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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