Friendship Sandwich

Amidst all the changes happening in Georgia and its great progressive strides, there is something distinctively non-Western about Tbilisi. Culture aside, the city is still not instinctively accessible. In my experience (a disclaimer that should probably proceed every sentence here), if you aren’t from here, you’ll probably need help getting around, at least at first. I wouldn’t feel comfortable, for instance, landing at the airport, picking up a rental car and cruising around the city. It is the kind of place where people pick you up at the airport.

Paid travel, even budget-NGO travel, is quite a different experience from real shoestring budget travel. Not taking public transportation to and from the airport is kind of amazing, as are budgeted airport meals, nice to very-nice hotels, having a justification for buying wifi other than witty facebook updates. But, I can feel it’s making me travel-soft. When faced with a free night in Tbilisi, I found myself thinking- but, but, how will we find a restaurant? Or order without a Georgian escort? 2008 Becky-in-Armenia would scoff at this new incapableness. With a free weekend on hand, I decided to head down to Yerevan for the weekend on one of the minibuses.

The cities are only about 4.5 hours apart, but the train takes an inexplicable eight hours and flights divert through Istanbul. So minibus it was. They are dirty and smell musty old cigarettes. My friend negotiated my fare and made some phone calls for me, including to the Armenian friend I was meeting, and then we said goodbye. I got the seat next to the driver so as to protect my delicate constitution. Although the driver spoke about 4 languages, none were the 1.3 that I lay claim to, so we resorted to dramatic gesturing. The first important thing, of course, was to put my seatbelt on. The only problem was that the seatbelt didn’t work. It was so broken that they had duct taped something heavy to the end to make it stay, and putting it on involved slinging it across my body and snuggling it down into the seat. Now I can’t be sure why the driver was so adamant that I put on my fake seatbelt before we left, but he was. This leads me to think that maybe there’s some financial penalty for not wearing a seatbelt that might be vaguely enforceable. For anyone who read my 2008 posts about driving in the region, this is nothing short of incredible progress toward vehicular safety. Baby steps, baby steps.

We’re in the minivan cruising to Yerevan, and the driver is really maximizing our time together by simultaneously texting, changing the music, smoking a cigarette, and driving us through windy mountain roads. Thank goodness for the seatbelt. I got quite worried because we got stuck at the border or an extra two hours and I was very late for my Armenian friend to pick me up. My phone stopped working in Armenia and I wasn’t sure how I was going to find her. But on wild adventures, these things happen. I would use my wits to figure it out. We finally pulled into Yerevan and I hopped out to see my friend waiting for me! I was very happy to see her and after a hug or two, I asked if she had been waiting long. She asked why she would have been waiting, and I said because we’re two hours late, of course. She laughed and said, “Becky, I’ve been texting with the driver since you left Yerevan.” Oh.

The weekend in Yerevan was lovely. We didn’t do much but laugh, talk, and catch up. And eat! Both nights we had elaborate meals that started around 12:30 am. On Saturday night, her family came up from the village. At the dinner table, the conversation flows quickly and easily and there wasn’t much time for translation. Her family is so wonderful and loving, it’s a pleasure to just sit back and observe. The next morning, I was wedged in between her grandmother and uncle from the village, munching on leftovers for breakfast. I noticed that they had matching large, deep purple bruises. When I asked what happened, they launched into a long story about how ornery the bull was yesterday.

On the way back, I found myself in the front seat again. A woman leaned over the back seat and handed the driver a homemade sandwich made from lavash and dried meat. The bread was from a grungy bag and the woman’s hands were filthy. Next, she handed me a sandwich. It was such a sweet gesture but I was thrown into a slight panic trying to decide if I’d be able to stomach a few bites of the dirty, weird meat sandwich. Images of pure frozen yogurt and clean salads raced through my head. But this here was friendship rolled up in a smelly little package. I took a couple bites and it was surprisingly good. Then I passed back the rest of my bag of cherries.