to in my apartment, my car, while running (figuratively because we all know I quit actually running in late 2003), is at once comforting and homesickness-inducing. In this same way, being so far away from home makes the world feel smaller on one hand, and never more vast on the other.
I’ve felt many times over the past two months that there is nothing new under the sun. Sure, there are new sites to see, people to meet, food to stuff my face with, but we are all engaged in the same basic activities- family, friends, work, births, deaths, holidays, Sunday evenings and pizza, it’s just the script is different. But at the same time, there is never, ever a place that that can fulfill what ‘being home’ does. And accepting this, that as much as you adapt and grow to love your new environment, it will never be home, is what makes the world feel so very, very big.
(It also helps me tune out the small man in army fatigues guarding the State Assembly who makes hideous kissing noises every time I walk by. I am about 5 inches taller, maybe about 15 pounds heavier, and I think we are looking at a 2:1 thigh ratio that does not come out in your favor, amigo.)
So I was pretty upset when I slipped on the sidewalk and fell onto the hand holding the ipod. The screen went all white with pretty rainbows, but otherwise it works fine. I can skip forward and backward through the playlists, but I never know exactly where I am or what is coming next.
As I sit on the Soviet train to Tbilisi that inexplicably takes 14 hours when you can make it in 4 hours in a car, sitting next to my new friend, the 70 year old pot-bellied man who has just taken off his shirt to sleep in our cozy little compartment, I hope you will indulge me for a minute.
Perhaps life in Armenia, the developing world, on the road, or anywhere away from a place you can comfortably call home, is a little like an ipod with no screen. It’s the same song no matter where you are. What’s different is your ability to see the menu, and control it like you would at home. But with a deep breathe and a little relinquishment of control, my favorite song still comes on, eventually. And surprise and happiness it brings when I finally hear it is a greater reward than if I were to be able to pull it up on a whim.
Hearing the same songs that I listen to in my apartment, my car, while running (figuratively because we all know I quit actually running in late 2003), is at once comforting and homesickness-inducing. In this same way, being so far away from home makes the world feel smaller on one hand, and never more vast on the other.
I’ve felt many times over the past two months that there is nothing new under the sun. Sure, there are new sites to see, people to meet, food to stuff my face with, but we are all engaged in the same basic activities- family, friends, work, births, deaths, holidays, Sunday evenings and pizza, it’s just the script is different. But at the same time, there is never, ever a place that that can fulfill what ‘being home’ does. And accepting this, that as much as you adapt and grow to love your new environment, it will never be home, is what makes the world feel so very, very big.
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