Monday, November 21, 2005
Third Time's the Charm
Well, we're finally in Bishkek. After being shuttled to the airport on Saturday night, checked-in, moved through customs, and playing a bit with the cat living in the Yerevan airport, we were sent back to the hotel again. Our ranks were tripled at that point, as we were meant to be on the next regularly scheduled flight through Yerevan into Bishkek and it too, obviously, was then cancelled as well, along with the forty-some passengers on it. But only an hour or so after returning to the hotel we learned (via a note slipped under the door) we'd be leaving at noon the next day. Noon was actually closer to 3:00, but that's just splitting hairs--we got off the ground and landed a few hours later, finally, in Bishkek.
The views out of the airplane on the way were fantastic. We flew over the Caspian Sea and it was clear enough to see straight through to the horizon. And it was interesting to watch the mountain ranges grow the further we flew east, with the Himalayas only a fart and a whisper away. That is, when I wasn't sucked in by the in-flight entertainment. Why will I watch absolutely anything on an airplane? And not only why will I watch it, but why will I find it far, far funnier or moving or engrossing than really it has any right being? I mean, I love me some Will Farrell, too, but Bewitched just doesn't warrant the sort of silent belly-laughing I was giving it. Maybe I was a bit giddy to be in the air after three days in Armenia, I don't know. But I actually shush-ed Erin so I could hear the punchline of rather unimportant scene in The Fantastic Four. And that's a film adaptation of a comic I didn't even like growing up. Altitude is a special drug. (Nonsensical aside officially over.)
Before (not) leaving on Saturday, we took a tour out of Yerevan* with some of the fellow-stranded and an incredibly nice undergrad Armenian / tour guide whose name escapes me right now. We first stopped about a half hour out of the city at an overlook with a great view of Mt. Ararat, the "heart and soul of the Armenian people" (so says the tour guide) and the spot often hypothesized as being the final mooring place of Noah's Ark. If, you know, you're into that sort of thing. The spot where we were looking from was a big stone archway built on the top of a hill overlooking a huge valley and the mountain range further west. Better than that, the spot and the archway both were named after a poet. They name things after poets in Armenia! The rest of the trip was sort of anticlimactic for me after I learned that fact and fell madly in love with all Armenians, though we did see some pretty cool things. Like a first century pagan temple in the village of Girni, a place that can trace its permanent settlement back to 4,116 years ago. I have trouble with the US founding fathers (quick, name three people other than John Hancock who signed the Declaration of independence...didn't think so) but the residents of Girni can tell you the names of former residents of their house from 4000 years ago. My self respect keeps diminishing the more time I spend away from the Midwest. And to make matters worse, no one will ever name anything after me because I managed a descent sonnet once. But if I were Armenian...
Anyway, after that we drove up to a 12th century monastery (a rebuild of a 4th century one lost to earthquake, which itself was a rebuild of an older one also lost to earthquake) carved into the face of a mountain. It is believed to be the place where the spear used to pierce Jesus' side was kept after being brought to Armenia by two of Jesus' apostles as proof of His existence and good salesmanship for future conversions. The spear itself is now in the biggie Gregorian church elsewhere in Armenia. For an atheist who gave up "all that nonsense"** at the sagastic age of eight, this was an odd little tour. But the monastery was amazing. It is three churches and a series of monastic cells and passageways and antechambers and, oh yeah, did I mention--all of it carved out of the face of a mountain! Say what you will about zealots (I've said it all myself...twice), but these cats carved three churches out of stone so that they'd have a safe place to worship. That's some god damn devotion right there, boy.
The tour was capped off and, besides discovering the possibility of everything being named after poets, was really highlighted by the lunch we had in someone's home back in Girni. Four courses involving lamb and potatoes and different salads and freshly baked breads and homemade yoghurt, several rounds of apricot-peach vodka, desserts, fruit. Oh so good. So, so good. All of the entree foods and the breads were cooked in an underground oven similar to but different from a tandoor oven. The Armenian version is also clay and underground, but it is, well, different. And thousands of miles away from India. But damned tasty all the same.
But we're in Bishkek. I was meant to speak about Bishkek. I'll have to do that tomorrow. Right now I'm entirely too tired. It is 21:00 and Erin is snoring away on the couch behind me and her snoring is acting as some sort of odd anti-Siren song, lulling me, too, into sleep. So, tomorrow Bishkek. Until then, know this: we have an apartment, it is nice, close to things (we're told; though we did find a bazaar full of fresh produce and household goods and whatnot literally right around the corner, so that's nice), and has everything we need. We are settling in (though the language thing--my more or less complete lack of Russian and Kyrgyz--is freaking me out a bit). And we are tired. So...tomorrow.
* There will be pictures and links to pictures tomorrow (unless I do them in the morning shortly after I wake up and you're reading this not long after I post it, in which case my tomorrow will still be your today. Eleven hour time diferences rule!). I'm too lazy right now to upload them and write the HTML required, though, so you'll have to wait.
** The last three words I uttered on my way out of my last CCD class that got me sent to Father Frank for the last time (the theory is, I say last enough times and it almost makes it like a martyrdom...only, you know, not...not at all). He always smelled heavily of cigarette smoke and he had two earrings in his left ear and he was a bit handsy, if you know what I mean. My only punishment that day was to sit quietly until the end off class in his office while he worked on whatever it was he worked on. It smelled retched in that office. And he made rather disgusting mouth and throat sounds that seemed to indicate some sort of severe bronchial problem in need of medical assistance. Though he threw something in my direction when I suggested as much. Ah, good Catholic childhood memories, the stuff therapy and heretical poetry is made of...
The views out of the airplane on the way were fantastic. We flew over the Caspian Sea and it was clear enough to see straight through to the horizon. And it was interesting to watch the mountain ranges grow the further we flew east, with the Himalayas only a fart and a whisper away. That is, when I wasn't sucked in by the in-flight entertainment. Why will I watch absolutely anything on an airplane? And not only why will I watch it, but why will I find it far, far funnier or moving or engrossing than really it has any right being? I mean, I love me some Will Farrell, too, but Bewitched just doesn't warrant the sort of silent belly-laughing I was giving it. Maybe I was a bit giddy to be in the air after three days in Armenia, I don't know. But I actually shush-ed Erin so I could hear the punchline of rather unimportant scene in The Fantastic Four. And that's a film adaptation of a comic I didn't even like growing up. Altitude is a special drug. (Nonsensical aside officially over.)
Before (not) leaving on Saturday, we took a tour out of Yerevan* with some of the fellow-stranded and an incredibly nice undergrad Armenian / tour guide whose name escapes me right now. We first stopped about a half hour out of the city at an overlook with a great view of Mt. Ararat, the "heart and soul of the Armenian people" (so says the tour guide) and the spot often hypothesized as being the final mooring place of Noah's Ark. If, you know, you're into that sort of thing. The spot where we were looking from was a big stone archway built on the top of a hill overlooking a huge valley and the mountain range further west. Better than that, the spot and the archway both were named after a poet. They name things after poets in Armenia! The rest of the trip was sort of anticlimactic for me after I learned that fact and fell madly in love with all Armenians, though we did see some pretty cool things. Like a first century pagan temple in the village of Girni, a place that can trace its permanent settlement back to 4,116 years ago. I have trouble with the US founding fathers (quick, name three people other than John Hancock who signed the Declaration of independence...didn't think so) but the residents of Girni can tell you the names of former residents of their house from 4000 years ago. My self respect keeps diminishing the more time I spend away from the Midwest. And to make matters worse, no one will ever name anything after me because I managed a descent sonnet once. But if I were Armenian...
Anyway, after that we drove up to a 12th century monastery (a rebuild of a 4th century one lost to earthquake, which itself was a rebuild of an older one also lost to earthquake) carved into the face of a mountain. It is believed to be the place where the spear used to pierce Jesus' side was kept after being brought to Armenia by two of Jesus' apostles as proof of His existence and good salesmanship for future conversions. The spear itself is now in the biggie Gregorian church elsewhere in Armenia. For an atheist who gave up "all that nonsense"** at the sagastic age of eight, this was an odd little tour. But the monastery was amazing. It is three churches and a series of monastic cells and passageways and antechambers and, oh yeah, did I mention--all of it carved out of the face of a mountain! Say what you will about zealots (I've said it all myself...twice), but these cats carved three churches out of stone so that they'd have a safe place to worship. That's some god damn devotion right there, boy.
The tour was capped off and, besides discovering the possibility of everything being named after poets, was really highlighted by the lunch we had in someone's home back in Girni. Four courses involving lamb and potatoes and different salads and freshly baked breads and homemade yoghurt, several rounds of apricot-peach vodka, desserts, fruit. Oh so good. So, so good. All of the entree foods and the breads were cooked in an underground oven similar to but different from a tandoor oven. The Armenian version is also clay and underground, but it is, well, different. And thousands of miles away from India. But damned tasty all the same.
But we're in Bishkek. I was meant to speak about Bishkek. I'll have to do that tomorrow. Right now I'm entirely too tired. It is 21:00 and Erin is snoring away on the couch behind me and her snoring is acting as some sort of odd anti-Siren song, lulling me, too, into sleep. So, tomorrow Bishkek. Until then, know this: we have an apartment, it is nice, close to things (we're told; though we did find a bazaar full of fresh produce and household goods and whatnot literally right around the corner, so that's nice), and has everything we need. We are settling in (though the language thing--my more or less complete lack of Russian and Kyrgyz--is freaking me out a bit). And we are tired. So...tomorrow.
* There will be pictures and links to pictures tomorrow (unless I do them in the morning shortly after I wake up and you're reading this not long after I post it, in which case my tomorrow will still be your today. Eleven hour time diferences rule!). I'm too lazy right now to upload them and write the HTML required, though, so you'll have to wait.
** The last three words I uttered on my way out of my last CCD class that got me sent to Father Frank for the last time (the theory is, I say last enough times and it almost makes it like a martyrdom...only, you know, not...not at all). He always smelled heavily of cigarette smoke and he had two earrings in his left ear and he was a bit handsy, if you know what I mean. My only punishment that day was to sit quietly until the end off class in his office while he worked on whatever it was he worked on. It smelled retched in that office. And he made rather disgusting mouth and throat sounds that seemed to indicate some sort of severe bronchial problem in need of medical assistance. Though he threw something in my direction when I suggested as much. Ah, good Catholic childhood memories, the stuff therapy and heretical poetry is made of...
