By Samuel Armen

The positivity of my day began with the early end of my work hours – 14:00 (2PM) – when Edik complimented my writing ability. His compliments were in regard to my first article – the first part of my adoption journal. At this time, I had not begun writing these entries yet. With Edik's compliment in mind, the gratitude for Anna's help vibrated through me and lifted my face to a smile which would lighten my 30 minute walk home in the baking sun. On this particular day the temperature was above 35.5 C (96F).

By this day, which was my third work day, I no longer took cabs, and had solidified the habit of calculating and annotating as I walked. To get back from work, I'd make an immediate left onto P. Buizand, and then make an immediate right onto Hanrapetutyan Street. I would take this all the way down to the main road – passing Aram Street, Vardanants Street, Tpagrichner Street, Tumanyan Street, and finally, the major road, Khanjyan, which would lead me directly onto Sayat-Nova.

I would then take Sayat-Nova all the way down, passed Aleq Manukyan Street, (where there was a restaurant called Just Cafe – which would mark as a five-minute checkpoint) and all the way to Charents, where I would make a left. After a short walk, I would see stairs to my right – 27 steps – which I would climb to enter Aigestan. After passing three lefts, there would be a hidden staircase – which, to the disbelief of all the interns – was 88 steps. At the conclusion of this climb I would be only several meters away from our front door.

Those were the directions of my walk, and each time I traveled I realized what one misses in the speed of a taxi. There are numerous ghettos – tall buildings divided by single-room apartment complexes. There is the occasional sight of a pack of stray dogs – at least six in a group – that harmlessly peruse the streets with empty stomachs, protruding ribcages, and hungry eyes. There are the half-dozen beggars one will see, who beg for coins that match the color of their few teeth. There are frustrated fathers, who cover their embarrassment with agitation when they need to turn the key of their car's ignition three times in order for their damn 30-year-old vehicle to start.

Then there are the occasional men in Mercedez's and BMW's who – not all, but some – get pulled over, roll down their tinted window, smile to an officer, and then drive by un-ticketed. Such a view isn't an enormous difference from the other few who get pulled over and clandestinely fork over a couple bills – an alternative that wouldn't seem corrupt if everyone had that money to lose.

These were sights to pity, but the day was too hot, Edik's kind words were too recent, and I was far too willing to file the emotions of these views into things to learn from and inform who ever didn't know, and to do so with vast detail. So I watched, sweated, watched, sweated more, and kept my smile.

By the time I got to my five-minute checkpoint at the intersection between Sayat-Nova and Hanrapetutyan Street I was covered in sweat and fully capable of smelling my own stench. I could see the luminescence of my forehead glistening with hot water and I couldn't help but squint – not just from the swelteringly hot sun but because the saltiness of perspiration was beginning to burn and sting my eyes. I turned to my right and saw the Cafe that read Just Cafe.

I had stopped at Just Cafe the day before and the day before that to get a 250 dram ($0.67) bottle of water and 250 dram bottle of orange Fanta. To order I would say, "Meghad jur yev meghad naranjankoin Fanta goozem." I want one water and one orange-colored Fanta. I would always see a 15-year-old boy who worked there named Sako. When he handed me the water I'd give him 600 – both times he gave me back the change with a puzzled expression. Both times I handed the silver 100 coin back to him, saying "es toon, aperjan," which colloquially translates to "is you, my brother." I later learned that "Kezzi Hamareh" would be the proper phrase to say in that situation.

On this day he smiled and waved from across the street. I tasted my lips; they were like dry, salty biscuits. I walked across the street. By the time I arrived he had the water opened for me and was smiling at my exasperated condition.

"Lav es?" He laughed, which I translated in my head to Are you well?
"Ayo jan, yev toon?" Yes brother and you? I responded.
"Shad lav." Very good.

I asked him in English, "Do you serve food here?" to which he looked around, gave me the universal sign for wait one minute, and walked to the back of the cafe. When he came back he was accompanied by a teal-eyed girl - one whom many of the interns later fell in love with.

She smiled and said, "Hello – I am Ani. You speak English, correct?"

After a twenty minute conversation, interrupted only by urgent gulps of ice-cold water and necessary brushes of swear from my forehead, I learned an interesting perk about our house's proximity to this cafe:

Ani, the teal-eyed supervisor, studied foreign languages – which in Yerevan includes English. Through her articulate speech she explained that Just Cafe holds weekly music events – from solo saxophonists to full bands – where musicians would throw concerts for the restaurant goers for free. This cafe – the one that's only a five-minute dissension from the massive hill our house stood atop – would prove to be an excellent accommodation beyond serving as my daily checkpoint.

For example, it should be known to all tourists that Americans and Non-Native Armenians stand out in crowds and are noticeably different in restaurants. Often times, waiters and managers would serve the non-natives last, and would provide abysmal service. Unfortunate tourists might wait for a Persian coffee longer than a native family would to be served their entire meal and later their desert. In some cafes, waiters would even rip off tourists, adding an extra 500 Dram to the price on the menu they do not provide. Such horrible treatment IS NOT RARE for young and obvious tourists.

But this was not the case at Just Cafe. The staff catered to us with the hospitality as if we were inveterate regulars. An added plus of the venue, agreed upon unanimously, was the fact that this open restaurant was surrounded by fans that sprayed a cool, light, and unobtrusive mist onto the customers – a much appreciated feat in 90 degree weather.

This venue proved beneficial for me personally, not only in the fact that some of their staff spoke English, but also they could cater to my vegan cuisine. A vegetarian or vegan could enjoy several different plates, including fried vegetables, season salad, or, my favorite, the Lentil Soup – which consisted of Red Lentils, Potato, Cinnamon, and Flavorings. The soup was only 800 Dram. I also noted that the draft beer (Kotayk, Kilikia, and Erebuni) was only 500 Dram. That would mean a soup and a beer would be 1300 Dram – 3 dollars and 50 cents.

After internalizing this venues importance and location – the intersection of Sayat-Nova and Aleq Manukyan – I continued the last 5-minute portion of my walk home.

When I returned, before I had time to dry off, I was called into the terrace by one of the male interns. Together we spoke about where the nearest gym was, what exercises could be done without one, health and nutrition, and his internship – which was in the medical field. Eventually our conversation led to a dialogue about our group.

"I just like how no one is stupid here." He began, as we walked inside the house towards the kitchen, "You never really notice how much you appreciate it when everyone is open-minded and intelligent." He paused. "Do you think everyone who does these programs is smart or we just got really lucky?"

"Well," I started, as we walked past the kitchen and out the backdoor, towards the pool, "I'm not sure. The program is a good idea, and smart people often like good ideas."

I faced him to see that he was smiling, his eyes sparkling fixatedly behind my shoulder. I turned around. In the corner of the backyard, near the steps, there is a small fountain that jets ice-cold water. His eyes were staring into the water, where another intern had placed 24 beers, 4 bottles of liquor, and 2 bottles of soda. The six bottles were 3/4 submerged; the beers were completely underwater – in the burning heat I could see the green Kilikia letters dancing seductively beneath the water's cool, rippling surface.

"Free refrigeration, bro." He laughed, rolling the 'r' in 'bro' for an Armenian sounding trill. This was something he and I did often. "Now that's ingenuity."

He and I climbed the stairs towards the pool and found seven interns resting by the water. A speaker was shuffling between the melodic sounds of Carlos Santana and Pink Floyd. Here we relaxed for hours, with interns joining one by one as they returned from work.

One intern – a particularly adorable intern – wandered up another flight of stairs towards the back entrance of our yard.

"Guys! There are cherries here!" she shouted.

And thus, we spent the hours between 15:00 - 18:30 (3:00PM – 6:30PM) lounging outside, enjoying nature's warmth and sun-tanning ability, watching the deceptively utopian view of Yerevan from our backyard, biting into the complimentary sweet and sour cherries that the aforementioned intern picked for us, listening to the type of music that lets one drift away, and, on occasion, instantaneously jolting ourselves by jumping into the frigid water of our pool.

It was almost comical – the words, "This is amazing" was sighed or purred or whispered over twenty times by several different interns. I alone said it three times, because saying it once just wasn't true enough.