Daily Life

At my school, students start learning English in the 3rd grade.  As I was walking out of the village yesterday, I passed the home of one of my 4th-grade students and his 2nd-grade sister.
"Barev [Hello] Mr. Dolgin." They said.
"Barev Dzez [Hello, plural/formal]" I said
[[How do you say 'Barev' in English]] the little sister asked her brother.
[[ummmmm....'Hello']] he whispered back
"Hello!" They both yelled
"Hello." I said
They both broke down giggling.

On Nowruz, the traditional Persian New Year, Imogen and I find ourselves self banging along in a marshutney towards Garni, a pagan temple built by Greek and Roman immigrants, dramatically located on a Gorge.   A few hundred Iranians and Armenians have gathered around.  A group of Armenian boy scouts have arrived in uniforms with a Zoroastrian eagle badge.  We follow them through a hole in the fence around the complex and pose on a rock outcropping overlooking the gorge. 

When we’re finished taking pictures, we go back to the temple.  The boy scouts are being forming a ring around the steps, linking arms to keep the crowd back.  Three priests step out in ceremonial robes emblazoned with the Caucasian rose, a circular symbol of the sun and the infinite.  I notice the same symbol tattooed on the neck of the Iranian in front of me, just below his right ear.  They have daggers in their belts.  A fire is lit in a brazier, and the names of the gods are called upon.  Vahagan, Anaheit and Anuhei, the Armenian trinity.  At the sound of each name, the crowd gives a stiff armed salute and chants “Hark!”

When I get close to the priests, I notice their clothes are adorned with Swastikas.  I drink homemade wine out of a ceramic mug.  When I drain it, I see the swastika in the bottom.  These are symbols that the Nazis appropriated to form a mix of occultism and orientalism, just as the Masons took Arabic symbols and New England summer camps adopt the themes of Indians who haven’t been in those parts in 200 years.  It’s still disturbing.

After the service, we sit on a portico of the temple eating the pieces of traditional Armenian cake that the boy scouts are handing out.  I twirl a twig with new buds and shoot pictures of the crowd that’s now dancing around the brazier where the priest is sticking a dagger into the coals then pressing it to the forehead of worshippers.  A Persian in a bright purple shirt comes up and asks me where we’re from in passable English.

America, we tell him. 

“You are welcome, I’m very glad you are here, it is good to meet you.”

Imogen and I have been living here for months.  We both speak passable Armenian, work in Armenian institutions, have dozens of friends, acquaintances and contacts in country and know dozens of bars and restaurants in Yerevan.  But neither of us mind being welcomed by an Iranian tourist. 

“Are you pagan?” I ask him.

“No, my family is actually Jewish, but we’re not very religious.  I’m just here for the culture.” He says.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s good to meet you too.  Have a good day.” And he is gone.

Berlin Wail

The plan was simple:
Take the overnight train from Paris to Berlin, arriving at Berlin's Spandau station at 8am after a good sleep in a comfortable couchette. We'd meet Frauke there, have breakfast and a little rest, then be ready to explore the city.
Plan Failure #1: The overnight train to Berlin failed and was replaced with a bus. "And this bus will take us to Berlin?" I asked. "No," I was told, "The bus will take you to the border. Then you will change to a train to Berlin."
"Oh? How long will that take."
The French ticket agent shrugged. Eight hours? Ten?
Plan Failure #2: "I don't have Frauke's phone number. It's in my facebook account. Call Victorie, and tell her to go to a computer and message Frauke to tell her we'll be late."
Clement and I got on the bus together. We talked until the bus finished inching its way through Paris traffic and got on a highway. I took a sleeping pill and Clem took out a thick binder of World Bank studies on transportation economics in the developing world. The bus stopped. "We're in Germany" Clem said. "Did you sleep?" I asked. "An hour or two, what about you?" "That was fast, I couldn't have been out for more than an hour." "It's 4am." "Oh."
Germany was cold. There was snow on the ground. We were at the train station of a small city on the Rhine. "Mannheim Hauptbahnof [main station]." There was a Donor Kebab stand that was open. I bought one and a Gluhwine to wash it down with.
"So where's that direct train to Berlin?" I asked
Plan Failure #3: "There is no direct train to Berlin, not for another six hours," said the tanned German with a Hawaiian shirt, tribal necklace and flipflops. "Oh." I said, "Here, I'll show you how to get there." He took us to a ticket vending machine and printed a route taking us from Mannheim to Berlin with stops in Frankfurt and Hamburg. "Thanks," I said. Only later did I learn that officials of the Deutsche Bahn do not wear Hawaiian shirts, tribal necklaces and flipflops, especially not in December. Or maybe the sleeping pill just hadn't worn off yet.
We sleep on the train from Mannheim to Frankfurt and from Frankfurt to Hamburg, but by the time we get to Hamburg it is 8am and the train is packed with commuters. Clement and I find seats in separate cars. "Remember to get off at Spandau" I tell him. "We'll find an internet cafe and get Frauke's number from Facebook."
Plan Failure #4: I get off the train at Spandau. I look to my left. I look to my right. Clem isn't there. "Maybe I should get back on the train?" I think, when the doors close behind me and the train speeds off. Clement is not on the platform.
Plan Failure #5: When I got to France a week ago, I bought a SIM Card with 5 Euros of credit on it. To recharge it, I needed to register by sending a copy of my passport through the postal system. I sent it in the day before Christmas. It's now December 30th, and the registration hasn't gone through. The phone is now out of credit and I can't call Clement or Frauke. A text message comes from Clement telling me he's at Hauptbahnof, Berlin's central station, but I can't reply because I don't have SIM credit.  Desperate, I wander through Spandau station to the information booth.
"English?" I croak at the information desk.
"Nien"
"Internet Cafe?"
The clerk nods at a fast food restaurant. I wander in. "Internet?" I ask the pretty 20-something cashier. "Oh yes, right there. It's a Euro fifty for half an hour, two Euro for an hour."
"A half hour please."
I sit down at the computer. There's no hookup for skype. I log onto Facebook and find this message from Frauke:
Hi sam, do not know whether you got my sms: Pleas do not get off the train in Berlin-Spandau but in Berlin mainstation. Will meet you there. Frauke
I type a reply, and notice that the space key on the keyboard doesn't work.
I log onto GChat. Only one person is online-Britt, a friend of Rain's who I haven't spoken with in a least six months. But she's a resourceful person with a good telephone voice who can understand the sort of predicament I'm in. I message her:

1:46 PM
me: BRITT!
areuawake!
1:47 PM
ineedhelp
andmzkezboarddoesnthaveaspacekez
Britt: hhaah
helllo
me: hi
Britt: what's up!
me: uhaveskyperight
1:48 PM
Britt: um, maybe
me: ok#
Britt: it's my mom's comp... slightly weak connection
i can try
me: ucanlogintomyaccount
Britt: but what do you nened?
log into your skype account?
me: usernameis-s------------
passwordis-XXXXXXXXXX
iminBerlin
1:49 PM
andsplitupfrompeople
ineedutocall2peopleforme
Britt: oh no! okay one min
me: tellthemiwillmeetthemat-hauptbahnhofstation
1:50 PM
thefirstguyis'clement'
Britt: yea yea
okay
me: his#is +33XXXXXXXXXX
1:51 PM
thesecondis'frauke'
her#is+49XXXXXXXXXXX
Britt: i'm talking to clement now'
he says he is there now
me: good
good
tellhimtowaitthere
ihavehisbag
1:52 PM
Britt: relay store (magazine store)
me: perfect
tellhimicangethistexts
butnotsendthem
Britt: ooh
he just hung up
are you going to be long?
me: nvm
Britt: i can call him back
1:53 PM
me: nah,aslongasheswaitinginagoodplace
Britt: he said that magazine store he is waiting
okay
i'll call the lady now
me: awesome
imataninternetplacewithoutskzpe
andwithoutaworkingspacekez
itsbeenatoughnight
1:54 PM
thanksforhelpingme
youralifesaver
tellFrauketolookforclement
he'saskinnyfrenchman
Britt: okay hahah im calling her now
me: inacolumbiauniversitysweatshirt
1:56 PM
Britt: she said she'll be there in about 10 min
me: perfect
iwillnowtrytofindatrainthere
tellhertolookforclement
andifucouldcallclementbackandupdatehim
1:57 PM
ThanksBrittIHeartU
givemylove2Rainwhenuseeher
youRock
peace!
1:58 PM
Britt: all the best sam!
she will look for clement there where he is
me: atTheRelay
Britt: love to you too !
yea, at the relay
me: happyNewYear!
Britt: i hope your day gets better !
same to you !
me: itcantgetmuchworse

The story ends happily. Frauke finds Clement, I find Clement, then we all go buy bread and sausages for breakfast, have a little rest, then go explore Berlin.
The End.

Editor's Note-The timestamps reflect the default of my Google Time setting, which is Caucasus Standard Time, making it ~11am in Berlin and ~5am in New York City.

Postcards from Georgia (Updated)

Postcards from Georgia:
I arrive at the border in a Chevy minivan, a shared taxi carrying an Armenian doing business in Turkey, an Iranian doing business in Russia and three Armenians with no business but chainsmoking during the ride. There’s no line to leave Armenia, but the passport agent is busy with a long line of trucks from Georgia and Turkey headed into the country. They idle on the bridge over the small river that divides the nations. A fisherman stands in the middle of the stream in wading boots, casting for trout. On the Georgian side, a blonde border guard examines my passport. A woman in uniform is so incongruous here that I notice she’s cute, a serious-faced pixie with epaulets. She stamps my passport.
“Please look at camera.”
I look into a webcam and smile.
“Please do not cheese”
I break into a broad grin. “Aww, now you made it so I can’t stop doing it.”
She looks at my passport “You are smiling in this picture too.” She says, and points to my photo, taken 9000 miles ago at a New York City Post Office. “You are easygoing guy.”
“Usually am.” I say
“Welcome to Georgia. You can go straight through customs.” She says, and smiles.

The Marriott Courtyard and the Tourism office are across the street from each other in Freedom Square. The Marriott has better free maps of the city, but the tourism office has better free maps of the country.

For the first time in more months than I can count on one hand, I walk into a McDonalds, this one on Rostavelli street, occupying two floors of the corner of a historic building. I’m told it’s the classiest in the country. I realize for the first time that every McDonalds has the same distinct smell, hot grease and fries and plastic. It’s a smell I could recognize anywhere. I order a big mac, fries and a coke then take my meal upstairs to eat and watch Georgian women in miniskirts chase toddlers while their husbands flip through iPhones. I’d forgotten how soft McDonalds bread is. The preservatives, too, have their distinct flavor that I’d forgotten. After months of tough, freshly killed beef and chicken, I can’t even taste the meat. The fries are forgettable tools for carrying ketchup and grease. The coke is delicious.


My Couchsurfing host is an Indian medical student. I share the surf with Alex, a Chicago boy who came to Georgia to volunteer for four months in Teach and Learn in Georgia, a Georgian Government program that works like a mini-PC. Idealistic 20somethings from English-speaking countries are recruited to be placed in Georgian schools in Tbilisi and the regions (especially in the north, where the PC won't go because of the risks in the event of a war with Russia). They're given a week of orientation, no health-care and twice the salary of a Georgian teacher. It's this last point that has infuriated the opposition party, as has the rumors of one of the TLG'rs (or TnL, as I like to say) being gay. He's not, but that hasn't stopped the media from camping out in front of his house. Alex is friendly and soft spoken, and it’s his first time out of his little Georgian village in 4 months. We go out at night with three TnL girls, equally wide-eyed. “You mean you can just go into a bar without paying cover?” says one, from a farm near the Mississippi River, “Isn’t that stealing?” We make our way to an art gallery/bar. “I think this might be a private party.” She says, “We shouldn’t intrude.”
In the bar is a mix of expats and good music. An 8 year old gypsy girl with a teddy bear backpack dances with the customers. I meet an American journalist and her German friend, who has discovered Long Island Ice Tea has very little ice and no tea. Unfortunately, the German has been discovered by a short, squat 60-something Georgian man with eyes going in two different directions. He is holding her hand and telling her how beautiful she is in some sort of English, then naming bands he likes. I look at the American, then take the Georgian man's hands. “Your hands are so beautiful. And you have a very long life line. You must have lived for several hundred years.” The American gets the joke. “Oh, you have to read his right hand,” she says, “look at this love line. It’s very short. I think you’re not going to be lucky in love.” I pick the man’s hat off his head. “Look at this hat, I love this hat, it’s so beautiful. May I have it?” The German takes it out of my hands and put is backwards on her head and starts to dance. The Georgian is encouraged. He puts his hands on both of her cheeks and kisses her full on the mouth.
“That’s it buddy, you’re out of here.” I push the Georgian away, towards the bars entrance.
“Just one. Just one more.” He pleads. Out. push. Okay, okay, he leaves the bar.
“Well, I didn’t give him any tongue.” Says the German.

Chase and I hit the bathhouse, sharing a private room with a shower and a hot tub. Drinking Georgian beers in the steaming sulfur water, then cooling off by lying on the marble slab is the most relaxing thing I’ve done since my last spring motorcycle ride along the West Side Highway. We get a massage from a Georgian man who wears swim trunks in deference to our Americanness. I later find out that if I wanted a massage from a woman, I had to go up the hill to the older baths where drunken men stumble out and women check their makeup in mirrors in the alcove outside.

I take the train home, sharing a compartment with two ethnic Armenian women born and living in Georgia. I bring out bread, cheese, sausage and lemonade. They bring out chicken, vegetables and vodka. We make a few toasts, then I call folks at home for a Sunday-night catchup session. I’m on the phone with Sandra when people start running the hall “Durs Gna! Durs Gna! Passport Brne!” yell my compartment mates. “I have to go,” I tell Sandra, “they’re telling me to go outside and bring my passport. I also haul out my backpack and sleeping back. Never want to leave behind your towel and all that. “Djur! Djur! Brne Djur!” men are yelling. Bring water? Where? I’ve got a bottle of drinking water in my bag. I hop off the train. Flames and smoke are coming from the front. I run forward. The rear of the locomotive is on fire. Used fire extinguishers are piled around. Men are running up with buckets labeled ТУЛИТ -Toilet“Djur! Djur! Djur ka!” there is water here! There is no light. I pull my headlamp from my backpack then drop the pack on the ground. There is a small pond, little more than a puddle of water. Beside it is an Armenian man, trying to avoid getting mud from the pond on his shiny pointy black shoes. He’s smoking a cigarette with one hand, dipping buckets into the shallow water with the other. There’s a long line of men waiting for their buckets to be filled. I step into the mud and join him, but the water isn’t deep enough to fill a bucket. “Oh really.” I say, and step into the water up to my ankles, then pass up filled buckets of water.
The fire is soon put out and we stand around watching the locomotive and waiting for someone to say what to do.
“Thank you for helping save the train. You’re a real hero.” Says a distinguished looking man. “Would you like some dry socks? You shouldn't catch a cold.”
“No, I’ve got plenty in my bag, but thanks. I’m sure this only happens on the Georgian side.”
“Of course. They were going much too fast.”
We get back on the train. I change out of my mud spattered pants. Women come to my compartment to thank me and worry about my catching cold. The train limps back towards Tbilisi, the locomotive is changed and we start our journey again. I unpack my sleeping bag and get in my bunk, the rocking motion of the train sending me right to sleep. At the border, I wake enough just enough to hand the guards my passport from my pocket.
-Don’t bother him, let him sleep, I hear the other people on the train saying, he helped save the train, he’s a good boy.
I wake up in Yerevan.

Update:
Returning home, my host family quizzes me on the prices of food in Georgia. How much was bread? How much was this cheese? I bring them two kilos of mandarins, the fruit specialty of Georgia, sold by old ladies on the side of the road and in metro stations. I get good at doing 3-way conversions. 1 Lari for a kilo of mandarins is about 50 cents is about 150 dram.
-Which is more beautiful? the teachers at my school ask, Yerevan or Tbilisi
-They're both nice, I say.
-Say Yerevan, they say.
-Yerevan.
-Good boy, apres.
I return to school to find half the students out sick. My school director has placed crushed garlic in the classrooms to ward off disease and cancels my English clubs.
My host family tells me that the radio has announced that Saakashvili blamed the fire on an attack by a 13-year old Abkazhian terrorist. The radio also mentioned that an American passenger helped put out the fire. C'est la vie.

Video Post!

This is how we do it.

Res Ipsa Loquitor

Blog design update

I just figured out how to replace my background picture on my blog.  That's the sun setting over Turkey as I take the train back to my site.  We're pretty close to the border here.  Wander too far, and border guards from Russia will take you aside for a little talk.  Since I don't speak Russian, and they don't speak Armenian, that's probably a bad idea.  Go the other way far enough, and you'll meet up with the Azeri border guards.  They'll probably speak Russian too, but they're not really interested in talking.  Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, and here I am, stuck in the middle with you.

Here's that picture, BTW

Crash

6:06 PM 

I’m lying on the floor of a flat on the 4^th story of a Soviet apartment block on S. street in Yerevan.  The flat is owned by my friends Claire and Imogen, Fulbright Scholars, teaching English at Yerevan Universities.  Claire has a bruise streaked with tiny cuts on her right cheek.  Imogen’s head is wrapped in gauze slowly being soaked through with her blood.  I’ve taken a tranquilizer and we’re looking at a laptop.  On the laptop’s screen is a picture of a truck that has run off the road and crushed a small Iranian-made taxi.  Three quarters of the taxi are mostly intact, but the area around front passenger’s seat has been crumpled.  This morning, we were riding in that taxi.  Claire and Imogen were in the back.  I was in the front.

6:08 PM

“Am I alive?” 

“Sam’s having his moment.” Says Claire

“I mean it.  How can you prove to me I’m alive?  Look at that picture.  I should be dead.  I could just be hallucinating this or be in heaven.”

“We’re alive, we know we’re alive and you’re on tranqs, so you can trust us.” Says Imogen.

“You were in the car with me.  You can’t be trusted.  We could all be dead together.  Haven’t you seen Beetlejuice?”

They haven’t.

“The couple get home from the car crash, and they wonder how they survived, but it turns out they’re really ghosts and can never leave their house.  But don’t worry, I’ll call Michael.  He’s studied philosophy and is very smart, he can prove to me that I’m alive.  Plus he gave me this carabineer.”

I dial Michael.  He’s riding in a Marshutney.  I tell him that he’s smart, that he’s studied philosophy, that I like the carabineer he gave me, and could he prove I’m alive.

“I can’t do that, Sam.” He says.

“I have no way of knowing whether or not I’m alive!”

12:25 PM

“You don’t have any metal in your head, do you?” Asks Dr. Anna, the Peace Corps’ doctor

“Actually, I’ve got three earrings.” Says Imogen.  She takes out two easily, but the third is new.  She goes to a mirror.  Claire helps her unscrew the little ball.  It falls into the sink and goes down the drain.  I take the earrings in my hand.  Imogen lies down on the CT scanner.  We’re at the Nairi Medical Center, the best hospital in Armenia. 

Dr. Anna and I retreat to the technician’s room.  The bed that Imogen is lying on rises, then passes her head through the hole of a giant white plastic donut.  I watch Imogen’s brain appear on the screen in two dimensional snapshots.  Dr. Anna and the technicians speak in worried Russian.  I can’t understand what they’re saying.  I shouldn’t even be in the technician’s room, so I don’t speak, don’t ask questions, try not to show emotion, not to disturb the doctors.  Imogen comes off the bed and is wheeled to Dr. Anna.  I wait to hear if there is brain damage, cerebral hemmorage, skull fractures.

“Did you know you have a chronic sinus infection?”

9:34 AM

L. from the embassy is dressed for a fall powerwalk in a nice New England suburb.  She’s wearing sneakers, a purple fleece and has a water bottle with the logo of her school.  She was going to head out hiking when she got the call that there was an American having her head stitched together in the A. district hospital. 

“The Doctor says it cost --,000 drams.  Do you have the money with you.”

Last night at the ATM in Yerevan, I’d taken out my monthly paycheck, most of which goes to my host family for food.  I pull four --,000 dram notes out of my wallet.

“Can I get a receipt?”

“They say that you’d have to wait for them to fill out all the forms.”

“Okay, I understand.”

I go to the doctor.  I thank him profusely for saving my friend’s life.  I shake his hand with my left hand.  With my bruised right hand I slip him the bills.  He doesn’t look at them.  I ask him his name.  I congratulate him on the recent wedding of one of the young residents at the hospital.  He wishes me the best of luck and health.

We take Imogen down to the waiting SUV from the embassy.  It’s pouring rain.  The SUV quickly fills with Imogen and embassy people.  Claire shows up with Fantas and Twix from the nearest store.  We get into the car of Armen, the Armenian translator at the US Embassy who has been with us from almost the beginning.  We beg him to drive slowly and carefully.  We eat the Twix and drink the Fantas.  It’s the first time we’ve been able to sit still since the crash.

“It’s funny,” says Armen, “I was just here for the wedding of the young doctor.”

8:24 AM

I help lift Imogen off of the litter and onto the hospital gurney, in the process recovering my precious Marmot 0 degree down sleeping bag which I’d been using to keep her warm.  We wheel her into the A. district hospital, ride the elevator to the second floor.  The Doctor is slipping on his coat.  He removes the wrappings that the medic put on Imogen’s head at the gas station by the side of the road where we crashed.  For the first time, I see the size of her wound.  I involuntarily gasp.  “Oh god.”  The doctor orders me out.

I won’t talk, I tell him in Armenian, using vocabulary I usually apply to my students.

A gash has opened running from Imogen’s right eyebrow to the center of her head.  The skin is peeled back, exposing her skull.  It looks firm and solid, like blood-stained marble.  The doctor swabs the inside of the wound with gauze.  There’s surprisingly little blood flow.  Later I’ll realize that’s because most of it has gone into her hair to clot and mat.  The doctor takes a razor and shaves her hair around the wound, then he begins sewing.  I watch for awhile, take pictures.  Armen stands by, translates.  The doctor says he’ll do a good job, she won’t have a scar, will be able to find a good husband.  There was just a wedding here you know, one of the young doctors got married.  A wonderful wedding, very pretty bride. 

I check myself in the mirror over the OR sink.  There’s clotted blood on my face and hands.  It’s probably mine, but who knows. My arms are covered in blood and scratches from the glass.  My right temple is bruised and my jaw aches.  I crack it with a loud pop.  Everything seems fine.  No serious damage.  I turn on the tap to wash the blood off.  Nothing comes out.  There’s no water today.  One of the nurses comes over and pours water over my hands from a basin.  I thank her.

8:00 am

Armen arrived at the same time as the Ambulance.  “I’m from the Embassy,” he said.  I wasn’t sure what to say.  He spoke great English, but why would a guy in a track suit in a 90’s Lada be from the Embassy and randomly at a gas station on the way to Aragats at 8am on a Sunday?  Can I trust him?  Later I learned that he was on the Embassy’s emergency response team, that Claire had called them and that he had come directly from his home. 

The doctor and his assistant coming out of the ambulance were central casting for reassuring doctors.  He was thin, with steel gray hair and a dignified erect walk.  She was young and pretty, but not overly so, with a shawl over her white nurse’s coat.  Their ambulance was an olive green van with a blue flashing light, no heat, benches for seats, and a litter made of two poles and canvas fabric for a stretcher.    The doctor removed Imogen’s t-shirt from around her head, examined her wound, injected her arm with morphine from his green metal medical kit.  We bundle Imogen onto the litter and cover her with my sleeping bag.  Armen helps lift her into the ambulance, then gets in with us.  I decide to trust him. 

We must go to Yerevan. I say.

We’re going to Ashtarak.  It’s closer.  We have to.

We must go to Yerevan, I say, and offer the young nurse --,000 drams.  She looks away.

Later, I learn they are right, that Ashtarak is five minutes and Yerevan half an hour.  She needs stitches right away and her bleeding controlled.  Everything else can wait.  My demand might have killed her.  There is much I don’t know

7:35 AM

I’m doing everything at once.  I call the Peace Corps Duty officer.  “I’ve been in a car crash and I’m almost out of phone credit call me back.” I hang up.  WHERE’S IMOGEN?  I run across the highway into the gas station.  Imogen is sitting on a bench against the stone wall.  Her head is wrapped with her blue T-Shirt.  “What happened?”

“Hit in the head” she mumbles.

“I want you to lie down.” I move her to a longer bench.  She’s very heavy against me.  I lie her down, give her my fleece jacket to keep her warm.  “I want you to talk to me.  Tell me about your pets at home.”

“My cat just died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, I…” The phone rings.  “keep talking” I pick it up.   “I’ve been in a car crash on the way to Mt. Aragats, I don’t know where I am and my friend has a bad head injury.  I’m going to give the phone to an Armenian now so he can explain where we are.  Please put SIM credit on my phone so I can make calls.”

“Okay,” the Duty Officer says.  I hand the phone off to an Armenian and go back to talking with Imogen.  By now she’s sitting up and lucid.  This is good.  Claire’s in the gas station too.  She’s about to cry.  I hug her. “This could have been so bad.” She says

“In six hours, you and I will have a good cry together but for now help Imogen.” I say

“Can you get my wallet?” Asks Imogen, “It should be in the car.”  I run back across the highway to where the car and truck are mashed together.  A crowd of Armenian men is standing around.  I open the rear door and find Imogen’s wallet and keys in the back.  My phone beeps in my pocket, letting me know it’s been recharged with money.  The trunk is open.  Inside is my backpack.  I pull the sleeping bag out to give to Imogen.  As I’m doing so, my camera falls out.  I take it out, point it at the car and truck smashed together, but without really seeing them.  Click. 

“Please, brother no photo” Says an Armenian.

“DON’T FUCK WITH ME” I scream close to his face, in English.  He hangs back with the others.  This is no time to be polite.

7:32:43 AM

Breathe.  Just breathe.  You’ve been in a crash.  You don’t know how badly your body is damaged.  Right now, there’s no way you’ll be able to move anyway, so don’t even try.  Just sit there and breathe until the shock passes and you can move.

7:33:14 AM

Okay, you can breathe, that’s good.  Now’s the time to get moving.  Open the door, get out of the car.  Your door won’t open.  Your door won’t open.  Your door won’t open.  Get out the back.  Just slide.  It’s pretty easy sliding from the front right to the back left.  Out the door.  On the grass in the highway meridian.  You can’t see. That’s because you don’t have your glasses.  It’s still dark.  Feel around for them, find them.  Your flashlight.  It’s in your pocket from this morning.  Use it.  There they are, on the dashboard.  The frame is bent, but they’re working.  There’s Claire, she’s walking and talking, she’s okay.  Imogen is hurt she’s saying.  Got to call the Duty Officer.  WHERE’S IMOGEN?

7:32:13 AM

Cruising in the left lane of the highway at 110 km/hr.  Comfortable car warm against the predawn grey.  Half asleep.  From the right lane, a truck going 80 km/hr makes a left turn into the gas station.  I can see he’s going to hit us, there’s no way to avoid it.  Some inelegant thought like “We’re Fucked!”  I might have articulated it, I might not.  Crash.

6:12 PM

“How can I find out if I’m alive or not?”

“I’m glad Sam’s having his moment, this is good for him.” Says Imogen

“I know, I’ll call Saaqib.  He’s my best friend, he’d never lie to me.  He could tell me if I’m alive or not.”

I dial Saaqib in New York.  I hold my cellphone and stand at the window looking at the memorial to the Armenian Genocide.  He picks up the phone.  I can tell from his voice that I’ve woken him up.  It’s a good sign.  I might be dead, but I know that Saaqib definitely is not.  After all, he’s in New York.  I ask him if I’m alive.  He’s a bit confused.  I tell him the story, quickly.  I let him know that I’m probably alive, but I’ve taken a tranq and can’t really be sure.

“You’re alive, Sam” He says.

“Thanks, that’s what I needed to hear.  I know you would never lie to me.”

We talk for a few minutes about the clubs and bars in Yerevan. I ask him about work, how things are going with girls.  I tell him I got to go, but we’ll talk later, yeah.

I’m alive! I’m so happy!