I get on the metro at Yeritasardakan, heading towards the train station at Sassoon David. Except for the Marriott in Republic Square, Foreigners are still a rare sight in Yerevan, and Americans even rarer. It's pretty obvious that the guy with mid-length hair, an overstuffed backpack, old sneakers with toes sticking out of the sides, khaki slacks and an old "Stuyvesant High School" t-shirt is a foreigner or some kind of weirdo. Probably both. The guy across from me is in his late 20's, thickly built, with a bald head and the Armenian national costume of a form-fitting "Versace" shirt, tight pants and shiny black shoes that come to a deadly-looking point. He's staring at me, trying to suppress a laugh. I look directly at him. He looks away. He puts on his sunglasses, all the better to see me with. I nod my head, dropping my $5 ray-bans from my forehead to my nose, and look back at him. He laughs. At Republic square, two teenage boys, skinny and excited get on and sit next to muscles. They're not as subtle as he is, looking at me and whispering to each other. Muscles is a little embarrassed and feigns disinterest.
"What d'ya think he is?" they're asking each other. "He's definitely not Armenian, he can't understand us. Russian? English?"
At Sassoon David, I stand up. This enthralls muscles and the boys. They go silent. I go over to the the larger of the boys. "Yes Hayeren hosum em, akbar." I speak Armenian, bro. Muscles and the small boy crack up. I get off the train.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Thursday, September 2, 2010
I'm lying in bed, watching season 6 of Entourage.
Hey, Sam come here and read this for us, it's in English.
Well, okay.
My host parents are sitting in the living room with a neighbor and her mother. They hand me three sample package of pills, slickly designed packages of brand-name prescription drugs, the kind they hand out to doctors to hand out to patients. I've never heard of the meaningless corporate brandnames or their meaningless (to me) generic names.
She got these from America, how often should she take them?
Give me a minute, I'll check on the internet.
I google the drugs. The first package is silver. Two of the blisters have been popped and their pills taken. Each of them are 8mg of a rather harmless looking treatment for constipation. The other two are treatments for heartburn. The first requires a four-week course of treatment and the second eight weeks, with another possible eight weeks if the doctor recommends it. Both require followup testing and dose adjustment by a doctor. But the risky side effects of both seem to be minimal, and one of them gave patients relief within one week of treatment. There's five pills in each package, taking one a day. That would give ten days. Should I tell her not to do it, that only a doctor can give her these?
I sit down with her, and point the the first, silvery package.
"This is for if you want to go to the bathroom but you are not able to go to the bathroom."
Her daughter laughs. No, no, that's not the problem.
"Okay, then you don't need it. These are for..." I can't figure out the word for heartburn. I pull out my dictionary, it's not there. I try the dictionary on my computer. There's heartache, but it's not the same. "A pain in your chest and your stomach."
No, no, that's not what she has.
My host family searched the dictionary
deeabetess.
Diabetes.
One minute. I'll check on the internet.
I know generally about diabetes, that there's two kinds, that it has something to do with insulin and blood sugar. I read through a few wikipedia pages. Diabetes can't be cured by medication, but it can be managed through lifestyle changes. I open the Russian wikipedia page on diabetes, which my host mother can read. I look in the dictionary and find the word for "cureall."
"Diabetes has no cureall." I tell her.
"Walk for thirty minutes every day. Go to the train station and back." My host mother writes this down on a piece of paper. "Don't eat sugar. No jam or honey. If you can be 2 or 3 kilos less, it is good. Take one aspirin a day. These medicines are not for diabetes."
Her daughter thanks me, invites me over for coffee, asks if she'll still be able to drink coffee and I say yes, but without sugar, and she asks if she can eat meat, and I say yes, a little, although of course it will be little because meat here is expensive and then they leave and I go back to my room and to watch Vincent Chase get laid and Ari Gold nail rivals with a paintball gun.
Hey, Sam come here and read this for us, it's in English.
Well, okay.
My host parents are sitting in the living room with a neighbor and her mother. They hand me three sample package of pills, slickly designed packages of brand-name prescription drugs, the kind they hand out to doctors to hand out to patients. I've never heard of the meaningless corporate brandnames or their meaningless (to me) generic names.
She got these from America, how often should she take them?
Give me a minute, I'll check on the internet.
I google the drugs. The first package is silver. Two of the blisters have been popped and their pills taken. Each of them are 8mg of a rather harmless looking treatment for constipation. The other two are treatments for heartburn. The first requires a four-week course of treatment and the second eight weeks, with another possible eight weeks if the doctor recommends it. Both require followup testing and dose adjustment by a doctor. But the risky side effects of both seem to be minimal, and one of them gave patients relief within one week of treatment. There's five pills in each package, taking one a day. That would give ten days. Should I tell her not to do it, that only a doctor can give her these?
I sit down with her, and point the the first, silvery package.
"This is for if you want to go to the bathroom but you are not able to go to the bathroom."
Her daughter laughs. No, no, that's not the problem.
"Okay, then you don't need it. These are for..." I can't figure out the word for heartburn. I pull out my dictionary, it's not there. I try the dictionary on my computer. There's heartache, but it's not the same. "A pain in your chest and your stomach."
No, no, that's not what she has.
My host family searched the dictionary
deeabetess.
Diabetes.
One minute. I'll check on the internet.
I know generally about diabetes, that there's two kinds, that it has something to do with insulin and blood sugar. I read through a few wikipedia pages. Diabetes can't be cured by medication, but it can be managed through lifestyle changes. I open the Russian wikipedia page on diabetes, which my host mother can read. I look in the dictionary and find the word for "cureall."
"Diabetes has no cureall." I tell her.
"Walk for thirty minutes every day. Go to the train station and back." My host mother writes this down on a piece of paper. "Don't eat sugar. No jam or honey. If you can be 2 or 3 kilos less, it is good. Take one aspirin a day. These medicines are not for diabetes."
Her daughter thanks me, invites me over for coffee, asks if she'll still be able to drink coffee and I say yes, but without sugar, and she asks if she can eat meat, and I say yes, a little, although of course it will be little because meat here is expensive and then they leave and I go back to my room and to watch Vincent Chase get laid and Ari Gold nail rivals with a paintball gun.
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