Dilijan Mountains

And this is where I sat, nearly motionless, for three days and three nights.

The Big Fat Armenian Reunion

It's the only way to describe what it's like to return to Armenia from year to year -- A Big Fat Reunion. You can't prepare for it, even if you try. It's best to just jump in without looking. Once you're there, it's a fast and furious process of figuring out what is going on.

There's the person who remembers you like a sister, but whose name you couldn't recall if someone paid you. There's the excitement about seeing so many baregamner (relatives), and the desperate escapes to another room, a bathroom, anywhere, to have a moment of peace and quiet. There's the fact that people may not know where you live now, but they may remember your last Facebook update.

Every walk down the street is a parade and it may very well result in an unexpected table full of food at someone's house. Every conversation either completely fills you or completely depletes you, depending on the other person and the topic. Every person seems like blood kin one moment and a complete stranger the next.

There is no consistency in what you feel at The Big Fat Armenian Reunion. The only constant is that you're grateful to be there. You're grateful to be a part of the wonderful madness.

Weather

Overlooking Tbilisi, Georgia
from the Holy Trinity Cathedral

Over the past month, I've been in three countries and have experienced nothing but beautiful weather by conventional standards. I mean the kind of weather that makes you believe that all is well with the world, that no one is being killed anywhere, that all children are safe and warm and fed.

I describe it as conventional because I was raised in a different sort of weather culture. In a city, weeks of sunny days, an occasional light mist, and a gently caressing breeze is the definition of good living. On a farm, it's suspect.

As a farmer, you assume an enormous risk by depending on something entirely out of your control: Mother Nature. While she collaborates some years better than others, it is rare to be entirely in synch. And so my dad would send me outside to check the rain guage during a downpour, either hopeful for more or hopeful for less, depending. I would duck down while I looked, wondering what object lighting might strike before me, and then run inside to report my findings.

Timing is everything with weather. We want rain for the crops to grow, but not too much, and never too hard because that will break the plants or flood the fields, and certainly no hail, and no rain before the harvest because it will lower the value of the crop and it will be expensive to dry in storage before selling it, and no rain between harvesting the grain and baling the straw otherwise the bales will rot and mold and the cows may not eat it, and God forbid there's a tornado or a flash flood.

Do you follow me?

It's not easy to be happy about any weather, really. Viewing weather through the lens of a farmer puts a person in a perpetual low grade state of anxiety. When will it rain? Why is it raining? Did you hear about the hail? I hope we don't get any hail.

But today, today I love the weather. It's hot in Tbilisi, Georgia, but it's beautiful. Today I want to believe that all is well with the world.

At home in Cape Town

About 14 years ago I had a thoroughly unplanned and remarkable journey from Yerevan, Armenia to Athens, Greece. Naturally, I met other travelers while in Athens, including a guy from South Africa who was participating in an international debate tournament. We exchanged email addresses, as one does with many people on the road, without much thought about it.

Some months later I was living in Budapest and I'd accrued enough frequent flyer miles to fly to Cape Town, where he and his roommate were students at the university. Done deal.

My time there was lovely, complete with a wine tour, a visit to Cape Point, the ferry to Robbin Island, walks through the markets, a concert at the botanical garden, and a hilltop viewing of the sun setting into the sea.

But all of that loveliness was fairly eclipsed by a singular event. After visiting the botanical garden, my friend suggested that I practice driving his car so I could use it the following day. This was completely unexpected. The idea of driving on the right side of the road terrified me. Despite my better judgment, I sat in the car (on the right side) and put my hand on the stick shift (on the left side) and started driving.

He told me to take a left. Certain that I would crash in the other lane, I hugged the curb. Well, given the screeching sound of metal against the curb, it would be accurate to say that I did something more destructive than hug it. Paralyzed, I kept driving ahead until I had done all the damage that could be done: two flat tires. And then I stopped.

Mortified, I stood outside while my host and his friend changed not one but two tires. The next day I gave him enough cash to buy two new ones. I could tell he felt bad taking the money, but I considered $70 a fairly inexpensive South African driving lesson.

The lesson? Take a taxi.

MPR Commentary - July 18, 2012

My recent commentary on MPR.

Accepting Help

I have a theory. My theory is that as generous as people from the U.S. might be, we are reluctant to accept help from anyone else. I've tested the theory in airports. If you want to replicate it, try offering to help someone who seems overwhelmed by children, baggage, or a combination thereof. The experiment is probably best conducted by women, for women, to remove the element of the Weird Male Stranger.

Time and time again, I've offered to carry something for people who look like they could use a hand. Several times, people have willingly handed me their kid. There was a time I carried a child all the way to their next gate. Recently, a woman gave me her baby while she completed customs paperwork with my pen. Others yet have let me carry their bag or push their stroller to the ends of the earth.

Each time this happened, though, I realized the same thing: They're not from the U.S. In fact, any time I've offered to help someone native to the U.S. with their bags or otherwise, they've politely declined, even though they looked like a disaster. As Americans, it would seem, we don't need or want any help. And certainly not if we grew up hearing "Stranger Danger."

Sure, there may be differences between rural and urban U.S., but I believe the theory generally holds water. I find it strange at best, and self-defeating at worst. Maybe we should all repeat kindergarten to revist the values of helping and being helped.

And naps.

Welcome to Tbilisi

This woman may look harmless to you, but I can assure you, she's got plans. As I approached the door of an Armenian church in Tbilisi, Georgia this afternoon to see if my friend was inside, this innocent-looking grandmotherly woman lept out of nowhere and threw water on me! My mind raced: "I know church protocol, so I didn't enter the church with a sleeveless dress. What did I do wrong? Why is she doing this to me?" And then I remembered. Today is Vardavar, a festival celebrated 14 weeks after Easter, during which people drench each other with water. You see that bottle she's holding? Now you know.

I watched her sneak up behind several other people before leaving, and I avoided any more Armenian sites for the day. I'd been cleansed enough.

Country Road Driving for Urbanites

There are a few things The Urbanite should know about country roads before driving them. I was reminded of them last week while back on the farm in North Dakota.

First, a safety lesson, because safety comes first. You may think the country is completely flat and that you'll always see an oncoming car, but it isn't and you won't. How is it, then, that people continue to barrel down the road at 60 miles an hour? It's about dust. If there's an oncoming car, or one that's ahead of you, you'll see a cloud of dust in the air and you'll know it's time to slow down. If it's raining, you can't depend on the dust, so don't drive like a maniac.

Second, a mechanics lesson, because you're hurtling down the road in a big machine. Living in the city, one forgets that there are in fact two options for headlights: dim and bright. On the dark back roads, you'll squint your eyes into cataracts if you don't use your brights. I forget sometimes, and then, once I remember to use them, I forget to turn them off when a car is coming toward me, so I'm surely damaging the eyesight of someone else.

And third, an etiquette lesson, because country people are a courteous lot. When you're driving the roads where I grew up, you won't see many other cars on the road (which makes the earlier two points rarely relevant, but important nonetheless). When you do -- pay attention, because this is critical -- it is polite to wave. Yes, wave. Okay, don't wave like a schoolchild in the back of a bus. Simply lift one or two fingers from the steering wheel to acknowledge the other driver. If you're feeling ambitious, tilt your head back just a little as you raise your fingers. It's a simple act of recognition.

That concludes today's lesson in Country Road Driving for Urbanites. Stay tuned for more advice you never asked to hear.

Where I'm From

A piece about my hometown area published in the Armenian Weekly.

Moment of Peace III

A path through the pasture.

Fillmore History and Pictures

My hometown -- Fillmore, North Dakota -- celebrated its centennial with great enthusiasm this past week. Actually, it was the 100^th anniversary of the moving of Fillmore. It was first founded in 1904 as a stagecoach stop a half mile south of this now-ghost town (save for one full-time resident). The stagecoach delivered mail and passengers between Knox and Esmond (which is vastly more public transit than exists today).

Eight years later, Fillmore graduated to a train stop along the Soo Line, which was laid in 1912. In 1911, landowners like my great-grandmother sold strips of land to accommodate the railroad. The railroad moved the steam shovel from Esmond (which is not on the line) through an arduous process of laying a section of rail, driving the length, and then moving the previous section in front to drive further. For ten long miles. 

In 1950, Fillmore had a population of about 95 people, which was bigger than nearby Harlow, a town of just 90 people. It’s said that at its peak, Fillmore was home to 150 people. Most people made a living through farming or working with the railroad. It was named by those who had initially immigrated to Fillmore County, Minnesota, which was named for former U.S. president Millard Fillmore, and who later came to North Dakota.

Over the years, the town was served by a depot, a bank, two grocery stores, a hotel, a café, two bars, an implement dealership, Lutheran and Catholic churches, a blacksmith and mechanic shop, gas stations, a barbershop, a hardware store, stockyards, and three elevators. It was a different place in my childhood.

Until the middle of the 20th century, area children were educated in a four-room schoolhouse that taught 1^st through 12^th grades, and the school bell can still be heard on the bell-tower at Niewoehner’s Funeral Home in Rugby, North Dakota. A spirited community, Fillmore also had a town baseball team that competed against other legion teams in the area and, in the 20s and 30s, a band that performed all over the state. 

Here are some pictures from the event. A piece about it is forthcoming... 

It's rumored that they were called the City Band.

Fillmore was a farming and railroad town.

Who knew that Fillmore ever had street names?

Roast pork and beef suppers attracted several hundred people.

That's a parking sign.

The blacksmith shop.

No caption necessary.

The parade float my dad made.

Livestock trailers were the perimeter for the street dances.

Over 1,000 people attended the Johnny Holm band concert on a perfect Saturday evening.

Cultural Remittances

Here's my recent piece in the Armenian Weekly.

Cultural Blunders and Other Such Mishaps

A few years ago, I received a fellowship for global research and travel that was sponsored by a sparkly woman named Ann. Just the other day, she asked if I have any recommendations of questions to ask the new fellows during an upcoming luncheon. "How was your research and travel?" doesn't always inspire the most dynamic answers, so I proposed: "What was the dumbest (i.e. most ignorant) thing you did during your travels?"

Everyone should have an answer to that, I expect, if they're being honest. A story from years ago popped into my mind. My friend, Gayane, and I had been walking down the road by a village in northern Armenia. En route, we encountered a number of people who I cheerfully greeted and wished a Happy Easter. They returned my greetings with straight faces and possibly confused looks, which I attributed to cultural differences, and then congratulated myself on bringing good cheer to this ancient land. As it turned out, they were in a funeral procession. What an idiot.

Cross-cultural mistakes aren't always about such public blunders. They can also be about what you don't say or do that is ultimately self-defeating. Like when I stayed with a woman in a village in Botswana. Getting a glass of water was more of a hassle there than what I was accustomed to, since it involved a walk across the sandy village to the communal wells. I'm certain that my host had drinking water somewhere in her home, but it was the middle of the night and I was too polite to wake her to ask, so I dipped my glass into a container of water not knowing from whence it came. That, as my intestines proved again and again for two days, was a bad decision. That, more precisely, was dish water.

And then there are the times when a person needs to navigate a situation more carefully in order to avoid public or private mishaps. I did just that at a meal in a Kyrgyz village, where they slaughtered a sheep for a celebration. Over the course of the day, they described how every part of the animal would be served in some way. That became oh-so-clear when they presented an artfully prepared dish in the form of a duck, made from intestines, stomach, and a carrot. I asked someone to pass the fruit.

My tack was largely the same when the brain was mixed with spaghetti and passed around the yurt, but I did play with my food to give the appearance of consumption. Fortunately I was not the honored guest at this meal. The honored among us were served eyeballs and ears, along with sage advice.

For my part, I considered the yurt meal to be a success. Maybe you think I missed out on an important cross-cultural moment by sticking to fruit and breads. Au contraire. The way I see the world, some people are willing to eat eyeballs and some people are not. It's as simple as that.

Though, looking back, I probably could have used the advice.

Fillmore: Then and Now

Just three generations called Fillmore home over the past 100 years. Here are some images of the past we'll be enjoying this weekend. The Fillmore Centennial & All-School Reunion will be the quintessential small-town celebration, complete with two street dances, exhibits, vendors, beer gardens, roast pork supper, roast beef supper, parade, exhibits, ecumenical church service, AND a demolition derby.

Jealous?