Priceless

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.