I have to recalibrate my readings of strangers. In America, I can gauge strangers fluently. The 20 year old from France who has come to Columbia University to study Politics and Economics? I will go to bars with him, talk with him about life, invite him into my home, introduce him to family and friends. The 22 year old from Mexico who has come to New York to work in a restaurant’s backroom? I will sit and drink beers with him and talk about life, bring my friends over, but unwritten rules keep him out of my home and family. Meet someone, and they’ll know when it’s appropriate to ask your number and you theirs. Are they a friend of a friend, or someone completely random? Maybe you should google them first, be their facebook friend, or not. That guy in the reading room of the New York Public Library sitting next to you, do you trust to say “watch my bag and laptop while I go to the bathroom?” What about the Columbia library, or the Starbucks? Do you take rides from strangers? Not if they offer in the street, but if the posting comes on craigslist and they reasonably put-together, then you might. You’re not to judge a book by its cover, but in a city of millions that’s all you have the time to go on.
But what about Armenia? I can’t speak the language, can’t detect the vocal and cultural nuances that indicate so much about a person. So when Katie and Michael and are I walking a dirt path around the mountain to see what we can see, and we wave hello to some farmers, and Katie walks right over and starts talking to them in Armenian, opening up who she is and where she’s from without any wariness or the well-practiced distancing that lets bargoers and subway riders talk politics before exchanging first names, I’m a little startled. Oh Sam, they tell me, you’re just a New Yorker. Strangers are okay, people are friendly here, you can talk to them, it’s fine. So we walk a little further, and the next group of farmers waves to us, excited to see the novelty of strangers, and beckon for us to join. “Ari, Ari, Nesti” Come, come, sit down, join us. Go for it Sam, this one is all you. Yeah Sam, try it.
And so I walk over. Hello I’m Samuel. I’m Vahag, I’m Arman I’m Daniel. Daniel? My father’s name is Daniel! Where are you from? Russia? Norway? Germany? America. AMERICA? Yes, America. Where in America? New York City. Is that close to California? No, California is here, New York is here. This is Katie, this is Mikail. We’re living here. We’re studying Armenian. We’re teachers.
Bundles of hay are pulled up. Sit down, sit down. It’s lunchtime, eat with us. That’s Lavash, that’s Varung, that’s Dzu, that’s Vodka. Oh, you know the names of things! Great! What’s that? What’s that? Here, drink a toast. Okay, one or two. “To America and Armenia and Friendships.” Hear Hear! Gaynost! Here, have some lavash! Let’s take another toast! Oh, you’re toasting with Lavash instead of Vodka, that’s very funny! My son here studies English! “Hello, what is your name” “My name is Sam” Aha! Very good! He will go to university and be a professor!
Thank you, thank you, we should be going now, we have to get back before dark. Here, take a ride on the tractor. Katie can ride up front, we men will ride on the harvester in the back. Michael and I sit on the harvester. He points out that a single cruise missile costs more than my entire stay in the country, and isn’t it more cost effect to make friends in foreign countries rather than killing enemies? Up front, the driver offers that Katie take the wheel, but she refuses. He insists, she refuses. He takes his hands off the wheel and steps out of the cab, riding on the sideboard. The tractor goes straight on the dirt path, but the path starts to curve. He laughs and gets back in the tractor. The tractor drops us off a mile from Fantan, and we walk back into town, stopping to right the shell of an overturned abandoned car. In town, a stranger with a dump truck greets me, “Sam, I’m going to Naverj’s house, come in, I’ll give you a ride.” I take him up on the offer.
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