Beyond Armenian Eyes

Beyond Armenian Eyes I have always been asked about how I feel myself, a Bulgarian, or an Armenian.

Despite the obvious –yan suffix to my surname, my answer to this question has caused clear tension and barefaced fierceness which have been so visible that even made me question the validity of my words especially after hearing the same question again and again from people belonging to different social classes in the country that is my mother country only because I was born there. Nevertheless, the truth about the question is not in the answer, but it is rather in the question itself, a smart person once said. Thus, if you think that you are a little bit intelligent, and even if you are not, you should put great efforts in finding your own answer, which is far more important than any public explanations. That is the emotional journey I set out on about a year ago.

The Armenian Diaspora around the world constantly faces the same appreciative looks, the same reproaches and murmur about the lack of clarity of the situation. Further regretfully, this feeling is more clearly visible in society, rather than in the sympathy or understanding a deep and wounded human history. Never have pride and self-respect as typical Armenian traits allowed Armenians to bend or to stay quiet under the pressure of the facts of the tragic events of 1915 that have scarred the hearts of millions, the hearts of a whole nation. A matter of honor.

The past can hardly be forgotten. Even those who do not want to acknowledge it, but rather want to forget it, change it, clear it, besmirch it, burn it like a parchment, making it a breath of air, a wind that is carrying the ash of the outrageous disgrace away. Politics is politics. The truth, however, cannot be hidden despite someone’s illusion that truth can be concealed or lost. Thankfully, the violated honor of the victims of the massacres has been redeemed, at least in twenty-one countries who acknowledge this historical fact officially.

But where do these moans and dissatisfied faces towards the Armenian which is born, lives, and studies in the distant from Armenia Republic of Bulgaria come from?

How could she dare not to accept herself as Bulgarian since she is part of everything here? This is the fate of eight million people, the people of the Armenian Diaspora located on the five continents. The questions raised by my answer that I am a 100% Armenian follow one after another like a product of the protective function of the Bulgarian national identity. There is nothing personal about it. A person always admires his home because his life history and development have been supported by this place.

In fact, being born as a minority, whose deep pain and call for justice flow like venom in the blood, is not an easy life. Although I am a fourth generation Armenian descendent, the origin can never be forgotten, and everyone keeps it and protects it deep inside himself.

Would it be for good, would it be for bad, there are as many connections as divisions between different ethnics.

Since the very moment I realized that I want answers, I started analyzing and studying people. Not the culture, not the traditions, not the religious specifications, not the historical facts, the people. The essence of the Armenian eyes tells it all as long as you can read them. I wanted to find out if blood and ancestry are enough to be tagged Armenian.

Numerous people that have chosen the path of the immigrant in the twenty first century emigrate from their own origin. They hide their real nationality, they forget their roots, burn their family tree off their heart and mind to make themselves prudent Americans, noble Englishmen, or pure-blooded Frenchmen. That is the way they delete their identity forcing them out of society. It is perfectly natural to be different. You are part of the puzzle.

Regrettably, many Armenians have chosen to change their ethnical background, to pull a slogan of another nation, hoping to live a better life. But who is this citizen of the world? Is it the cosmopolitan, the man with no origin? No. It is the person who knows where he comes from, where are his roots. This person is proud of his origin, but is also open-minded towards other cultures and nations. It is the purity of his logic that makes him welcome to every corner of the world.

Now that I have taken this journey to my home, to my country, I can proudly declare myself a cosmopolitan Armenian.

Highway to sky Whenever I am preparing for a journey, I am waking up hours earlier. My alarm clock is of no necessity, and if it were alive, it would probably feel offended. The thrill of the unknown does not bring fear; on the contrary, it gives a warm excitement that makes the heartbeat stronger. Every beat opens a new storage for places in my mind and soul. It is not the ultimate goal that is important. It is the physical and mental state of being a foreigner that is necessary. In order to make this journey to Erevan even more unforgettable, my trip was foreshadowed by a lot of quiet soul agony that would exemplify every aspect of Murphy’s laws.

The story begins with a plain sheet of paper, more precisely digital paper, the only place I am alone with everyone else. The ability to write does not rely on talent only.

Surprisingly, my interest toward writing was not a temporary affinity, but rather a stubborn passion, not connected even slightly to my university studies. It was further away‌ A random opinion of a friend of mine directed me to the challenge of applying for participation in cinema-journalist training within the framework of the cinema festival Golden Apricot, the biggest event within the culture area of the Armenian capital city. The summer days and nights were throbbing in expectation of this international gathering. Although I do not limit myself with interest in cinema only, no one would miss the opportunity to gather new knowledge and experience from a fascinating and sacred destination like Armenia. I did not even suspect that the year of 2008 would turn out to be the year of this striven visit to my roots. For some moments of life, a person should be mature enough to understand what life offers him, the maturity that is required to become acquainted with certain books, works of art, or people. This mature person should be able to thank for the valuable things that he has received as a gift. Even the smallest dream that has come true, which is the product of a lot or a little effort, is a gift by higher force, no matter what our opinion is. That is the reason why I, a woman that is not so devoted religiously, go to the

church and light a candle to thank this force. As long as the challenge is good enough, it is never worth a slightest reconsideration before the sweet risks of failure. These are the moments that fate leaves us decide alone.

For my own surprise, I happened to be one of the chosen ones in the international group, and, as I later heard, the competition for this place was far from weak. Still, a person must be able to be proud of his achievements. However, fate did not miss the chance to put its curious finger on the absolutely wrong place, and so did the troubles begin. How could I afford such an expensive journey having neither a plane ticket, nor resources to finance a fortnight? One of the highest human qualities, which in my opinion is more of a skill, is tenacity. I sent several requests to some European culture foundations that sponsor such projects. Unsurprisingly unsuccessful, this did not stop me.

I turned to Sonia Bedrosyan, the chairman of the Sofia branch of the most famous Armenian charity organizations, AGBU, whose member I have been five years now. With no doubt, she is one of the most responsible and active women before which the emancipation of virtues finds its virtuous face. “Is it often that you meet a man who is ready to open you the door when you knock on it?” (reference to the Bible).

The easy part is not interesting, neither reliable, while the success in a hard task is far more intriguing. My hopes that I kept alive for about a month were crumbling because of the open answer that Sonia Bedrosyan gave me after being unable to tell me what was the decision of the head office of AGBU in New York. The first trial was waning towards negative result. The sum that was required for such sponsorship was, for sure, disturbing and my request seemed to have faded in the darkness. However, neither Sonia, nor I quit. The sponsors of the festival, on the other hand, were still unable to give me a final answer about my trip’s financing, turning out that although I was admitted, my candidacy was from a country whose name is not present in the list of countries that can receive some financial aid.

A friend of mine told me: “Don’t worry, in Armenia everything happens tomorrow.”

After a long fight for this place, I finally accepted the facts with no superfluous drama at the memory of my huge enthusiasm when I received the official invitation from the president of Golden Apricot Atom Egoyan and the director Harutiun Hachaduryan. I was convinced that I was not going to travel to my home country, so I quitted my own idea.

However, ten days before the start of the cinema festival I received news that brought me back my impulse.

My stay was going to be financed by the sponsors of the event! I immediately phoned Mrs. Bedrosyan who was eager to share my happiness and send valuable appeals for support from New York. Since the expenses were now lower, the miracle was now able to happen.

The unofficial answer that AGBU are paying my plane ticket came through the chairman of AGBU – Sofia who was reelected for her position for 2009 in the same week of anxiety. I was owing Anita Anseryan, the director of AGBU, much more than the thank-you letters, not to mention how much I owe Mrs. Bedrosyan, it would be many pure and directly from the heart adjectives to describe my feeling toward her. The important thing is that she understands and acknowledges my gratitude.

And so, I, figuratively, received wings after this unexpected news, that made me, literally, jump and hop like a bunny around my house for the first time in my life. My neighbors were full of understanding enough not to call the police ignoring my screams and tramps next door. The week before my departure was mainly dedicated to correspondence between me and Miss Tamar Gambaryan, a charming young coordination of the fifth issue of the Golden Apricot. I did not know yet that there was more than I expected waiting for me.

The day before my departure I received a compact program delineating my stay and giving information for the events that were going to take place.

The picture was complete. The plane was only waiting for me, my camera, and my notepad. Oh, yeah, and the forty-pound suitcase…

Finding yourself at home The last time I went on board was several years ago. Since that time, some things have changed for sure, besides the improved quality of the food in the plane. My journey was planned to have a three-hour halt in Vienna, before I transferred to the flight to Erevan.

Although this was a geographically unsound trajectory, the capital of Austria was for the second time an adductor for me in 2008 because I visited the beautiful city earlier this year on a business trip. However, this time I observed Serbia and Hungary from above and I enjoyed the beauty of the orderly fashion of the land mosaic of workable area, roads, interweaving one over another over the powerful body of the Danube River and the small cottages, all this beauty looking as if it were taken from a computer simulation game.

I was flying among the clouds of the Austrian airways and my own dreams. The flawless crew announced a delay of several slight minutes which testified for the perfect accuracy of the German-speaking nations. For pity, despite my warm feelings towards the country of Mozart and the language of Goethe, which, by the way, is famous all over the world for its coarse and improper for declaration of love sound, this trait was only for initial delusion.

We landed on the Vienna airport, a lively center of a huge number of international flights, after about hundred minutes in the air. Orientation in the airport was quite simple because of the numerous German and English signs found almost everywhere. The interior of the airport was excelling the new terminal of the Sofia airport, including hallways, different trade-mark shops, restaurants, cafés, fast food, change bureaus, post office, fast and easy transfer to the center of the city and many other places that I did not have time to notice.

My stay at the Vienna airport was going to be that long that I will not able to enter the city, but can be sure that I do not miss my flight. Too good is never going the good way. I decided to focus and limit myself on the crowds of people in the airport. Some were white, black, yellow, some were suspicious, and others were noble, happy tourists and numb businessmen, all of them in the crowd of arrivals and departures. It was planned for me to board the plane on terminal A. Since I was lacking any idea of the real dimensions of the airport before this sunny July day, I decided to restrain from wandering away from this terminal. Viennese mélange coffee, souvenirs from the town-hall, Mozart candies, an umbrella with notes depicted on it, inspired by Strauss, also son of Vienna, were the first things that I set my sight on. Even the simplest store for souvenirs was exemplifying the Austrian talent and rich cultural heritage, one of the main arteries of the European circulatory system.

I sat in waiting for ‘the new’ with a Bulgarian crossword and a glass of Merlot.

Finally, the check-in for the Erevan flight began, and right next to it, was the open terminal for Antalya. I felt funny for a moment at the sight of humble veiled women and their patriarchal husbands, next to a crowd waiting for a flight to its country, the first country to accept Christianity as national religion. Believers and non-believers were gathering in two lines, mixing the sounds of Turkish and Armenian into a colorful and illogical wholeness. I tried to keep the sense of being in the modern times, the times of equality and tolerance between nations, but I soon noticed that I was keeping distance from out Turkish neighbors. I have never ever once had a Turkish friend…

Having just passed through the check-in, my waiting was going to be protracting, so I decided to take my chance in observing my distant Armenian unfamiliar brothers and sisters from all over the world. Colorful passports were in every person’s hand, some were from

Canada, some from Russia or France, and of course, there were from Armenia, the country of the tastiest and juicy apricots. So close and so far away in their past and future, for the first time I could sense that even though we are different, the fates of the countries are the fates of every single human face, looking one another.

The change in the time-zones had its effect. The three and a half hour flight was a challenge not only for my nerves, but also for my physical powers, which were almost depleted and I was lulling into sleep. Still, I was shining because I knew that in several hours of patience I would step on the grounds where my ancestors founded Republic of Armenia.

There were emotional turbulences only, thanks God; the landing was soft in the night of Erevan.

Exhausted and with a tipsy smile and wandering eyes, I stepped for the first time in my home, finding myself in a newly built west airport of the capital city, Zvartnoc. I knew that there was supposed to be a person to wait for me, so I hoped to identify him easily at 5.00 am Armenian time. Fortunately, no one would miss the name tag of a member of the crew of GA, Aram. I smiled lively and the dark-haired lad immediately recognized me on the escalator and gave me a heartily welcome.

Rushing through the crowd after the procedures in checking the visa and receiving my undamaged suitcase, we got on the car, while my eyes were feeding on the figures, lights, building, powerful and shiny cars, and old Ladas. A strange city, I thought; I will like it for sure… The night welcomed me; the day was expecting me with eagerness.

5a.m. in the morning It was still the peep of the day of the 6th of July, when I started reanimating after the exhausting journey. I was in the car heading towards the appointed for my stay hotel when I began asking questions to the person that welcomed me: “How far is the airport from the center of the city? What is the public transport like? What is that building over there? Why is only this building lit…” and many other similar questions that could not perplex Aram, who willingly explained that the airport is fifteen minutes car-drive from the center, and public transport includes almost every known type except for tramways. However, public transport, similarly to the one in Bulgaria, is not preferable. Instead, people chose to travel in cozy and close to each other seats in private taxis that transport to different destinations. Each of them has about fifteen seats. A little bit later I would have the pleasure to clash into this convenience bringing environment. The lesser evil, of course, were the taxis. However, for this purpose, people must be loaded with coins because they never have change to return, by incidence, of course.

At this point in the day, I still did not have the pleasure to acquaint myself with the peculiarities of the national transport, something that would leave an eternal mark in my memory as nothing else before.

I was strongly shaken when I noticed the Armenian writing everywhere: plates, billboards, posters, names of streets, etc. At this moment, I could not even notice the numerous inscriptions in Russian. The product of Mesrop Mashtots’s work was facing my mind as something so exciting that I senselessly started to remember the writings of my mother tongue, rarely used throughout my life. In my home, Armenian was always the primary language for speaking; however, the painful truth is that reading and writing Armenian are not a casual event in the daily life of people from the Diaspora. Aram understood my Western dialect, which had many differences from the Eastern Armenian.

Luckily, I knew those differences, so I tried to balance my language so that I can lower the communication barrier in my future conversations.

As we were entering the central part of the city driving through the dark Republic Square, we passed by an impressive line of international embassies. Just before we reached Sayat Nova Street, where one of the most famous hotels four or five years ago, Ani, was located, I wished to see where the GA office was, so that I can orient myself easier later. A couple of blocks away from the hotel we turned towards Bayron Street, which was close to the park and the opera square, facing several sumptuous buildings. A couple of meters from them were situated the premises of the GA, a hot spot for the following events.

Despite the darkness, the center of Erevan was lit enough to notice the line of expensive designer stores, renewed buildings, greenery, and well kept streets.

I entered through the doors of the imposing Ani Plaza with what was left from my energy, and after Aram helped me with my luggage, I was only left to move in without waking up my roommate. During my short night-tour, I was told that she came the day before my arrival. I was soon going to meet my young colleague Victoria Coroban from Moldova; I did not know anything else about her.

She welcomed me with a low and short snort and continued her deep sleep without being bothered by the noise that the unpacking of my baggage caused. Probably because of the numerous impressions I had throughout my journey to the hotel room, I could not go to bed, despite the long hours of travel. I had thoughts, ideas, and images bouncing in my mind.

After I conquered completely my share of the room, while I was preparing for my little portion of sleep, I set the alarm clock to ring early in the morning so that I can visit the organization collective. According to the program, the sixth of July would be a spare time day, so I had the opportunity to visit the city center before my lessons started, also I could meet the people that would be revolving around me in the next couple of weeks of work and pleasure. As I was preparing a plan for the next days in my mind, I lulled into a deep sleep with a hardly noticeable smile.

International friends from the bed The morning of my first day in Armenia was stirring. My roommate Victoria and I immediately woke up at the stunning sound of the alarm. Without any dismay from the alarm, we got to know each other while we were still in the bed, shaggy hair and good mood.

Though, I needed to be the more dissatisfied of the early hour of waking up. After we decided that our telecommunication would be via English and Russian, we started speaking about our expectations. Each one of us wanted to extract as much as possible from this experience in Armenia. The interesting young woman, just a little bit older than me, turned out to be on the real journalist arena for the first time, although she graduated in this major. Her main goal for this festival was to complete as many work contacts as possible, which would help her in the future for her dream to work in project management. Still, writing is in the veins of everyone who at some point in time found thrill in it, and soon she would understand the artist’s lessons.

We decided to have breakfast together and later head towards the festival office. The restaurant of the hotel offered a variety of breakfast menus, but, before I tried anything else, I tasted the sweet and juicy Armenian apricot. Frankly, they were gold! Every morning I would find something new from the Armenian flavors, but naturals acted like a magnet to me: the thickness of the yoghurt, the fig jam, and the pomegranate juice.

After finishing the refreshing breakfast we went out to walk under the sun’s shines.

We crossed the first traffic-light between Sayat Nova and Abovian Street, at the corner of which is located the oldest fully-preserved church in the capital, Katogike, since the thirteenth century, hidden behind some tall aluminum walls. It was relatively quiet on the streets, the shops were yet to be opened, and the few people on the streets were looking at us with curiosity. I started comparing the different cities I have been too in terms of cleanness, order, clothing, manners, even the climate was present in the criteria for everyday life.

My memory regarding remembering pictures happened to be very strong, and I was able to follow the paths that Aram pointed without getting lost. Finding ourselves before the posters for the cinema festival that were glued to the doors of the office, I entered first with great desire to meet the friendly in her letters Tamar. We were welcomed warmly by her and the arts director Susanna Harutiunyan despite their surprise at our early morning appearance.

Having said just a couple of words, towards us was walking Harutiun Hachaduryan, the famous movie producer. With his typical crudity, he greeted us heartily, asking whether we needed anything and apologizing for an urgent engagement, he dashed towards somewhere and disappeared. Since the very moment of our meeting with this earthly man, I understood that the soul of the festival had his temper. Following was an introduction to the big part of the crew and a quick glance over the huge working plan of the projected movies, which puzzled me with its variety.

After this quick introduction to one part of the monitors of the cinema festival, I decided to ask Tamar for a map of Erevan and, if possible, to hint us some of the interesting attractions in the city center. Luckily, she had enough free time before she met the other participants in the festival, so she decided to tour us around. It seemed that we were congenial, and for the short period of time we would become good friends. Passing by the office, we went straight forward in the direction of the park, which was situated between Moskovyan and Isakahyan Streets, near which was located the Nairi cinema. In the meantime, the young woman was introducing us to the details in regard to the program and the journalists’ collective. As she had written me in her last letter: “Recharge your energy for new acquaintances!”

Passing by several brand new buildings and numerous shiny restaurants, Tamar told us that the city center in the last couple of years has suffered qualitative upheavals, obvious even for the local population. She had in her mind to walk us around the newest district that was being built in the perfect center, but, before that, I asked her to stop at a favorable change bureau. By accident, we noticed a bureau in the little trade center that we later found out to be one of the most expensive ones in the region. We decided to walk through it quickly, so we entered a unique shop for Armenian carpets. Since the Middle Ages, the production has been established as a base for making, improving and perfecting the carpet industry in the lands near and beyond Armenia’s borders. That is the reason why the beauty of the carpets did not surprise me. Unique variety of patters, forms, and techniques contributed to this hand mastery to save this craft as an Armenian art, giving it freedom to include the production of traditional clothing, hats, and other textile forms. Risking to spend too much of our time with the owner of the shop, we decided to go out and follow our initial goal.

For the first time I was facing the challenge to cope with the Armenian currency dram.

One euro was approximately 450 drams, but it is a lot more profitable for a person to use the low exchange rate of the dollar, buying 301 drams for a dollar. Shortly after making some

calculations for the exchange rate and the transfer of money, the logical question that followed was what the average salary in Armenia is. Regretfully, this question came up in my mind just as we were wandering around the impressive and expensive part of Erevan, so the answer that Tamar gave me appeared to be absurd. The relative average salary of an educated man in Armenia is about 200â‚Ź. An income, so low for the standard offered, that it would hardly be explained economically or in any other way. Those huge buildings add some pomposity and even absurd imposing character to the infrastructure of Erevan, reminding of the architecture of a modernized Armenian villages or palaces from the antiquity.

This whole part of the city was bought at a knock out price, bankrupting many of the people that were forced to sell their homes; now, the square meter costs something about $1100, a price only the Erevan mafia can afford. Fortunately, at least the buildings were in tone with the color gamma of the centre, tuff, colors of gold, pearl, and terracotta. It is a rarely observed phenomenon to see unity in the color spectrum in any capital. The exceptional effect of this warm gamma had its brightest moments when the sunrays were absorbed in the softness of the mountain stones. The soul of the mountain, desert and the energy of the sun gathered together in the rainbow of colors reflecting the rays in numerous lakes, parks, monuments, making Erevan even more beautiful.

Our walk continued down the Moskovyan Street, bringing us to one of the most pictorial creations of the Armenian capital, the dry Cascade. It joins the center with Hahtanak park and the Northern region to the foundation of the museum Kafesjyan. The name of Gerrard Kafesjyan is associated to the financed by him arts project that includes the building of numerous sculptures, including some of Fernando Botero, in the still in the process of building Cascade, began in 1970. Found on the top of it, the park of Victory was founded in memorial to the participants of Soviet Armenia in World War II. In the eastern part, a massive statue of Mother Armenia if found. Its gaze embraces the whole city.

In order to enjoy the view, Vicky and I decided to visit the highest point of the Cascade in the evening, making this place the most romantic spot in the city Constantly using the shoot button of our cameras, the three of us headed with a quick step towards the Vernisage of the artists in the Saryan Park west of France square. Blessed with the considerable in size statue of Martiros Saryan, master of the modern Armenian art, from 1986 the park is center of authors, mostly artists, looking for buyers and people who value their works of art.

There is a good variety and the quality of the pictures is good too, but this is definitely the place that proves that artists are not only odd, but also are good tradesman, a fact supported by the typical Armenian eloquence. Since Tamar was going to leave us soon, we hurried up to pass through the Liberty Square where the Opera was located. Until 1920, there has been the oldest place for worship in Erevan, the Gecemen Church. Today, the square carries the symbol of the restored independence. The great building reminded me of the Antiquity again, but this time with neat lines and details, revealing elegancy found in the cultural home of the capital. We passed near the statues of the

beloved poet Hovanes Toumanyan and the famous composer Alexander Spendiaryan that were surrounded by many interesting cafés. We went down the North Boulevard. It was getting warmer. Surrounded by colorful alleys and the already awake public transport which foreshadowed the traffic in the peak hours, we headed towards the informational center of the city. There we received a map of the city center, which explained quiet well the main places and streets, so Tamar could leave us. Deciding to hear from each other later, Victoria and I wanted to visit a magnificent phenomenon that occurred every weekend, the Vernisage bazaar. It was already Sunday noon, and we were ready for new impressions.

The Armenian Vernisage bargain Speaking of the Vernisage in Erevan, I doubt there is a local person who cannot give you at least one funny story about it. The word “vernisage” comes from French and means presentation, opening, and is usually accepted as arts exhibition.

Founded nearly two decades ago at the decay of the Soviet Union, the Vernisage is a favorite bazaar place for tourist groups and for the neighbors from Russia that have come to visit their neighbors. I have no idea where chaffering comes from, but it is present in this bazaar at full strength, far more curious to watch than the Western shopping malls and colorful Arabian bazaars.

Spreading across the Republic Square to Karajyan Street, it is open every Saturday and Sunday, joining the charm, dexterity, and creativity of the Armenian craftsmen. Heading towards the center of the bazaar, we found that the bazaar is separated into two parts. In the first part can be found many strange items from 30 years ago or older. No matter what their type is, whether it would be a wrench, a telephone from the first models created, very old newspapers in Russian and Armenian, anything that no one from the 21st century would need, neatly kept, so that it can be exposed and sold. I even saw a typical Rodopi plate with folklore motifs from Bulgaria!

My roommate was hesitating about getting an old porcelain kettle with peasantry look from a kind old vendor. The absurd purchase provoked my opinion that everything that is offered has someone that needs it. Speaking in Russian also, the woman was so intrigued by Vicky’s origin that she invited her kindly and asked her for her phone number, giving us the theory of a distant old friendship in Moldova.

This funny situation made me turn the other way trying not to burst into laughing, but the vendor continued pressing by asking what the name of our hotel was. She was trying to invite herself to our hotel while offering us some of the advantageous odds and ends in her shop.

After our kind farewell and excuses that we do not remember the name of the place where we were staying, we continued our walk in the kingdom of useless stuff with risen spirits towards the heart of the Vernisage.

The combination of a Russian speaking Moldovan and an Armenian from Bulgaria was accepted well by the talkative people everywhere. While Vicky was trying to get a whole collection of non-proportional silver jewelry, I was looking at the souvenirs for presents. The bargaining of both of us was quite successful; of course, it is a different story doing it in Armenian, despite our differences in the dialect. Some things always have their odds…

Walking by carefully arranged stands with encrusted silver, gold, or skin jewelry, we reached the heart of the bazaar. The space was arranged in such a way, as if every zone had its sold goods: woodwind musical instruments, for example a duduk, jewelry boxes, checkmate tables, sculptures, miniatures, and icons; eating tools, unique sets of coffee made of porcelain and clay; woolen carpets and bags of different hues and sizes; elegant lace covers; t-shirts, caps, even covers for cell phones with the Armenia inscription, the coat of arms of Erevan, or the Ararat mountain, Khachkars made of wood or mountain stones, souvenirs with pomegranates, typical Armenian crosses and knits.

Never in my whole life have I seen such a rich aggregate of work and talent of hand made products gathered in one place. Nor have I suspected before that Armenians were such masters. There was everything for everyone’s taste, hobbies, work, interests, or habits.

Besides, in most cases, the prices were normal in terms of quality and living standard in the country, and there was always the negotiation between the vendor and buyer. Every item had its own individuality, filled with the soul of Armenia. Many of the tradesmen were joking that the Armenian is the best, but the truth is that such perfectionism and desire in crafts cannot be seen almost anywhere else.

At the end of our walk I realized that it has not been just a threat that the temperatures in Erevan during the summer can reach forty degrees Celsius. Extremely tired from looking at various things, we decided to sit in a simple looking bar in the middle of the bazaar to see that the exterior not always tells the truth.

I ordered a shashlik, Vicky asked for a kebab, and we decided to taste the Armenian beer. The hurrying waitress immediately brought us the Kilikia beers in two cute bottles.

The taste was very light, unobtrusive, and perfect for the Erevan’s heat. Several minutes later, both our portions came, each wrapped nicely in the national bread lavash. I did not make a mistake in ordering the shashlik. The huge pieces of meat turned out to be flavored in cinnamon, bay leaves, allspice, and caraway, the combination of which was bringing a real pleasure for the palate. The kebab was as tasty as my shashlik.

As we were looking at our interesting purchases, I suggested visiting the history museum that was located at the Republic square, or in Armenian “Hanrabedutian Hrabarak”. After a short debate on this question, Vicky, who had other plans initially, as a person who is not a big fan of museums, agreed. It was already afternoon and the heat was unbearable. We were heading with heavy steps towards the square when we stopped amazed by its beauty, seeing it for the first time at daylight. Surrounded by the Abovyan, Amiryan, Nalbandyan, and Dikran Medz Streets, its center is consisted of a stone model of a traditional Armenian carpet. Its great bearing was supported by the history museum, national art gallery, ministry of interior affairs, the famous Mariot hotel, central post office, the council of trade syndicates, some other shops and restaurants, all of which found in a single building. The warm colors of the okra and peach colored stone calm the senses, and the fountain, also located there, is in the center of attention because of the usually conducted concerts at dusk, when the city is relaxing at the cooling that

the sunset leaves. In front of the fountain, a clock tower with the national flag is separating the main façade of the square. The sight of the stranger is filled with ethnical ornaments of pomegranates, grapes, corn blades, birds and other animals.

The history museum does not offer any discount for youths; the tags and information tables are 90% in Armenian, lowering the flow of international visitors in the building.

However, there is still one good thing if you speak Russian. Every room has its own curator that is willing to answer any question and give important information for the exhibited. On two of the floors, expositions from the period 3000-2500 B.C. to modern times can be observed. Many stone carvings, plates, weapons, bracelets, carpets, palimpsests, pictures, and maps can be seen. Strangely, some of them could be touched with bare hands, leaving their antique value in hazard. After all, the tour in the museum happened to be enriching; unfortunately, we did not have enough time to walk around the National Arts gallery, since the museums were closing at 5.00 pm.

We managed to bump into each other with Victoria in one of the museum’s hallways.

We decided to drink some coffee next to the alluring fountain on the square and then head to the hotel to check whether our two other colleagues from the international journalist crew have arrived. Despite the fatigue and the still unbearable heat we surmounted the several crossings that separated us from Ani Plaza, passing by our morning work point, the Moscow cinema. Throughout the way we saw posters concerning the forthcoming fifth cinema festival which further made me be thrilled with joy that I am part of such an important event. We went back to our room to rest till dinner, after which we would visit the lit at nighttime Cascade.

Although I was far from fascinated by the poor and unsuccessful menu of the Ani Plaza restaurant, I gave it a truce because I only had to eat in it a fortnight twice a day.

After having dinner, my roommate and I headed to the Cascade. We were welcomed by a sculpture of a huge stone cat with a humorously stupid look that was adding some strange tones to the complex’s environment. We did not have to climb one billion stairs to the top thanks to the series of absolutely free escalators which considerably eased transporting to the top. We climbed the last platform armed and ready to go with our cameras. The tons of photos of Erevan at night became an unforgettable memory of the view of buildings, lights, and the moon that reminded us of a burning gold reaping-hook. While we were slowly going down, a mosaic of colorful gardens, reliefs, sculptures, and the fountain at the bottom revealed before us making the Cascade an architectural combination worth keeping numerous love stories in its beauty. Some day I will visit this monument of love again for sure.

New tastes, new personalities I have always considered myself a person open to new relationships. Probably this pleasure is caused to a great degree by my interest in human nature and its congruent oddities.

There was a funny saying that every man is different and unique in his individuality. Just as everyone else. Well, surprises are always expected. Despite the existence of billions of different characters, resemblances between them are never absent. The inexplicable, eccentric, lustrous, colorful people are preferable in the history of anthropology; geniuses, talents, great souls with great deeds, even serial murderers and psychopaths are all magnets for the curiosity of the people who like analyzing.

In our summarized program a meeting with the crew at 11 am was scheduled at one of the offices on the first floor of the Moscow cinema. Our instructors were going to be the famous Dutch cinema critics Peter van Buren and Andre Vaardenburg, as well as Russan Bogosyan from the Armenian capital.

After the breakfast which included the delicious Russian blinis with meat and vegetables that I tasted for the first time, Victoria and I headed to the cinema that was two traffic lights away from Ani Plaza. Since we were a bit early, I had time to wander around the square in front of the cinema. The small semicircle in the center of the city appeared to be made of different element, making it an important spot for meetings, traveling, and many other events. At the farther end the most famous hotel in the city was located, the Golden Tulip, known as Erevan hotel before, is one of the three hotels that were used for accommodation of the participants in the forthcoming events. The French windows of the restaurant were looking attractively at the flow of people that were heading towards something like a day of the book celebrations. Several stalls and stands were surrounding a bronze bull made of mechanical parts which was guarding the entrances of the cinema with an affable look that was attracting the tourists’ cameras. Posters, advertisements, and a huge banner with the detailed festival program of the projections glued to the walls of the cinema were welcoming the spectators and fans.

On the left, a fascinating blue fountain was adding some beauty to the environment with twelve astrological signs neatly decorated with ornaments and figures. The coolness of the water drops was relieving not only the people around the fountain, but also the ducks that were swimming conveniently in the water. The forenoon air was foreshadowing the coming heat, but also was calming the heart with its sweetness. Gazing at the sculpture of the Scorpio, I thought on the things that people craves for, but never believes to happen. But they do…

It was five minutes to eleven when I entered the small office where many people were already gathered. The bigger part of the people looked Armenian, so I was left with meeting the two other girls from Turkey that yesterday were lost traceless. I was just starting a conversation with the people in the room when the two girls entered. Evrim was a blond Turkish woman, and the dark-haired Janet who was living in Istanbul was of Armenian descent. They told us about their misadventures at the Russian airport where they waited nearly six hours for their flight to Erevan and the story about how they met a little bit earlier.

Soon Tamar also came, followed by several assistants from the organization bringing bottled water and other essentials for the meeting.

It was past eleven and the talkative group of about fifteen people was interrupted by the appearance of the three instructors.

Not much time was needed to understand that Peter van Buren was an interesting man not only with a long biography, but also with a challenging reputation. Shortly after introducing himself, a short dispute about who is going to sit on the special seat designated for the head man ended with Mrs. Bogosyan taking the chair since no one was claiming it.

As it later turned out, Peter was one of the ‘fathers’ of the festival, thus, having the right to be the senior executive manager of the festival daily paper. Actually, the fifth issue of the GA was going to be first time to have its

own newspaper of eight pages, divided into Armenian and English section, independent of each other in terms of content. The editor of the English section and chief editor was chosen Andre, the movie critic in the bloom of his career. The two Dutchmen were a strange combination. They calmly divided their roles as if they were doing good cop, bad cop. Only that they were doing it without unnecessary drama, probably because they knew each other for ages, and knew what to expect from one another.

Since the very first moment Peter appeared to be a challenging person. His startling replies to absolute strangers and his obvious tough cookie character appeared to have joined in his desire for perfection that has developed throughout his career. Though officially in pension, his desire to build a good team of young professionals was purposeful and firm.

They say about some people that they possess character. The thing with Peter is that it was more than just character. I was initially against working or even being friends with such a complicated person, but with time I was convinced the opposite. Under the façade of coarseness and even inexplicable provocations at some moments, a man that can be relied on and trusted with the certainty that you will hear the truth, not lies and hypocrisy. It is good that I did not keep the wrong impression of his personality.

The introduction of Andre followed. His words sounded calmly, firm, and even sometimes his trials to look strict were unsuccessful because of his appearance that suggested a goodness spreading person. Although he is defining himself as a stranger, unfortunately there are no ‘normal’ people in this life; I have to agree with his idea. His working style speaks of his exceptional dedication to professional ideas, desire, similar to the one of Peter, for extracting the maximum.

I will never forget Peter’s words at our first meeting that now we are acting like complete strangers, but after the festivals we will be a family. Those words happened to be true for the five internationals, different in opinion; nature, mentality, and I believe that next year I will be able to relive the same feeling.

Peter asked every one of the participants to introduce himself with a couple of words.

My roommate Vicky began and I followed her. It was highly curios to me to learn more about our Armenian colleagues, so I listened to their stories carefully about how they came here and what brought them to the festival.

The Armenian crew of journalist was going to be made of eight people: David Vardazaryan, Kristine Kurkulyan, Ani Garabagtsyan, Ani Haratunyan, Gayane Lalayan, Rafik Movsisyan, Seta Papoyan, Ofelia Zakaryan. The English crew, as it later turned out to be consisted of Victoria Corroban, Evrim Caya, Janet Baris, and me. Each one of us more or less working with media, television, theatre, cinema, printing press, giving us a variety of knowledge and experience in every area. Many of us did not have any experience, but only had some education in those areas, so a detailed practical training would be of great benefit to the crew.

After the brief introductions of Peter and Andre, the pair explained us shortly what the daily paper was supposed to be like, and what exactly were we going to do at our first week of education before the festival. It was decided that the week before the festival’s beginning, meetings at 11 am were going to be conducted in this same office at the cinema. The meetings would be consisted of revising and discussing completed tasks from previous days, assigning new tasks, and discussing problem areas. Lunch was scheduled for 1 pm, and at 2 pm the watching of the movies from the competitive part of the festival that the instructors have chosen was beginning.

Several reviews were to be prepared on each of these movies by different people from both crews, so that the best work can be chosen for publication. According to the plan, the Armenian journalists were writing only in Armenian. The first several days the plan was to be completed as suggested, but unfortunately the organizers did not anticipate a translator for the

Armenian texts to be needed, so they could not be examined at the meetings; consequently, the texts were discussed only by the editor of the Armenian section Rossan with the local journalists. This caused some disappointment, but nothing could be done, so only the option of the Armenian journalists trying to write in English was left. This was successful for only two of them. Would it be for showing their best skills, or to practice or taste some international experience from Andre or Peter, each one of us got the chance to produce in his convenient language. The results were the only thing that mattered.

Our first meeting went on fine, though there were many trammels forthcoming on our path which is dangerous anyways because of the drivers in the capital. Our lunch was waiting, and in the afternoon, the movie marathon was beginning at a dark projection room in Moscow cinema, no popcorn, but a notepad and a cell phone’s lights.

Cinema from Erevan-point-of-view Temperatures were rising rapidly in an inverse proportion to the quantity of clothing worn. The lunch was going to be in a small restaurant, away from the cinema; thus, the whole group was transported in two buses and was brought alive to the destination, though some were a bit stressed and heated. My first daylight travel on the Erevan roads happened to be not only dangerous, but also sank me in deep thoughts and reconsiderations about how bad the roads at Bulgaria were. The main issue was not the heavy traffic. It even made me feel safer that we are almost not moving, thus, we are definitely reaching our destination. I have always thought that only in my home country drivers thing they are driving at their own garage and cross cheeky, leave behind without using the turn lights, speeds up thoughtlessly even at tiny streets, and ignore the zebra crossings. Well, at this criterion, Erevan beats Sofia definitely. Here, drivers crossed at red, stopped to chill out at green, and at yellow it is up to the choice. The police on the road are not worth speaking about. Tamar told me that there was no MacDonald’s at Erevan, and that is probably because Dunkin Donuts overachieves with its sales to traffic cops. The absolutely legalized road lawlessness including the breaking of every rule for motion on the freeway amazed to such a degree that I questioned myself how pedestrians survive here. Of course, I later understood the situation and realized that there is nothing groundless in this issue. Simply, very few of the cars are insured; thus, when a person is crossing at green, he is quite safe because no one will want to pay his car repair and the cleaning of a dead body off the roadway.

Bathing in cold sweat, I got off the microbus and walked down some little stairs to a neat restaurant. The tables were reserved and ready; there were even several bowls of apricots in the form of flowers. The lunch was nothing traditional, but rather universal cuisine. Therefore, when the organizers asked us what we would like for the future in the menu, I was one of the first to ask for traditional Armenian meals. I was very impatient to take a photo of everything that was in my dish!

The clock was ticking, but work was far from over. “Work goes first, pleasure later” said Andre. Were cinema and critics really a work to do was a bit disputable.

Every day in the week of 7th to 13th of July we were scheduled to watch a documental and a live-action. The afternoon of the 7th of July was the first time we were challenged to look beyond history. As Peter told us earlier, the definition for cinema is the complex presentation of theatre, sound, and movement. None of the three base elements should be absent in the movie’s wholeness because the movie will turn into a low-quality imitation of the other three arts. Here comes my right to comment and critic some of his points. Nothing personal.

The role of the good cinema-critic is not to retell the happening in a plot, but rather to be able to emphasize the details at its occurrence. In other words, speaking about music, we think about the background that the director has chosen, about the effect on the audience. It is not only about music. It could be just a sound, tune that joins the mixture of frames, colors, and the actors’ words. Words are something else, a very important difference from the theatre, especially at documental movies. There are certain things like redundant drama-playing, artificial gesticulations, excessive usage of words with emphasized aplomb, and fake pathos that should never be used. The cinema’s closeness to the real life is the thing that attracts people. On one hand, even in a science-fiction movie, the “normal” acting makes the characters more authentic and real at their simplest dialogue. Eloquence and oratory can only lead to overacting. The other dangerous mistake that could be made is the coarse usage of speech, substituted with impertinent word clouds giving out the thoughts of an actor while he is silent. The perfect balance is the safe, although sometimes boring decision, speech to be used only when someone speaks. Of course, the actor’s look and actions are expected to speak by themselves in every good player.

Critics rarely miss another key element in the cinema bouillon (reference to a soup because of the mixture of already known arts, but remaining unique in its abilities creation).

This spice I am speaking about is the focus. Usually, even the simplest cinema fan can make the difference between the choice of the director and the operator of how things are happening. Why is the focus directed so closely to the human face, as if it is on a span’s difference from the screen, or why is it directed towards the neurotic gesture of the nervous human hands at a continual frame that slowly focuses on the specific part of the body? It is the two meanings of the word “focus” that have the aim to hint us that cinema is magic, or more of a trick that is usually inexplicable, but is of absolute necessity. The lack of coincidences in the frame of the movie is realized, so is the control of the directions in it. Combinations at the change of the object are different, complex, and particular. Effect is what the director aims. Would it be because the frame is slow-motion, the landscape is black and white, and the coastal sand floats above the ground as a breeze of roaming hope and consciousness, the answer is never singular, regarding the message that is wanted to be delivered to the viewers. The camera might be moving or still before the picture that is in motion, as the passing of the day, going through lights, contrasts, and colors. A game of words and gestures, zooming in and out, physical acceleration, contrasting the mildness of the fading sounds; all of these characteristics defining the cinema-production’s identity. Even an arts movie can look surreal with the proper choice of utensils, if their combination is provocative enough.

The story is the smallest part of the whole movie. If we do not criticize the movie, but the critic himself, his main priority should be to keep objectivity in his subjectivity. No

offence, excessive flattery, but the evaluator should have a clear position whether the object of valuation is worthy or not. Else we can always just retell a story as every non-professional viewer after the end of the movie and be sure that such an article will not interest anyone. No matter how much we speak, it is all about practice, reading and comparisons, a fact that I realized after my very first work day in Erevan.

The other day we had the opportunity to watch the opening movie of the festival: “Birds of Paradise” by Roman Balayan and “Septembers” by Carl Bosh. The fictional flight of freedom of Balayan has brought him to the romance of the pestilential Paris and brought him back through the Russian colds, unlike the warm documental effect achieved by Bosh through happy and sad life stories of Spanish prisoners and the search for love and dreams in a desired happy end.

After working on the articles to 10 pm, as was every day going to be in the future, Vicky and I decided to go out of the hotel. During the lunch time talk with the colleague I understood that jazz was one of the most favorite styles in music in the Armenian capital.

Inspired to visit one of the famous jazz restaurants, Vicky and I questioned here and there to find out that Poplavok café in the gardens of the Nairi cinema was perfect for our needs. Located near an artificial lake where people could have a boat trip, it was not by chance that this place was one of the most visited tourist spots. Spread on two floors, having both indoor and outdoor tables, the café offered a diverse, but a bit expensive menu. A man could be left speechless at the sight of the lake shone by the moon, and the colorful lights creeping behind the crowns of the trees further enhanced the beauty of the scenery. Jazz was heard mainly indoors, but the coolness of the fresh air was compensating with its attractive calmness… waiting for us to grab an Armenian baklava and some coffee!

Armenian is easy, but not in foreign team-building At 11 am on the 8th of July the first evaluation of our written work from the previous day began. Being a beginner cinema-critic was far from simple, as probably some of us thought before Peter started speaking. The sharpness of his tongue made the object of his critics feel lower than the ground level, but, in fact, his critics were truthful and valid. This often created a negative halo upon the character of our instructor, but as a part of an international group that spends most of its spare time together, I was convinced that the scorpion might not always sting.

On the same day an official team-building of the magnificent six in the face of the international journalist group (Andre, Peter, Janet, Victoria, Evrim, and I) was successfully realized. We settled on the hour of 11 am to leave the Ani Plaza and head to the fountains at the Republic square at the nice and fresh evening air. There were people walking on the streets, the cafés and restaurants were attractively noisy, and our chats were wandering from one topic to another. Every one of us was standing out with his peculiarities and that gradually united us. Our two bosses and teachers were earthly, direct and never tried to raise a barrier between them and us, the amateur journalists.

When we reached the fountains, the view was so irresistible that we sat down to shoot some pictures and admire the amazingly beautiful lit buildings and discussed where to head next. After a short talk we headed to the Swan Lake, which attracted me earlier with the numerous cafés in its region. I noticed at several places in the center some fountains with drinking water, but with every next step forward, I realized they are not “some” but many, wisely established having considered the summer heats. We reached the sympathetic artificial lake that looked like a tear-drop near the greenery and the arranged benches. We were wondering a bit which café or bar to pick, but we decided to do it randomly. We sat in a nicely looking café and a moment later we were going through the trilingual menu: Armenian, Russian, and English. Russian appeared to be official for the country, equal to the Armenian, although Armenia has been separated from Russia’s control for a long time. Maybe, unfortunately, Armenia’s separation was only official. I noticed it at the conversations I had with local Armenians, who usually used some Russian words in the middle of their sentence, or even spoke Russian to each other. In fact, would it be Russian, or Armenian, both of the languages were better to use than the English in Armenia. The level of fluency of the mass of people was not notably good, though English philology has been the most popular specialty in Erevan’s universities.

It was funny that Peter, who was coming for the fifth consecutive time at the festival, was stubbornly refusing to learn some Armenian. A huge mistake. When he tried to order something at the café in English, the waitress obviously trying to get what that strange man was saying proved the weak usage of this language around. My normal reaction was to help him in his order, but this was not accepted well from the stubborn critic, though I did help him at the end, which later repeated several times. It was easier than tormenting people with English as later happened. After the successful completion of the task, we cheered each other with a drink, and now, in obviously better mood, Peter told us some gossips about previous festivals and the participants in them. We had a good laugh at some absurd incidents, but it was just a regular gossip laugh, nothing special. There would probably be more funny stories this year, others would experience them, we would tell them… Click! And we are back to work…

Due dates, planning, execution. The assignment of the English-speaking group was not light: the weekly cinema review was going in a monotonous evaluation, reconsideration, comments, reviewing of the seen at the auditorium of the Moscow cinema. Some of the chosen for revision movies were “Shanghai Trance” (David Warebeck, Holland, 2008), “Lakshmi and Me” (Nishta Jain, India, 2007), “Wonderful Town” (Aditia Asarat, Thailand, 2007), “Revue” (Sergei Loznica, Russia, 2008), “The Red Awn” (Shang Jhun Chai, China, 2007), “How I Am” (Ingrid Demetz and Corline Lightner, Italy, 2007), “Duska” (Yos Stelling, Holland/Russia/Ukraine, 2007), “Today, the Same Day is Different” (Javier Baig and Oscar Moreno, Spain, 2007), “The Marmaid” (Anna Melikyan, Russia, 2007), “Women See Lot of Things” (Meira Asher, Holland, 2006) and of course the hit closing the festival movie by Atom Egoyan “Adoration” (Canada, 2008). Cinema fans were definitely jealous of the crew’s experience, who was part of the GA’s ‘kitchen’, enjoying the success of numerous movies projected in the heart of the capital beforehand. Work was going well in spite of the little spare time for acquainting; the group was working better and better. Communication did not turn out to be impossible, so we soon befriended the other sponsors, who promised me to

show us around the capital city. I would not miss the opportunity to get to know Erevan, neither will the capital of Armenia miss to familiarize with me.

If the pope comes, you definitely need a new church!

The fact that Armenia is the first country to accept Christianity as official religion in 301 is common knowledge. From this year on Armenian churches and chapels write the history of Christianity. The majority of them are spread throughout the country, but still, in Erevan there are more than sixteen churches, most of which undergo reconstructions or restorations because of the damage caused by time. Many typical Christian temples are not big in size, but there are exceptions.

The most notable in size exception is the Surp Kirkor Lusavorich Church in Erevan, named after the baptist of the Armenians. Finished in 2001 for the one thousand and seven hundred years from the acceptance of Christianity, the church is shortly named the Anniversary Church. Her dimensions are explained mainly by the spatial need for the bright event, whose liturgy has been honored by the presence of the Roman Pope himself.

When the building made of tuff in okra color raised before my eyes in the afternoon of July the ninth, I associated it with the great Austrian cathedrals immediately. I was over with my lunch earlier so we decided to walk around with Christine, one of my younger colleagues, who was working as a leader of a cultural program in one of the main televisions. I was looking forward to making a pile of photos of the cathedral that looked like taken from a postcard or a tourist catalog. The magnificence of the exterior was bringing a cold expression through the clean and sharply cut lines of the Holy place, being in counterbalance to the light pink walls in the interior that could handle many people between them. The interesting thing is that pragmatism has overpowered in the interior construction by having no place to light candles in the cathedral. For this purpose, an additional low chamber where candles are lit has been created, thus, breaking the unity of the prayer and the religious and symbolical meaning of the altar, before which normally candlesticks are located. Still it cannot be denied that the atmosphere at Surp Krikor Lusavorich is not that cold as it appears to be from the outside. The warm look of Virgin Mary with the baby Jesus looking from the main icon on the altar, gently surrounds the lit heart of the building, passing by wood benches, through the red and blue painted windows, reaching up to the high glass-made dome. The air inside was chilly, and the greatness was reminding strongly of the spectacular divine powers. Around the cathedral many flowers were planted, and in the nights, the path to the temple was lit by lanterns by four, each of which had a cross on its top. Just a couple of meters from the entrance, a statue of the national hero Zoravar Antranik, riding two horses as a guardian of the Holy temple was found. The city was bringing back its history at every corner.

Despite everything, as a normal young person, I needed a bit more‌ fun. The next night, after the end of the workday, some of my new friends and I decided to visit a club or discothèque in the area of the Opera house, where the famous Aram Hachaduryan hall was found. We looked through several places, until we understood that Erevan’s night clubs were too noisy for our taste, so we took the advice of a youngster to take a cab and go to a karaoke

bar near the Swan Lake. Its interior was not modern, not differing from the European standards much, prices were normal, but something else made me an impression. When we sat on the leather seats at one of the corners, my observation that Russian has roots in Armenia was confirmed. Every table received a massive list of authors and songs to pick for the night.

Honestly and humbly said, half the list was Russian songs. It even turned out that people that visited the karaoke bar not only had great fun singing in Russian, but they also did it very well, too well for me. Our small group did not sit and listen but actively participated with several hot hits in Russian and Armenian and accepted the gratitude of the audience in the form of applause. Thankfully, they did not have tomatoes to thank me properly…

Something else happened to be more touching than the writings in the mother language for me: the creativity of the Armenians. Grown up in a rooted nationalistic mood, I felt proud of my origin, in the hands of an Armenian even a simple idea could turn into a big discovery of logic and entertainment. There was a plain pendant that looked like a keychain.

As we were sitting and doing nothing someone pressed it gently and a few moments later a waiter came to take our order, making us stare wildly of surprise. A very simple devise that worked like a remote control: no need of cries, gestures, and annoying waits for the waiter to come. Just a click as going through the channels and everything happened in seconds. I was wondering if I could use the license of this high technological discovery to bring it to Bulgaria… It would receive everyone’s gratitude and approval for sure!

The blue eye of Sevan According to the bible, God worked six days and on the seventh took a rest. Here in Erevan as especially hard-working people we outstrip events. Saturday was the well-deserved day for rest, when everyone had the freedom to choose what to do. I decided to skip the teambuilding walk with Peter, Andre and the girls in order to see another aspect of everyday life and the ability of Armenians to have fun truly. Several days earlier I received an invitation from some recent acquaintances from Erevan who planned to use the 12th of July as a picnic day near the Sevan Lake. Initially, I did not know if I could join their company, but when I found out that I have no work even in the morning, I immediately confirmed my attendance. I decided to risk by entering the plans of almost complete strangers to me. I did not make a mistake. The meeting was scheduled for 7 am in front of the Ani Plaza and despite the early hour I managed to wake up on time, even successfully drank a cup of hot Armenian coffee at the restaurant. I knew no more than four of five people from the group which was counting about twenty-two, so I did not feel so comfortable despite the excitement from the previous day. The main sponsor, not long before becoming one of my friends, arranged a whole bus for the group. There were no aliens to the group, besides me, so I drew everyone’s attention from the beginning at my getting on the stairs of the bus. My curiosity was with good intentions and I gradually started loosening.

The first question towards me was, as always, what were my impressions from Erevan and do I like life there.

I managed to speak to one of the girls, sister of one of the people I am familiar with, and she told me a lot about her past and her current education in the country, as well as some of the peculiarities of the patriarchal

family nature. Drinking in every word, I started asking questions about the lake we were headed to.

As one of the most famous tourist’s destinations, the countryside was preferred by Armenians, as well as foreigners. It was a lively intersection spot for mountaineers. Actually, Sevan is forty kilometers away from the capital, so the drive would not be exactly short.

Listening to some Armenian songs, I had the opportunity to admire the green landscape, followed by mountainous land and villages located here and there. I have always thought that Armenia is a monotonous rocky country with its relief of mountains and rocks, but the view rebutted my prejudice. The sun was shining, large lines of trees crossed our way into shiny green and brown meadows and lakes, while I was trying to take photos of this beauty leaning through the open windows and the wind blowing straight into my hair. There was no time to stop, therefore, the camera was constantly in action. Part of the group was noisily playing Belote, and the rest clicking their cameras just like me.

An hour and a half later someone yelled that we were almost there bringing me back from my nap. The bus passed through a dusty road to a small shadowy wood next to which several buildings, parked cars and a new hotel a bit down the road were found. After stopping on a large shadowy corner, we had to decide where to settle. It was not yet crowded so we could freely choose which one of the shelters with tables in the wood to rent for our stay. The younger people from the group had a musical system and after all the food, drinks, balls, and other things were unloaded near the tables, we asked the owner of the commercial pavilion to give us electricity. We had music, so the spirits were rising. Still in a minor shock of what was happening, I left the shadows of the trees and headed to the lake. The sandy line of gray sand was reminding me of a sea coast, and only a glance was needed for a person to fall in love with this place. Never would I change those gentle waves and gray sand with the rocky coast of the French Riviera at Cannes.

The spacious water expanse had no visible end, and if there were no mountains around it, I would never say it is one of the highest tarns. In fact, Sevan is the biggest lake in Armenia, 10% of its waters flowing into Hrazdan River, the rest evaporating. At this time period of the day the air was still cold, but it could be felt that with every minute the temperature was raising.

There were not many people on the beach, so I decided to wait and go back to help in the arrangement of the tables for breakfast. Almost everything was ready and after we ordered the utensils we sat in front of the dishes with various types of fresh green spices, lavash bread, cheese, meat, etc. The smell of Armenian coffee from the coffee pot nearby came around, and I just could not resist the temptation to drink my second cup for the day. In less than thirty minutes, the tables were being cleaned up and everybody started having fun his way. Since volleyball was not my strength, I agreed to go on a trip in a water bike with one of the young boys, Arthur. Prepared in battle stance for spinning the pedals, we drifted away from the coast sank deep in a conversation, uttering a threat to conquer one of the ships that could be seen in the distance. One of them moored on the coast alluring some of the tourists to go on a walk in “open sea�. The coastline was losing its delineation, the weather was vastly warmer and our trip was protracting. When we came back, I thought that the water that initially appeared to be icy has been heated.

Led by my naïve illusion, I jumped into the lake while some of the people from the group were playing water polo. At the first moment, it was as if my brain was going to freeze, but my stubbornness overpowered this feeling and the only rescue was to swim. I wanted to go deeper in the lake, and I was just swimming away from the group, when all the people started shouting after me to come back. They were right to shout at me for going further because the sweet water was differing from the salty water pools by the fact that more inwards to the center the water is freezing and dangerous. Many experienced swimmer have found their death by lack of experience in swimming in a lake, whose waters can block the muscles and for seconds can swallow you to the bottom.

I did not endure the low temperature of the welcoming Sevan Lake any more so I decided to thaw out sun bathing on the beach. Thanks God, I did not catch a cold; on the contrary, I sun burned like a crab on the beach from forty minutes of sun bathing despite the fact that my back was smeared with a sun cream. The sun high in the mountains was many times stronger than in the plains near the seas. Moreover, the wind further helped the process of sun burning.

At least I was not the only meat that was burning. At about 2 pm the Armenian barbeque (Horovac) preparation was beginning. Huge metal sticks with potatoes and peppers were arranged next to the shashlik, which was the Armenian version for meat on stick, the meat in Armenia being about three times bigger than in Europe. The camp fire was visible from the distance, the music was thundering, and there were more people coming from the region. We were not the only party stars from the people playing volleyball, tennis, helping with the grill, or horsing around in the lake. However, we were the only group with such size, where dancing guys were not only more than the dancing girls, but they were doing it better than the females. Taking turns doing world hot hits, Armenian and Russian pop, we came to my personal favorite, the folklore dances. Without being a professional in Armenian dances, I cannot deny the blatant love and devotion of these young people to Armenian traditions. Even if I did not know most of the moves, there was no way I was not joining the group and showing the little I knew. The fun was real, the mood was the best I have had in months, and the company was lively, open, and truly happy. A person cannot wish for a better experience, except maybe for the moment when the whole group was like glued to the table for lunch.

After I helped with the arrangement of the table, I did several group photos, and sat at the end of the “king’s” table which was full of bread, wine, beer, and whatever comes to your mind.

Armenian toasts are something special. Charming with gratitude, teasing like a flirt, wise as a riddle, and original as a 30 year old Nairi cognac, they are an unforgettable and warm expression of propinquity and respect. Several that I managed to hear the other day made me such an impression that really traversed the myth of the Armenian eloquence testifying it as an absolute phenomenon. In its traditional meaning the toast done by Tamada more likely looks like a sacred ritual. Usually the host chooses the head of the table to represent Tamada, the speaker, whose remembering oratory not accidentally defines the meaning of his title, “father of all” (from Turkish). His task is to give the right to toast from one person to another, turning the evening into a long feast of spiritual benignancy through moderately set tempo.

Esor kank vagh’ chkank. – Today we are here, tomorrow we are gone.

Amen inch sude. Ays e mnoom ashkharhum. – Everything is a lie. That is what is left from the world.

Mi aprel ka. – We live only once.

Cheers to everyone who is with us, to everyone without whom we cannot be even if they are not near us, to everyone in whose hearts we will always be, when we are gone!

VIP In Armenia cinema + extra cup of apricots The judgment day came. On the 13th of July the opening ceremony of the festival was going to be lead. As usual, at 11 am our international crew gathered at the office of the GA to discuss the distribution of the tasks for the upcoming week. I had the pleasure to deal with the reports, so I needed to attend most of the events, for which every one of us received a bag full of invitations.

The first top news for the second issue of the daily newspaper was the visitation of Enrica Antonioni for the opening of a retrospective exhibition of her deceased husband, the famous Italian director Michelangelo Antonioni.

The event took place at the arts gallery, but unfortunately the vocalization was not good and the huge crowd of fans and reporters could not hear anything. With a couple of words the extravagantly dressed Mrs. Antonioni, accompanied by representatives of the Italian embassy in Erevan, expressed her husband’s love for the Armenian community and opened the exhibition. The visitors admired the unique photographs of the marital couple made by Piero Marsali and the abstract colorful pictures drawn by Antonioni during his tough last year of life.

Instantly after the exhibition’s end, everyone headed to the provided transport buses to the church Surp Sarkis. The apricots, symbol of the festival and Armenia, were going to be blessed in the little long-aged church made of brownish tuff whose capacity was enough to contain the operator, photographer, and journalist crews tightly lined in front of the altar. The cinema fans opened their way through the crowd of popular faces since there was no special invitation for the event. The ceremony was solemn with the rocking spheres of spreading fume and loud prayers that obviously affected the visitors. The five priests looked magnificent in their church robes looking down over the baskets with the emblematic fruit.

After the end of the blessing, the young volunteers from the organization treated the guests with apricot liqueur in front of the church. Everyone had the right to take a blessed fruit, and abstracting from the terrible heat the conversations were buzzing like a bee hive in the air. I did not miss the opportunity to meet the famous German director Vim Venders, whose attendance was assisted with constant requests for joined photo and an autograph.

Several hours later the official opening of the festival was planned to take place in the Moscow cinema on the sounds of the military orchestra. When the nearly two hundred participants from sixty-five countries gathered on the red carpet under the strafe of camera lights, I realized that, for my own misfortune, I have forgotten my invitation in the hotel room so I rushed back to get it. It turned out, that there was no way I could not have forgotten it because someone, mistakenly, missed to put the most important invitation for me, mine, in the envelope. Beginning to panic, I called Tamar, and she relieved me and assured me that everything will be alright, and she was right: the force was in my press-card. The tool that

could open every door with no problem, did a great job, although I missed the entrance with the stars, but caught the beginning marked with melodies of the duduk. The projections of the highlights from the previous four festivals reminded for the long way that the GA has passed to reach success. The proofs for this were the salutations from the singer and author Ruben Hakverdyan with the popular song “This is Erevan”, as well as from Ralf Yirikyan, the executive director of VivaCell, the main sponsor of the cinemafestival. The director Harutiun Hachaduryan along with the anchorman delivered some special awards, the most remarkable of which were for the directors Vim Venders (Germany), Dariush Merhjui (Iran), and posthumously to Michelangelo Antonioni (Italy), in memorial of whom a minute of silence was dedicated. With my colleagues we missed the opening movie that we had already watched and decided to hide from the heat in a café in the foyer of the Ani Plaza where everyday an unfamiliar gentleman was playing the piano with great willingness.

In the evening, all the VIPs were invited to a cocktail in a restaurant outside the center of the city. The place was incredible because the two-floor building was bulging from the lake with lit waterfall next to it, giving a cozy mood to our atmosphere. Peter, Andre, Evrim, Janet, Vicky, several Turkish directors and critics and I took a table on the top floor of the restaurant, so that we can have a better view on the dancing floor where the musicians were playing lively some popular Armenian songs. Various new salads, along with different brands of cheese and meat were followed by dishes with pork meat and bulgur, and of course, lots of apricots and red wine of pomegranate, which was totally different from what we have tasted before. The cuisine was excellent, but the program for dinner was far more attracting since it succeeded in making famous people from all over the world have pure fun in dancing Armenian folklore dances. Our unchangeable Tamada, the director, Harutiun, raised the spirits with consecutive toasts and cheerful salutes that went on till after midnight. The evening excelled every expectation and only foreshadowed its continuation. All's well that ends well… and begins well.

A French day, full of Hripsime, Echmiadzin and a green restaurant The following days were separated by subjects: the 14th of July was dedicated to the French cinema, 16th to the Dutch, 15th was going to be wandering along the nations joined by the program Directors Across Borders and different seminars connected to the cinema industry. Despite the clear program, many things happened in the meantime. The lunch on the 14th was served in the inner yard of the Golden Tulip hotel where a press conference was held and ended soon enough with a media cocktail. Among the standing interviews, meetings with colleagues and the colorful cocktails with cognac, Ararat or Artsah, free choice, the jury of the challenge program was walking with fans in hands. Janet and I had the task to attend the cocktail, and after its finish we decided to take a walk around the capital. We were going over the Republic square, when we noticed a big bookstore near it, so I asked my friend to go enter

it. In the variety of Russian and Armenian publications, I picked an interesting cooking book which I decided to use as a gift when I go back to Sofia. Unlike me, Janet was inspecting for newspapers that she would bring her father in Istanbul, so we decided to look for a kiosk heading towards V. Sargsyan Street. There, we accidentally bumped into the official store of the Ararat cognac, and inspired by our previous consummation we decided to buy a bottle for home. Next to it, there was a specialized shop for herbs and coffee, so I fulfilled my promise to bring traditional Armenian tea to my acquaintance. After the successful shopping, melting along with the ice-cream that we bought, we headed towards the hotel to get some work done.

In the evening we attended the brief opening of the French night, and starting at 7 pm I watched with great eagerness the marvelous work of Dariush Mehrudji “Santouri”, a realistic and fictional knit of the heart’s impulses, the engulfing darkness of the vices, and the world of music in the human soul. Shortly after the movie ended, the buses were waiting to take us to the cocktail of the first national television, K1, which is also broadcasted in Bulgaria; the trip to get to there was about an hour moving away from Erevan. On the way out of the capital city we managed to see the beautifully lit museum of the city, and on the way we ran into the popularly used in Armenian music videos villa that extracted pomposity and spectacularity as if taken directly from ancient Rome.

When we arrived, it was already completely dark. The restaurant, named “Ashtaragi Dzor” was a heavenly spot in the greenery of the province, having live music, a small dancing space and a pond where a colorful ornamental ship was bulging above the swimming ducks. Despite the late hour of dinner, the kitchen was nice, but the strangest thing was that instead of serving us salad, there were plates with whole cucumbers and tomatoes on the table. I could not resist the temptation to show off my culinary skills with the sharpest possible knife that I was brought, and I succeeded in pleasing everyone. Along with us on the table was the Turkish crew again, as well as the director Yoss Steling with his charming wife Liane. The night passed by in jokes and pranks to give way to the following day…

The 15th of July went on a bit differently from what we expected. I woke up at 7 am with the intention to finish my articles on time, so that I can join the organized for the guests of the festival trip to Surp Echmiadzin. The tough morning went on well and at 1 pm sharply I was in front of the bus discussing the “short” “Transformation” with the luminous young director Arman Tadeosyan. On the way to the church I managed to meet several other people along which was the interesting Canadian photographer Carl Valike who participated in the festival with the documentary “Blood and Incense”, a movie telling the truth about the traditions in cock fights in Bali.

Lost in an amusing conversation about adventure trips, we soon arrived at the east part of Echmiadzin city near the old church Surp Hripsime, built in 618, today a part of the UNESCO cultural inheritance. With its small size and reddish and grayish walls of tuff, the church is an architectural example of the ancient Armenian churches from the classic period; in the church yard the graves of the Armenian catholicizes of the 18th century Astvadzadzur and Garabed II are found. A tiny entrance leads to a small indoor space where the incrusted with mother-of-pearl carving on the altar is found, revealing the quality of the Armenian applied art of the 18th century. The composition of the ornamentation, made like a relief of interweaving branches with stylized leaves and different fruits and flowers arranged about the Greek cross, is very original. The weakly lit grave of the great martyr Hripsime is found in a little catacomb along with the stone, which, according to the legend, is considered the cause of her death.

After spending half an hour looking through the sacred place we headed towards the initial destination of our trip. Big in size, the complex of Echmiadzin includes buildings of different styles and epochs: the palace of the Catolicos, the seminary, the cafeteria, the synod, the library, the printing house, the cells of the monks, etc.

Surp Echmiadzin, the oldest cathedral in the world, is, as it follows, a spiritual center of the country and the residence of the head of the Armenian apostolic church, which makes it a favorite place for prayer. Initially Surp Krikor Lusavorich built it at 303 as an archly basilica when Armenia was the first country in history to accept Christianity as a country’s official religion. Later in 484, the original structure from the 4th century was reconstructed with a different plan and the addition of a dome. So did the building correspond to the description given by Surp Krikor of Agatengelos whose “History of Armenians” belongs to the fifth millennium: the saint had a dream about Jesus, coming down from heaven and hitting the earth with a hammer made of gold to mark the place where the cathedral should be built. This is where the name comes from, the direct translation of the phrase “the place where the Only Son of God descended”.

The design of the big outer edifice was a typical Armenian because of the richness of rotundas and a soaring belfry. The exterior looks clear up to the point of stepping through the entrance: a masterly combination of colorful ornaments woven into complex forms. The interior is far more impressive with its variety of symbolism in the ritual frescoes and colorings.

There are constantly people inside, but the area is not big enough for major events as the outside predisposes.

Just in front of the main entrance a high arch is found, pointing to the seminary and the Manukyan museum, the treasure house of Echmiadzin. The museum building itself is an architectural artifact; in the park in front of it hachkars dating from the middle ages can be found. The hachkar is basically a stone plate with a sunken cross usually placed above filigree whose symbolism is connected to the overpowering of Christianity over paganism. The ends of the crucifix have a small weaving each, symbolizing the Holy Trinity, and the different weavings on each side remind the Armenian nation’s belief that nothings besides God is faultless and ideal.

Passing through history I met everything that builds up the present. Our guide was telling as much as possible about what we were seeing, but obviously this was not her true profession. When our group entered the first floor of the museum, an old gentleman greeted us in Armenian. The young guide tried to translate from Armenian to English cumbersomely while the calm man was speaking about the things we are going to observe as a cultural value and its role as a protector. A couple of minutes of unsuccessful translation later, the speaker turned to the inept translator, then turned again to us and started speaking flawless English. Our blushed translator faded into the backlines through the giggles, obviously embarrassed by the discovery that she was trying to translate the words of nobody else, but the curator of one of the most important for the cultural inheritance of the world museums.

In about an hour, he told us about the individual artifacts, a big part of which were donated by the people from the Diaspora. On the two floors we managed to go over some small and big icons, handmade carpets, tapestry, incrusted bibles and manuscripts, bishop’s scepters, all types of silver, gold, and ivory decorated with filigree and gems, engraved curtains, clothing, and others. Most of these objects date since the 17-19 century, but there are even older treasures like the crucifix from the 10th century from the Avustar monastery, which is still up to day, one of the oldest survived low reliefs in Armenia. The plasticity of the naked body, the expressivity of the faces and the tension of the poses are presented in a unique confident way. Astonished by the fine make and the applied creativity, I started walking last from the group, accidentally hearing the explanations of the curator for the donated in 2001 exponents, a collection of ritual cups of different Christian countries.

The answer: Although Armenians are scattered on the five continents, the belief and feeling of belonging to the origin and country would never become extinct as long as the collective soul is alive.

To land in fortress of the swallows The dedicated to the Dutch cinema 16th of July was going relatively smooth. I finished with my work in the informational center of the GA, located next to the Moscow cinema, and I started doing my other tasks, quickly going through the last printed issue of the daily paper.

I was supposed to attend the moderated

by Razmik Melkomyan presentation of the twelve projects participating in the DAB (Directors Across Borders) competition in order to write a material about the essence of the program. Every one of the young directors had thing to show through his work, which would definitely harden the jury’s task and ease to some point my questions in the following brief interview.

The afternoon of the same day I had my meeting with Bianca Taal, the leader of the Hubert Bals foundation of the international film festival Rotterdam, Holland. She told me more about the creation of the program and the collaboration of the festivals Rotterdam and Pusan (South Korea), and the official declaration signed in January 2007. The interesting young lady did not want to give me a hint about the winners in the competition, but shared with a smile on her face that the experience in Erevan was magnificent. Several hours later the cocktail of HayPost, one of the main sponsors of the festivals, was taking place. The event was overlapping with the bright occasion of Jos Stelling who celebrated his birthday along with the greetings for success of his movie “Dushka”. The greatest compliment for the evening I received from Jos himself, who was wondering if I were an actress… Several bites and glasses of chardonnay later, I spoke even in Bulgarian to the vice-director of internationals relations of HayPost, Uri Spiriev. After the transfer of business cards, I rushed to the exit of the Golden Tulip where the cocktail was taking place. It seemed that even I had a limit of stamina on such worldly events, so I decided to adjourn to an earlier recess.

The routine of the work day 17th of July turned around about noon. My roommate was returning to her home earlier because of a personal engagement, so I called some of the girls and invited them to our room to give them souvenirs from Bulgaria: some marthenizas, pyrographed flasks of rose water, magnets, and post cards from the capital city. Touched by the gifts, one of my Armenian colleagues suggested taking me to the Genocide memorial monument.

The visit to Dzidzernagabert (in translation “the fortress of the swallows”) excited me greatly. The construction of the great monuments began in 1966 after the demonstration of 1 million Armenians in Erevan in remembrance of the 50 years of the genocide over the Armenian people and was finished two years later. While putting flowers next to the eternal fire I thought on the pointless and cruel death of so many of my ancestors. On the 24th of April here, at the center of the twelve granite plates arranged in a circle many Armenians from the whole world gather here to show respect to the passed mother and fathers, brothers and sisters, children and husbands… The obelisk bulging towards the sky was looking as if reaching its hand to eternity and the power of the sun projecting over the horizon. Next to it a 100 meter wall is found where the names of the Armenian towns and villages destroyed during the Turkish massacres are written. A bit lower, the museum of the Genocide and the park can be seen where the world’s leaders of different countries have left dedication messages to the coming generations. Unfortunately, 4:30 pm was near and the museum was closing, but I was able to tell my friend about some of my personal surveys regarding the Genocide for an examination I was having.

Slowly passing by hachkars and historical monuments, we reached the currently in construction futuristic concert hall, whose opening is one of the most expected events in the capital. The temperature was above 35 degrees centigrade, the only rescue from this dry heat was to take one of the overcrowded private taxis and seek salvation below the air-conditioner.

On the way, we passed by the magnificent Houses of Parliament and we got off at the memorial monument of Sayat Nova, also known as the “King of the songs” Armenian poet and troubadour Harutiun Sayatyan. Near his monument we found a nice café next to a small park where we observed some youngsters playing table tennis while we were talking about fashion, trips, hobbies, and whatever else came to our minds.

In the evening, the whole group came to the place where the invitations brought us, to the house-museum of the quaint director and artist Sergei Paradjanov. If we have to compare him to someone, I would name him Gaudi and Hundertvaser of cinema geniuses. Every corner of his home was emanating some sort of craziness, separation from norms and traditions, over-sensitivity and some unperceivable for the simple mind creativity. The memory of my photo camera happened to be insufficient for

storing all the recreations in abstract compositions to a degree where I found myself engrossed in the sense of humor and coarse realism of the great Paradjanov.

His work hearth was honored even by the Bulgarian vice-minister of culture Yavor Milushev, whose special visitation was by the invitation of the Armenian minister of culture Mrs. Asmik Bogosyan.

In sweet talks and toasts the people gathered in the tiny space of the yard, and even the first drizzle since my arrival was not able to bother anyone. It seemed that the closeness had a wholesome effect on the people that were sunk in lively discussions till midnight and even later. Sometimes even the stars go down on Earth…

Winners take the Gold? No, they take the Apricot On the 18th of July the three winners of the second regional joint forum DAB were announced. Despite the confusions in the settlement for the hour of the meeting, I was still able to take an interview from two of the three winners, Maria Zaakyan (“I am Going to Change My Name”) and Vahram Mhitaryan (“Shepherd’s Song”). The conversations were done in an affable atmosphere, while the young people were lively explaining the details around their projects. As it turned out, Vahram was not only a director, but also a cameraman, not just a cameraman, but the one in Maria’s first movie. Although both of them were bound in the win, in reality their goals were differing. For Maria, the win was valuable because of her future constructional plans, while for Vahram the popularization of his movie’s message was important.

After the interviews, I went back to the office, to proof-read them, when we decided with Andre to surprise Peter with a slight change in the assignment for the inquiry of the celebrities at the festival. We changed the design to an apricot tree with some interesting gnomes about the impressions of the fifth GA, but some happened to be bolder than expected when I saw the printed version. Peter was not fascinated, but had to lump our initiative because Janet had already left us which dwindled the size of our journalist family.

The following day, Evrim and I were going to condone an even more important interview with the shortly arrived president of the festival, Atom Egoyan. Prepared for the most important examination of our lives, the two of us discussed the questions and headed to the café in Golden Tulip where with Peter, Daniel, and two photographers we waited the affable director who had a birthday.

When he came, everything just went smoothly. After I greeted him, the conversation appeared to be more of a talk among old friends, rather than a talk to a media representative.

Very garrulous and open, Atom was stunning with his presence everyone. Wrapping up the questions, we asked him for a quick photo session with us which he happily accepted. The same night the closing ceremony of the festival was taking place where the main prizes would be handed. The highly guarded by the organizers event was taking place in the luxurious Latar complex outside Erevan. The majority of people were welcomed by young girls dressed in traditional Armenian costumes, lined on both sides of the path to the huge building in ancient Greek style, along with the modern costumes of the male volunteers. The magnificent spectacle was complemented by the appearance of Harutiun and Atom that arrived at the event. Soon the whole crowd was going up the stairs to the ceremony hall where the prizes were handed. Through the applauses, tears and smiles, the deserving winners thanked emotionally for the decisions of the jury. At the end of the one hour long rewards, the guests were requested to go down where a marvelous magic of fireworks conquered the sky.

The last cocktail was incomparable to any of the previous ones, and the folklore dances of the professional troupes allured the attention of all people present. While Harutiun was greeting people on the microphone, I caught the attention of Atom Egoyan to give him a present, a wooden plate with wood-carving of the famous Bulgarian Trojan monastery. Thanking him for the opportunity to be part of the past events, I learned that he spoke to the Bulgarian viceminister of culture Mr. Milushev about the presence of a successful young journalist in my face. With cheerful delight in the company of his assistant and some other guests a toast for his health was raised. I asked Atom to sign me an autograph on the poster of the festival. The rest of the celebrations passed without being felt: good things never last long.

The 20th of July was my last day in Armenia, so I had lunch for the last time in the company of Evrim, Peter, and Andre, talking about the past days. The two bosses spoke their opinion of my work with some praise, and when we were waving Evrim goodbye, I received an invitation to Istanbul. Noticing the director Harutiun passing by, I rushed to give him the same present like Atom’s, only this time the image of Rila monastery was carved. The surprised sympathetic director was delighted and had the plate in his hand the whole afternoon while speaking business in Golden Tulip. For Peter and Andre I prudently had souvenirs to give, leaving no one to be angry at me. I packed my baggage for setting off and I thought of how much I was leaving here. I was taking only two things: my first impression and my strong desire to come back! On my way to the Golden Apricot 6. I gave a farewell to everyone‌ next year, home in Armenia yet again.

Lucy Setian www.lucyset.blogspot.com