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Published: July 17th 2006
Sneaky Peet
The remnants of my two pound bag of Peets hiding under the cabinet.Each morning I pull myself out of bed, shuffle into the kitchen, and light a burner. I can usually do this without opening my eyes. This morning the match burned down to my fingers before I realized something was wrong. No gas. I'm good at thinking under stress. It must be from my days working as an orderly in the ER. Even in my half conscious state my mind quickly mapped out plan B: Art Bridge.
Every Third World capitol has an Art Bridge. In Colombo it was Deli France, in Harare it was Italian Bakery. This is the cafe where the ex-pats hang out, the little European oasis that serves decent cappuccino and maybe croissants. I normally avoid Art Bridge, but I was desperate for a caffeine fix. The local coffee, essentially Turkish coffee, is okay for sitting in a cafe looking cool drinking from a tiny cup, but only if you have already had a couple of cups of American coffee. I brought a two-pound bag of Peet's with me. It's part of my standard travel kit. I keep it hidden in my apartment in case a nosey Californian visits. But you do need to add hot water,
sidewalk cafe
There are about 10 sidewalk cafes on every street. and for that you need gas. I considered building a campfire on the balcony using my landlady's Russian books for kindling. That would be Plan C.
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On my way to Art Bridge it finally happened. Someone stopped me and in halting English asked for directions. Like Odysseus, lost is my normal state. Paradoxically, when you're always lost, you always know where everything is. Successfully giving directions to someone in a foreign city is always a milestone, like losing your virginity. It means you are no longer the most lost person.
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Scorpion check-- I have do this every night before crawling under my sheets. Yerevan is infested with them.
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I am going to Georgia tomorrow with my friend, Liesel. She is married to my colleague, Jason. He and their two kids will be staying behind, so it's just the two of us. It's a little weird, but the past 18 months have taught me that not everything in life has an explanation.
I got Armen to help me call a few hotels in Tbilisi and beyond. Among other things, he is kind of a facilitator for visiting faculty at AUA. After
Pedestrian's view
And they don't stop for pedestrians! each call he burst out laughing. I finally asked what was so funny. "It's the Georgians," he said choking back his laughter. "They're so stupid. It's a catastrophe. They were part of the Soviet Union for 70 years and they still can't speak Russian!" It's almost a cliché in the Caucuses: the Armenians make fun of the Georgians for being stupid and the Georgians make fun of the Azeris for begin stupid. I wonder who the Azeris make fun of.
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Yet another consequence of drinking too much: I got a call Thursday from a woman asking when my article would be ready. Apparently during my drunken hootenanny with Santa over the Fourth I promised the literary editor of some Russian magazine that I'd write an article on "Armenia as seen through the eyes of an outsider." I was pleasantly surprised to learn that I didn't promise to write the article in Russian.
Speaking of "Santa," I also got a call from his helper. He wants to reunite the two of us tonight at Artak's apartment for dinner and "interesting conversations." I asked if there would be vodka there. "I assume so," he answered.
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my park 1
This is the playground in the dilapidated city park I walk through on my way to work everyday. This week I gave a talk on "Software Entropy" at Virage Logic. According to the terms of my Fulbright I'm supposed to be dividing my time between the local universities and software companies. So far I've given one public lecture and I've visited a few software companies where tentative plans were made for a seminar or workshop, but so far Virage is the only one to follow through.
About 40 people attended my talk. Maybe five were intrigued; maybe another five were skeptical. The rest looked bored.
After the talk I had coffee with their manager of software development. He told me stories about computing during Soviet times. Of course in America we teach our students the standard history of the subject: the fist mainframe, the first mini-computer, the first microcomputer, etc. But the Soviet Union was an alternate universe. For the most part it was a dysfunctional universe where floppy disks had a life expectancy of three to five days, and instead of allowing Soviet engineers to design computers from scratch, some pinhead from central planning decreed that all computers would be built from stolen plans for the IBM 360. These machines never worked properly and consequently
my park 2
A park bench in my park. retarded the advancement of Soviet science. No wonder we won the Cold War.
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I got to experience Soviet bureaucracy first hand this week. It was like slamming into a solid wall, a solid stupid pointless wall.
My return home takes me through St. Petersburg and Amsterdam, two cities I've always wanted to visit. I already have the plane tickets; all I need is a tourist visa for Russia. I read
Lonely Planet: St. Petersburg. They warned that getting the visa could be a challenge. For one thing, a letter of invitation is needed. This is a holdover from Soviet times, but isn't a big deal now because most Russian hotels will provide you with a letter when you make a reservation. So I made a reservation and as promised, the hotel faxed an invitation.
The Russian embassy only issues visas on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 9 AM to 11 AM. I teach Monday and Friday mornings, so I showed up at 9 AM sharp last Wednesday, armed with all of the required documents.
I knew that I was in trouble as soon as I got out of the taxi and saw a huge
Eastern Whitehouse
This is the presidential palace. It's across the street from my park. mob rioting at the embassy gate. I had a flashback: the NLF was advancing on the outskirts of Saigon and the last helicopter was about to leave from the roof of the American embassy. I joined the mob. For two hours I got poked and jostled by little old ladies desperate for visas. Every half hour a surly official would come to the gate and scold us in Russian. Finally, a few minutes before 11, after he scolded us he invited Americans needing a visa to come in. I dusted myself off and bid a haughty farewell to the peasants around me.
Once inside I was instructed to fill out a two-page form. It was like taking the GRE: name/DOB/citizenship, father's name/DOB/citizenship, wife's name/DOB/citizenship (even if divorced), all schools attended, all jobs held, all countries visited, all special skills potentially useful to Russia. Dates, addresses, and contact numbers for schools and jobs were to be squeezed into half-inch long blank spaces. And finally: have you ever participated in or been the victim of an armed conflict?
I finished, shook off my writer's cramp, and presented my papers to a woman behind a bulletproof window. She spent 20 minutes
communism = fascism?
Not sure what the message is here. CNN reported that skin heads were ruling the streets of Petersburg. Maybe it's starting in Yerevan, too. scrutinizing my documents. Finally, she looked up, slid the papers back to me, and calmly said, "Visa denied."
"And why?" I asked, somewhat bemused.
"A faxed invitation is unacceptable," the robot replied. "We must have the original."
"But you see, the hotel is in Russia." I calmly explained. "It would take weeks for the original to arrive by regular mail. This is Armenia for God's sake, it might never arrive by regular mail, and I doubt any hotel is willing to send an invitation by overnight courier."
"A faxed invitation is unacceptable," the robot replied. "We must have the original."
"And what additional information would you expect to glean from the original?" I asked. "Look, it's a hotel, not a missile base. I have a reservation, and this fax says so."
"A faxed invitation is unacceptable," the robot replied. "We must have the original."
No wonder the Chechens are rebelling, I muttered to myself. I was talking to an implacable wall. At least there wasn't much at stake, just a few plane tickets. In the back of my mind I was already conjuring tourist brochures for Prague. But I was also well aware
Republic Square
This is the hub of Yerevan. that if I had been born in a slightly different time and place, I might be spending the rest of my life in Siberia because my damned invitation was faxed instead of original.
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I did call the hotel in Russia to ask if they would send me the original by DHL. A robot answered the phone and said: "Nyet! A faxed invitation
is acceptable."
So now what? Maybe I'll have to apply for Armenian citizenship. A friend of a friend introduced me to someone who owns a travel agency in Yerevan. I went to his office. He said that if I give him my passport and $350 he could get me a visa in three working days. I'll be out of the country this week and next, so I'll need my passport. I'm scheduled to leave for Russia five working days after I return, so it will be tight. I slipped a brochure for Prague in my pocket as I walked out the door.
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henny
non-member comment
another laugh
Yeah, Jon's blog is here to read! You made my morning. What a great way to learn about Armenia!