Samuel Armen

By 15:00 (3PM), we were all together on the bus driving away from Geghart and going to Garni. Within the previous hours we had traveled the 30 minute drive 35KM (21.25Mile) drive South-East of Yerevan. Here we would arrive at Geghart, which is in the Kotayk province of Armenia, and is where there is a 1700 year-old monastery founded by St. Gregory the Illuminator.

The main chapel of Geghart was constructed in 1215. The rest of the monastery was built in the 4th century and is quite an amazing sight: a large church clandestinely carved into the crevice of a mountain. Such a sight was unbelievable truly in the sense that it was hard to believe. The chapels were comprised of gray stone, and from outside one could see the glowing light coming from hundreds of lit wax candles and the holes in the ceilings which produced circular beams.

When we walked inside, we could listen to the sounds of water running and people singing hymns resonated in the walls. The water came from a sacred spring – which was clean, cool, and available to drink from. It is said that the water can bless women with healthful fertility. The acoustics were also incredible.

We walked into a wing that had high ceilings and was uniquely cold. Here, our group sang der voghormia in a large circle. Before we finished, we had the entire room – several tourists and a few natives – signing with us. In the usually silent spaces between each "Der Voghormia" we could hear our voices echoing our prayers out the corridors and outside like traveling spirits.

When one witnesses a structure of vast importance, significance or size, one absorbs a fragment of the sublime. These sights and this idea of the sublime were fresh in mind as we traveled the 5 minute drive from Geghart to Garni.

This next stop would be an 8 KM (5 mile) drive to Garni, also located in the Kotayk region.

The relics of Garni and its occupation date back 5,000 years ago. Its history is filled with kings, emperors, and royal families.

Our tour guide (whose name I do not recall) began elucidating the history of Armenia while stating unquestionable certainties like fact that only Armenians respect their women. He showed us the bath house, where there is a large, beautiful mosaic. He explained how we were traversing on the grounds of a palatial Summer House.

Our tour ended at the base of a gigantic temple, which was a Pagan temple for the solar god Mihr.

Here we all sat down as a man named Voskan walked in between us to the wall, leaned and put his lips to a Duduk.

The sound of the duduk – an ancient Armenian woodwind instrument more than 2,000 years old and translating to "Apricot Horn" – always evoked a deep feeling within me; I most always pictured, deep inside of me, a dark forest of low-hanging branches and shadowed trees, and within the seclusion of this forest, at the farthest one can go, there is something of mine relatable to a soul.

When the duduk plays, it feels like that force expands, undulates, ripples, and bursts with energy that vibrates and sways the branches, roots and trees, which results in the quickened heart rate, the Goosebumps and hairs that rise, the heightening of imagination and lucidity of the images in my mind's eye.

My eyes were closed as the melody hypnotized me. I wondered as I sat if perhaps all Armenians feel a similar reaction to the Duduk. Perhaps it affected only Armenian natives who experience an immediate familiarity, or only those of Diaspora who hear the calling of a sound embedded into their ancestry like an ancient invocation of nostalgia for a real home. I wondered and wondered, until I opened my eyes.

All of the interns were sitting, all had their eyes closed, most seemed to sway slowly, others were motionless. Voskan and his duduk were the only things moving; he swayed and jolted about as his fingers tapped and he inhaled and exhaled deeply. It seemed as if he were dancing with a melodious ghost. The scene itself appeared as surreal as the sound itself.

When he finished I watched the interns, one by one, opening their eyes and smiling. Together we clapped and Voskan bowed.

Our group wandered about the scenic hills and ancient stone structures. I noticed, again, the enormous green mountains. At the bottom of our mountain, or rather the closest we could get without falling off, was a long pathway that ended with a horizontal railing. Here, I could just make out a woman looking to the mountains. She leaned on the railing and stood motionless. After a lingering moment she made an indecipherable gesture and walked away. I looked around and saw an intern. I waved her over.

"Come join me, let's get a closer look at THAT," I suggested, pointing first to the mountain then down to a pathway.

I hopped over a rock wall, and then helped her over. We moved about stone structures and descended the hill, slowly. At the end was the green railing, which stretched across a long path parallel to the mountains directly in front of us. I looked down. There was a deep-blue river that divided the bases of the mountains. With such a close view, one could see the mountains were not green but rather many colors: black, gray, white and tan rocks and stones, purple, pink and blue flowers, and tall golden weeds.

In the corner of this path, the wind picked up and gusted with consistency. One could feel its cool presence providing relaxation against the hot, sunny day.

"I could sleep here," she whispered with a voice quiet and breathy enough to be the wind itself.

A quarter mile down the path, two female interns wandered with their backs to the mountains and their cameras to the stone structure where were just inside listening to the duduk. I waved them over. They turned to each other, and then ambled towards us.

"Hurry!" I shouted - my voice sounding alien after such a long silence.

"Why?" one shouted in response.

"You don't want to miss any of this."

As they approached, I watched their dark locks of hair float up from their heads and then pull back with Medusan undulations as the wind included them with its tranquilizing serenade. All four of us leaned against the railing. Another intern, a boy, joined us. Together we basked in the wind so cool and welcoming that we forgot that the sun was beaming on top of us with full force – which we would pay for with mild sunburns.

As we were leaving and heading to the bus, I heard two interns up ahead talking about photos and reality. I quickened my pace and caught up with them. One of them was among the five of us facing the mountains.

"Were you just talking about photographs?" I asked her.

They both turned and nodded. Together we walked ahead of the group.

The other intern detailed her disappointment with photography, which I clandestinely wrote on my hand word for word. "I understand a picture can be beautiful, but to stand there and see it, and feel it, and witness it - you know it's not the same."

The other added, "You really can't capture how incredible everything is in a photograph."

A memory of New York City, my girlfriend, being atop a skyscraper, videotaping the panorama and wondering if I could capture the depth of my feeling passed through me during the bus ride. When the bus stopped, Anna announced to us that we were at Sergei's house. It was here, in this estate-like cottage where we were fed at a wooden communal table. The staff also made rich, dark Armenian coffee for who ever wanted. I considered having more than one espresso, but one proved far more powerful than I imagined. With a burst of energy I moved toward a bamboo colored bench in between two verdant trees. Here, Anna, two girls, and I sat.

A black and gray cat pounced around on the grass, fascinated with the stem of a sunflower. I turned to Anna.

"You know what's strange, Anna," I began as she turned to me, "I don't always know I'm in Yerevan. I know I'm not in New York but it feels like it's right behind me." I pause, and then added "Well, I guess New York IS right behind me – it's recent – only eight days." I turned to the two interns. "When did you two arrive?"

Both answered that they landed on the same day as I, but several hours earlier.

"Tell me this," I began, "does it feel like a long time or a short time since you've landed eight days ago?"

"It feels like it is a long time, but only because the days are-" one of them replied and paused with a shrug "-full."

"Well," the other intern added, "something tells me soon it's going to feel too quick."

The conversation continued and later melted into a collection of relaxed sighs. The two girls rejoined the table, leaving Anna and I alone.

She lied down on the bench and checked her emails. I shifted, my back against the tree, my legs sprawled forward towards Anna. This is where I began writing until I heard from behind me another female intern pardon herself from the table and move towards us. She was heading towards some structure in the distance. As she passed us she grinned to Anna and whispered, "This place is paradise."