The green apple-colored, Russian-made taxi lumbered up to where Don and I were waiting. I swung open the passenger door and sat down next to the driver. Don climbed in back.

“HELLO!” I greeted him.

“Hello,” he managed back.

Don and I had just finished administering a writing contest at the boarding school that sits on the outskirts of Stepanavan. The students were weak in English but strong in enthusiasm and this had our spirits up as we entered the taxi.

“How are you?” I ventured, this time more reserved.

“Ok,” he responded and in his voice I noticed a tinge of satisfaction at having been asked and a bit of surprise at, indeed, feeling Ok.

Off we went, bouncing along pot-holed roads back toward the center of Stepanavan. Our Russian-made vehicle ensured that we felt every bump. Our driver was unshaven, heavy, and reeked of cigarette smoke and apathy. It was 1:30 in the afternoon and his disheveled demeanor led me to believe he had just woken up. We rode quietly until he broke the silence:

“So how long are you in Stepanavan?”

“For two years, but only about four months remain.”

“Is it possible that you will stay here?”

“No.”

“Do you think Stepanavan is a nice place?”

“Yes.” And I do, but I was no longer in the mood to chat so I declined to elaborate.

“Ahh, what is here? Look at these roads.” We hit a bump. “Look at these people. There’re no jobs.” He was driving a taxi. “There is nothing here. You couldn’t answer no when I ask you if Stepanavan is a nice place, even if you wanted to, could you?”

“No, I couldn’t.” But this was beside the point. Stepanavan is a nice place. The driver was visibly worked up by now, so I left it at that. Again we were quiet, and continued to jounce along.

But what he said had bothered me. In Stepanavan, where the average monthly income is 30 dollars, everybody has a home. There are few crimes. This is not a dangerous place. There are seasons here, fresh fruits, mountains and forests, family ties. An article, from the Super Bowl edition of the New York Times that my mom had sent me, popped into my head. I turned to him:

“Do you know that there is a city in the US, named Detroit, were there are 40,000 people living without a home? They live on the street.”

“How?” And he meant, how is that possible? I didn’t know, exactly, the causes of homelessness, but I offered the obvious:

“They have no money, no job, no family.”

“But who takes care of them, the government?” Again I wasn’t sure but speculated:

“The government maybe helps, but only a little. There are groups that offer food and perhaps a place to sleep. But it is difficult there too.”

He was taken back by all of this and was now pondering my outburst. To be honest, I didn’t know exactly what I was getting at. I am often asked to compare Armenia and the US, Stepanavan and Montgomery, here and there. There are times, not always, when I like to show Armenians that living in America can also be difficult. This might, perhaps, rouse their appreciation of Armenia. This happened to be one of those times. After all, I had just come from a class full of hopeful - if only ignorant - students.

There was again quiet as we turned onto the main road. Our ride smoothed out from here. We were almost to the center when I saw something that caused me to gasp aloud. I looked at our driver. His facial expression told me that he had seen it too.

“Bah.” He exhaled while looking at me with raised eyebrows and a proud nod. (This is an Armenian gesture that in one sound can sum up an entire thought. Here it summed up, you see that?)

A beautiful young woman, not more than 22, had passed us driving a Mercedes. Now understand, in Stepanavan, there are three women - and I know all of them - out of a population of 8,000 that have a driver’s license. And none of them drive a Mercedes. This was a remarkable scene to have witnessed. And to have seen it with that driver, at that moment of our journey, was simply precious.

“You know, slowly-slowly, things are changing, those new, European ideas are coming here,” our driver was explaining as we approached the square where we were to be let out. His eyes were alive - boastful! - as he spoke. Don and I were smiling, heartened smiles. It ‘s a funny thing, because you never know just how a man will react to such a sight. Will he feel threatened or will he feel part of something moving forward? It is a special thing to witness the latter, for you also feel part of that forward moving something.

“I don’t know, what are you thinking? Is this a good thing?” I inquired.

“Ahh yeah, it will be ok.” He appeared to me contented, brandishing a dignified smile, comfortable in his seat.

“OK! Good luck!” I proclaimed.

“Good luck!” We shook hands.

I stepped out of the taxi, breathed in a great breath of crisp, early-spring air, and then slammed the door a little harder than I’d expected.

Dennis Price