Category Archives: Social

Thoughts on April 17

On Tuesday I witnessed civil actions and vignettes of disobedience that I have never seen before in Armenia. For part of the day I was watching many of these events unfold in different places simultaneously thanks to several online live video feeds broadcast by Azatutyun.am and A1plus.am. Hetq Online was reporting on the events throughout the day, and as usual posted stunning photos by Narek Alexanyan, some of which are reprinted here.

The peaceful actions of civil disobedience were unprecedented for Armenia. For example, students would suddenly decide to block the entire six-lane width of Abovyan Street at the Isahakyan intersection and sit on the ground in a tight row. Elderly pairs would be moving slowly but deliberately up Sayat-Nova streets to watch on, perhaps give a few words of wisdom and encouragement to student protestors. Thousands of people walked toward or right against the police barricade near the foot of Baghramyan Street, and linger there or move on to another impromptu site of protest, that would suddenly be abandoned for another intersection randomly blocked, impeding the flow of traffic once again. They were totally decentralized movements of disruption, always peaceful, and dignified (save for frustrated drivers who found themselves unexpectedly stranded, as I saw for instance on the corner of Sayat-Nova and Abovyan Streets around 3:30 pm, just moments after protestors blocked the intersection).  Then I began walking west to the Place de France, the square on Mashdots and Sayat-Nova, a stone’s throw from the Opera House. The area had been occupied at that point for at least 40 hours, if not more. Suddenly two young guys sharing a seat on a retro BMX-style dirt bike resembling the one my brother rode around when we were kids in Winchester rode into the intersection and announced that the people should mobilize and move directly to Republic Square.

Throughout the day the thousand-strong crowd led by Nigol Pashinyan moved to various locations, occupying the entrances of governmental agencies, like the Prosecutor General’s Office, then the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, for several minutes at a time, before moving on again. When I first started observing what was happening, in all honestly it seemed pointless and absurd, and it stirred memories of movements from the past—from 2013 especially.  But it didn’t take long for me to understand that this effort was indeed an organized, nevertheless decentralized string of protests.

I walked south on Mashdots Street and saw that every intersection starting from Place de France all the way to the Khorenatsi intersection, near the “Pak Shuga,” was blockaded. Understand that this is the most travelled avenue in central Yerevan, one of the main city routes used by hundreds of minibuses, trolleys and, full-size buses every hour. So to see it come to a complete standstill, where only pedestrians traveled, was surreal.

Photo by Christian Garbis
Photo by Christian Garbis

I made a left on Amiryan and walked to the Square to see whether protesters were indeed assembling there. By the time I got there shortly before 4:00 pm the Square was occupied. All six roads that either enter or exit the square were closed, and people were just strolling about. Some, like me, were left standing on a corner, trying to comprehend how these students managed to bring traffic in one of the busiest, vibrant locations of the city to a standstill. At one point some protesters took a break to play impromptu volleyball directly in the middle of the square on the stone-tiled oval-shaped barrier. By 6:00 thousands of people were occupying the square, and more kept pouring in.

Photo by Christian Garbis

And then a couple of hours later they left. By 9:00 there were virtually no signs that anything had happened there. There were also no police, save for the row of young cadets guarding the entrance to the Government Building. It was peaceful, as it always is in the evening. People were strolling around the fountains, as they always do. Some vendors were selling those junky toys with multicolored strobe lights little kids love so much. It was business as usual, although traffic was still light. Republic Square was simply abandoned for another location, another site where traffic and normalcy would suddenly be disrupted, causing momentary chaos and stress for motorists.

As of Wednesday morning I am still trying to process the events. I have seen protests in Yerevan attended by huge crowds time and time again—2007, 2008, 2013, 2014, 2015. But this was different. Most of the organizers and participants were students—18-24 years old. Some even younger were directly involved.

Now I have never been a big fan of Nigol Pashinyan, who’s an MP representing the oppositional Yelk bloc, although I admire his strong will and straightforwardness. But he’s let down people before, quite a few times, actually, by trying to play ball with the authorities. Two years ago he was rebuked and sent home during the “Sasna Dzer” protests. I first encountered him in 2007, when he launched his anti-government “Impeachment” one-man show, followed by the broader “Aylentrank”  (Alternative) movement. Back then he was still the editor for Haykakan Zhamanak daily newspaper. He was on Freedom Square on the steps of the Opera House on a daily basis, screaming incoherently in a shrill voice into a bullhorn, with a few spectators standing around chomping on sunflower seeds, wondering what his beef was. He’s doing the same today, although his message is quite clear and articulate. And he has rallied thousands of protestors who are counting on him to persist.

But this movement is not about him. It’s about Armenia’s youth and their pursuit of justice, and their struggle to live in a free, democratic state, not one governed by an increasingly authoritarian regime. The protestors have vowed to retake Place de France today and Republic Square by day’s end. And, judging from what I personally saw on Tuesday, they will get the job done, irrespective of whether he’s actually present.

All photos by Narek Alexanyan (unless otherwise noted), copyright Hetq Online 2018

Reflections on April 24

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Now that some time has passed since the commemoration events held in Istanbul, I can finally freely post some photos and also part of the journal I was keeping at the time.

Firstly, I should say that the events planned by Project 2015 were phenomenal. They were brilliantly organized and executed. The organizers were gracious and caring to all the attendees, and they were well prepared for the days’ events. I unfortunately was not in Istanbul to attend the legendary memorial concert on April 22 featuring Onnik and Ara Dinkjian among other fine musicians, but from what I understand it was a moving performance (and apparently is on YouTube).

It was my first trip to Istanbul, and it was without a doubt one of the greatest adventures of my life. As you’ll see in photos I will post soon, Istanbul is a colorful, dynamic city where nothing seems to be impossible. Although I primarily spent all my time there in the Beyoglu district  and also the Golden Horn, I felt a peculiar, indescribable bond with the city, as if I had been away for several decades. For many years I vowed to never set foot in Turkey, not until the government recognized the Armenian Genocide. But some time ago I started getting over that. I realized that regardless of anything, Turkey–Western Armenia–is the home of my ancestors, and whether the Turks acknowledge the genocide or not, my roots are still there. That land is awaiting me.

I did not feel that there was anything relevant for me personally in being in Yerevan for the 24th. Nothing compelled me to march up Tsisternakaberd once again, droopy tulips in hand. The centennial was an event, it was a milestone, and for countless others like me, something had to be done differently this time around. I had heard one argument that by choosing to commemorate the centennial in Istanbul people were looking back in time instead of forward. I disagree. There was no other place on earth more symbolic for holding Armenian Genocide commemoration events than Istanbul.

Below are my notes recorded at the end of that day.

April 24, 2015

The day was an emotional one. It wasn’t depressing for me, however. Perhaps that’s because I was caught up in the shock of being here.

Yesterday as I debarked the airplane at Ataturk Airport a strange thought came to my head — was I home now? This musing was ironic since I had arrived from Yerevan, my home for 10 years. It’s where my children were born. But my roots are in Anatolia, not the South Caucasus. So was I home? Does it matter that I have no family ties to Constantinople? How does my identity as an American factor into this?

This question was reinforced by other feelings, emotions that I wanted to subdue yet they were there, cacophonous in the soul but somehow latent. It started late in the evening and continued this morning. I contemplated that I was looking for a connection with my past in the wrong place all these years. It’s as if I was deceiving myself. My ancestral home is indeed Anatolia. It’s not Yerevan, it’s not anywhere in the Armenian republic. I still feel the need to go home. Yegheki is waiting. Sousoury is waiting. Urfa is waiting. These places are all expecting me, I sense it, I can even taste it. I’m almost there. I’m looking for the right time to go, with the supportive companionship I will undoubtedly need to have. I can’t take that trip home alone, not the first time there.

It was a full day of visiting historic locations from mid-morning to late afternoon, from the site where Gomidas Vartabed once resided in Istanbul (the original building having been raised decades ago), to the jailhouse where the arrested intellectuals were detained (which is now called the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art) to the Haydarpasa train station via ferry from where these same intellectuals were sent by railcar to their doom.

At 6:30 pm I set out for the site that is sanctioned for the protest adjacent to Taksim Square on Istiklal Street, but I decided to bypass it and walk up Tarlabasi Street instead, then left onto Zambak. At the Zambak-Istiklal intersection I met a barricade of police. Men and women in full riot gear were on the sidelines, preparing for the worst. There was a rumbling chant in the distance coming from far down Istiklal Street. What appeared to be hundreds of people (close to 5000 protesters assembled that evening) were already gathered for the protest but there was no way of getting to them; the policeman told me the area was “closed.” I walked all the way around the block via a side street I luckily managed to discover only to be told on Taksim Square that the area was blocked off—the same secure police barrier was there as well. I told a policeman that I wanted to join my friends, that I was an Armenian. He told me to go back to the other side, where I had just been. I rushed back, weaving in and out of the chain of random pedestrians strolling about, clueless of the protest that was about to formally start. When I finally returned the chants were now louder because marchers entered the protest area walking right past me. For a moment I stood in fear thinking that Kemalists had managed to enter the area sanctioned for the protest. Then I saw the placards that people were holding and I was relieved. The signs told us not to forget Sevag Balikci, the soldier serving in the Turkish military who was murdered on April 24, 2011. They demanded that the genocide be admitted. I saw familiar faces, close friends nearby. There was a call and response method to the chanting. The power it transmitted was overpowering, exhilarating. It was unlike any protest I have ever participated in—the emotions, the intensity of the moment, the energy transmitted from person to person as if a rolling wave in a calm sea. The chanting continued for several minutes before the mass sit-in protest officially began. Thousands sat on the brick pavement, listening to speeches being read in Turkish, Armenian and English. Amongst us were Turks, Armenians from Istanbul and across the Diaspora, French, Darfuri. Occasionally recordings of spiritual music performed with modern arrangements were played on the loudspeakers. The mood was solemn; I discerned one woman in particular holding back tears.

I wanted to weep but I couldn’t. The chants of the oppositional anti-Armenian protests in the distance kept breaking the mood to mourn. I yearned to weep for my great-grandfather Nishan Guetchudian, who never watched his daughter Clara grow up. There are no photos of him, no traces. It’s as if he never existed. I wanted to imagine my grandfather Hagop surviving on the streets of Aleppo, compelled to eat weeds, picking through gravel and dirt in search of nails or anything made of metal to sell to a blacksmith so he could buy a loaf of bread—or perhaps two loaves, one being a distraction for the dozens of other starving children hovering around him, begging for a morsel. I wanted to imagine how infant Lusine Mahakian, comforted by her mother and her siblings managed to flee Urfa for Syria, sheltered from time to time by acquaintances. But I can’t. How can anyone possibly fathom having to survive an inferno of devastation, slaughter, rot, famine and filth? How do you begin to imagine it all? It’s not possible. You can stare all you want at the photographs of decapitated heads piled up in pyramids of evil, bewildered women roaming while clutching their babes, the gallows where dozens of devastated men sway, emaciated, decomposing children laid tightly beside one another in rows that never seem to end. It’s simply not possible for us to in any way to visualize that hell as if we were there in the moment. And we are better for that. Our martyrs would not want us to imagine it. One hundred years later they beckon us not to forget them, while imploring us to move on.

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Haydarpasa
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Haydarpasa protest
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Haydarpasa protest
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In front of the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art, previously known as the gate to hell a century back
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Taksim Square Protest, additional photos below

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Notes on the Centennial

My grandmother Clara with her mother, Haigouhi
My grandmother Clara with her mother, Haigouhi

For several weeks now I’ve been trying to put into words what the centennial of the Armenian Genocide means to me personally, and how I am either directly or indirectly affected by that holocaust. Would I have existed had the Genocide not taken place? Is it possible that my grandparents would have met regardless and given birth to my own parents, who in turn would have met either in Western Armenia or in the United States?

Obviously, there is no way of predicting destiny and it arguably may be a foolish exercise to even ponder the probabilities of outcome. Perhaps I am being naïve in stating that yes, I do believe I would have been born into this world right around the same time 43 years ago. It is extremely likely that both my grandparents on my mother’s side for instance would have wound up in America. My great-grandmother’s sister, Teriz Echmelian, had already ventured to Providence, Rhode Island all by herself, a rebellious act in those days, and so had the uncle of my grandfather—his father’s brother—having settled in Cambridge, Massachusetts. My great-grandfather Nishan Guetchudian moved back to Yegheki in the Harput province leaving his home and occupation in Connecticut behind in order to marry my great-grandmother Haigouhi—his brother had sent him a photograph of an attractive, prospective spouse. Since he already had a taste of what life was like in America, he’d eventually heed his calling and move his family back with him. So it was inevitable that the two sisters and their families would have been reunited in the New World.

My grandfather Hagop Rousyan (actually spelled “Russian”) had already been orphaned before the Genocide and was living on the streets, surviving on a diet of grass and weeds and toiling in odd jobs. Nevertheless, he was certainly impacted directly by the after-effects of genocide since it was impossible for him to return to his village of Sousoury, which incidentally was situated next door to Yegheki. But since his uncle had already found his way to New England, I presume he most certainly would have followed.

My grandparents on my father’s side met in Aleppo, and there was about a 14-year age gap between them. Garabed Adanalian was born there, while my grandmother Luciné Mahakian and her entire family fled Urfa. Meanwhile, Aleppo was an ancient, attractive cosmopolitan city with opportunities abound, and there was certainly an Armenian community already flourishing there since the 11th century. In all likelihood, had there not been a genocide they probably would have wed since marriages were arranged in most instances.

My father expressed his conviction to me while growing up that the Middle East, meaning the chiefly Arab countries, were simply a depot for Armenians as they had no place living there long-term due to the cultural and religious imbalance. Thus, I am certain that, one way or another, he would have found his way to the Boston area since he had contacts already residing there and was on a quest for freedom from a world with which he could never identify.

Since I do believe that the concept of destiny is defensible, I am able to separate the events of 100 years ago from my identity as an Armenian and, more importantly, as human being. Having said that, my stance on destiny does not obstruct my obligation to contend with the past and somehow fathom the horrors my grandparents were made to endure. I’ve had to confront my people’s past for decades, at various times in intense scrutiny. Only recently have I begun to probe the details of the plight of my maternal grandmother, Clara Movsesian Russian, who turned 100 years old in October and still resides in her home of 70 years in Arlington, Massachusetts.

Nevertheless, I have never found myself obsessed with genocide and the need for politicians and presidents to acknowledge the holocaust of the Armenians as genocide. But each year I anticipate that the US President will officially spurn the intimidation of the Turkish government and its billion-dollar industry of denial. Like thousands of other Armenian-Americans, I can’t wait for the annual written statement on the occasion of April 24th to be released by the Oval Office, only to be disappointed year after year. But I never lose hope that perhaps the following year the president will finally use the “G-word.”

But what would change if he did? When will the Turkish government succumb to its perceived legitimacy of denial and subsequently bring the Armenian Genocide to an end once and for all? Would reparations eventually follow? I’ve never been able to guess the outcome. Perhaps the Armenian Genocide will cease to matter to the world in 2016, and Armenian-Americans may begin to lose hope that their president will ever properly acknowledge it. I simply don’t know what to think.

Unmistakably, the visit of the Kardashians to Armenia in April followed by the Pope’s public acknowledgement of the Armenian Genocide generated a worldwide fervor. The topic of the Armenian Genocide is being used as a direct way to spur business for media outlets.  Everyone is talking about the Genocide, it has never received such attention on a mass scale since awareness was first spread about it 50 years ago. The magnitude of the worldwide attention, fueled  by the numerous reports appearing in the New York Times, the Washington Post, the Guardian, the Independent, the Daily Times and myriad other widely read publications with millions of followers, not to mention the miraculous social media outlets like Facebook and Twitter, is unequivocal. The buzz that has been created is staggering, even overwhelming.

It’s important that we separate the glamour, the Botox, the protruding bosoms and behinds, the haughty Hollywood lifestyle from the humanity of the Kardashians. Their visit was met with cynical remarks in social media. Some of my friends have been critical, believing that their visit has only cheapened or undermined the Armenian cause with all the ruckus. I cannot disagree more. They are human beings. They are connecting with their roots. They didn’t have to travel to Armenia for the centennial; they could have stayed home. They certainly didn’t need the publicity. And the Armenians have not lost anything. They instead should be proud that awareness of the Genocide and the Armenian nation for that matter has been placed under the spotlight. Average Americans now know where Armenia is located on the map, and they are now aware of the inferno in which the first Christian nation was engulfed 100 years ago. That’s something to celebrate ardently.

Surviving Yerevan’s Sizzling Summer

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It’s been a nasty summer in Yerevan, with temperatures hovering at 95 degrees Fahrenheit (35 degrees Celsius) or higher for at least two months straight, with an occasional dip to 85-90 degrees now and then. The 10-day forecast according to Yahoo Weather shows that the trend will continue through the middle of September.

In my 10 years (can hardly believe it’s been that long) of living in Armenia there has never been such a brutal summertime, a relentless heat wave from the boroughs of inferno. And thanks to the stone buildings in my neighborhood walking down the street in late afternoon often feels like strolling through a brick oven. The only thing missing was the treat of a fragrant, rich fresh mozzarella and cherry tomato pizza waiting at the far side.

My boys, Areg and Shant, and I would often take strolls in the early to mid evening, the only somewhat tolerable time to go out with them. Naturally we’d almost always make it to a water fountain — one of at least a dozen in the city center — to cool off in the refreshing, kissing mist. Charles Aznavour Square seems to be the least chaotic in the evenings for fountain lovers and very appealing to toddlers as well as babies who are stroller or carrier bound (I use either/or, but I rather favor my Baby Bjorn “kangaroo” as carriers are called here). The often breezy Cascade steps were always a nice getaway from the apartment, too.

Being the proud father that I am, I thought I’d post some photos of the boys from the last two months,  loving every moment that life brings, damn the heat.  They indeed always make me feel refreshed whenever I’m with them, their sublime smiles pleasant breezes to soothe my soul.

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Serenity in Dilijan

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All the stresses in my personal life instigate havoc in my intestines. I find it hard to breathe and my heart is beating faster than it should. The intense heat produced by the unforgiving sun penetrates my hairless head and makes me feel unusually tired, as I find myself dragging my feet behind me while I make my way home from the cafe where I work part of the day. Even a 10-hour stretch of sleep during a single night does nothing to curb the listlessness, the emptiness I feel in my chest, the restless, discontented mind puckered like an unripened watermelon shriveled by the ardent sun permeating the Ararat valley. A sojurn to Dilijan is the answer.

I carefully pack an overnight bag with pants, three pairs of underwear, polo shirts, a long-sleeve dungaree shirt if the temperature turns nippy, a couple of V-necks and a few Band-Aids to cover the small wound just under the base of my fingernail on my left middle finger. I’m reading In Search of the Miraculous, a book describing the teachings of Gurdjieff, which rests on top of the clothes in the bag. I pack a small bag of dry dog food and bring Chi Chi the Chihuahua from Erebuni along. She’s a bit restless on my lap at first but she learns how to settle down. It’s her first long trip from home.

We arrive at a secluded B&B on the cusp of the Dilijan wilderness but are quickly turned away despite the place being deserted. I’m told a bus of tourists is being expected any minute. I leave offended, not believing the proprietor, a poet, who suffered no pain at rejecting us.
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We pull up beside the Magnit (sic) B&B situated on Kalinina Street, the road that leads out of the town towards Vanadzor. I ask if they will take us in and they agree instantly. We’re shown a tiny, nevertheless sunny room on the fourth floor with a narrow balcony overlooking the neighborhood and an extraordinary view of the rolling forested hills in the distance. The cost is 5000 dram a night plus 1500 for breakfast. After I close my gaping mouth I hand over the cash. I soon learn that the lock is finicky and takes some jittering and persuading to open the flimsy wooden door. Vochinch I say to myself. So long as I can recharge the battery. Chi Chi is a little nervous, still wondering what we’re doing there and where she’ll sleep. I unfold an old towel I brought along for the purpose on the parquet floor and tell her that’s bed. Problem solved.
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In the evening as we walk we stumble upon an old man sitting on a step, ashen beard several days long, dark tweed newsboy cap. Turns out he’s aged 75 as he reveals in conversation. I sit beside him to listen and learn. The meeting with the mysterious miniscule dog is love at first sight. He chats, mixing Armenian phrases with Russian, expecting me to undersand. I tell him my Russian is very weak so he takes the hint. He doesn’t and answers what I tell him in a language that has never spoken to me. He reveals that he loves animals, especially dogs. He wants to know where she came from, who sold it to me. He’s from Dilijan, has lived here all his life. He has two homes and his son operates a tiny grocery store street side. He jabbers on in Russian, and I find myself giving monosyllabic answers in English. We continue on into the darkness, searching for the right spot, then cross the street and descend the hill to keep looking. She sniffs then stops to investigate. She looks up at me for approval. I tell her again to do her pee-pee. No matter where we walk Chi Chi delights. Everyone seems to get a kick out of her, some approach, others chuckle from a distance. I’m proud of my blond 8-inch high Mexican buddy.
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Waking refreshed the next morning I decide to stay another night and make the necessary arrangements. Breakfast is a little meager, three small pieces of salty white cheese, five slices of greasy salami I don’t touch, a generous pile of matnakash bread, an ounce of apricot jam, a dab of butter and a single boiled egg.  Given the uninspiring portions it’s a bit pricey at four dollars. Then again, I’m not there to feast.
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We decide to walk for a few hours throughout down. Everyone gawks at Chi Chi, either in amusement, shock or disgust. Chi Chi stops every twenty feet or so to have a good sniff, still getting used to her surroundings. Near the nameless square in the middle of town is a pond that I’ve never noticed before. I can’t tell if it’s manmade or not. We sit on a bench built round the trunk of one of the twin weeping willow trees. After a few minutes a man around 50, surprisingly svelte, sits on the adjacent bench and starts asking questions about Chi Chi, what kind of dog, male or female, where did I get her from, how old. He asks me whether I’m from Iran (getting that a lot these days); I disappoint when telling him I’m from Boston. He says he’s going to Fresno in a couple of weeks to visit a close friend, then from there the pair is off to Miami for some R&R.  Then it’s back to France, where he works half the year doing who knows what. He asks me how I got there, and he’s surprised I like to drive a Niva. He tells me he had one once, expensive to maintain (others have told me the same, mine costs next to nothing to fix, assuming something goes wrong). He tells me he’s driven a few cars back to Armenia from Europe. He once bought a 1993 Mercedes that had been left for junk draped with dried leaves and other dusts of nature in someone’s driveway, with 170,000 kilometers driven. Claims to have paid only 300 euros for it, and that all he had to do was clean it up of course, change the fuel pump and install a brand new battery. Ended up selling it in Yerevan for several thousand dollars. Only Armenians can pull off these kinds of zany business transactions. On the way back to the hotel I decide to finally replace the passenger side window crank that broke about four years ago. The parts store owner tells me it’s a good one, with a metal frame. Feels solid in the hand. For some reason it takes me nearly an hour to figure out how to slide the old one off the door panel. Soviet technology is so simple it’s nearly impossible for a novice to decipher.

That evening is restless;  I toss and turn the entire night, finally falling asleep around 4:30 am. My flailing marriage is on my mind. The communication breakdown is as perplexing as the mid-April deep freeze that devastated the coveted grapes and apricots throughout the Ararat plains. I worry about my sons.
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Time to return home, to the dust and heat haze of Yerevan, to the insecurities of the loitering portly and scrawny self-conscious young men sporting fake Versace sunglasses, the boisterous beckons for the return of owned monies bellowed into shiny gold iPhones by middle aged mammoths, the neon pink stiletto high heels on the verge of snapping between the seams of stone tile sidewalks, the parade of tanned, voluptuous women abound, breasts heaving from their low-cut snug-fitting summer dresses. I already pine for my domicile in the cool alpine hills of Dilijan, my therapeutic paradise.
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