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And at the very moment he finished rubbing his head with soap the water ceased flowing from the small holes of the shower. Drip, drip, drip sang the last drops and the shower fell silent. Kevin stood motionless. With hands raised. A light green piece of foam slid down his forehead and over his left eye, covering it completely.

"Aliens", thought the romantic part of Kevin, which was fond of science fiction.

"Don't be foolish," the skeptical part said scornfully.

"Do something," said the resoanable part.

Kevin started twisting the taps. They were five: three for the bath tub, two for the wash stand. The taps responded with silence. Even grinned, it seemed to Kevin.

Only one thing was left: to shout an American-tested "Help!", but Kevin felt embarrassed it was 2 am and everybody was sleeping.

Kevin sat down on the edge of the tub and flapped the foam off his ear with his forefinger.

If he had been Armenian he would have cursed the Jrmugh and the Water Man who came regularly every month to collect fees for the water which never ran. As it was about the water, he would have added add to these two the neighbor whose water overflowed through his ceiling and would have peppered this farrago with traditional Amenian complaints about a government that never cares about its people.

Feeling relieved, he would have opened the lid of one of the two bucket which were in the bathroom and

•  would have put the rusty tin mug into the bucket and, what else, would have finished his shower with cold water which is, by the way, very good for the muscles and the elasticity of the skin.

•  Would put the kipyatilnik (electric heating rod) into the same bucket and would have take a hot bath in some ten minutes. Before that he would have certainly caught cold; although it was hot July outside, he would have been shivering, since hot water opens the pores.

•  But unfortunately Kevin happened to be an American.

A few months ago he, a student in the Department of History of Michigan University, happened to join the Peace Corps and here is the result: he is standing in the middle of a waterless bathroom with foam flowing down his face.

No, Kevin was not angry, not at all! Had it happened, say tommorrow, he would even have laughed. But after the 17-hour flight he wanted just one thing: to take a bath and go to sleep.

But an American proposes, Armenia disposes.

In the two-month training organised by the Peace Corps, the volunteers going to Armenia had been taught that in Armenia a lot of things were not the same as in the US.

For instance, the bearded man leading the training joked, supermarket doors do not open automatically and not all traffic lights work. In a word, it's a developing country, he continued.

The Peace Corps has existed for about 43 years. In 1960, then-Senator John F. Kennedy in a speech to Michigan University students suggested that they serve their homeland in an unusual way - by living and working in developing countries, to help them develop and contribute to world peace and friendship. And also to improve the reputation of Americans in places it was not that good.

A year later, the Peace Corps was created. Since that time over 200,000 volunteers had traveled to around 150 countries. The young specialists live in local families, or if they are inclined to privacy, rent apartments.

Kevin prefered the first alternative.

Two hours earlier the host of the appartment where he was going to live for three months had met him in the airport, hugged him, and shaken his hand as warmly as if was meeting a close relative after a long absence. That did not surprise Kevin. The famous Armenian hospitality had been the first topic of the training.

Gevorg, his host, had put Kevin into a white Jiguli that had seen much better days, driven him home, half in Armenian and half in gestures explained where the bath and his bedroom were, and wished him good night, adding that he would wake him up early the next day.

" Inchu (why)?" smiled Kevin. At the training he had been taught some commonly-used Armenian words and expressions.

" Khash ," Gevorg whispered mysteriously and went to bed.

Getting back to the waterless shower, Kevin was an American. So he performed version c): he wiped the foam off his head and shoulders and determined to ask for detailed training in extreme bath situations.

Americans are crazy for training.

1

"Come with me,

Together we can make a long way home."

The vivid voice of Norah Jones was tickling his eardrum.

" Well I stumbled in the darkness 
I'm lost and alone ..." sang Norah Jones, not sad at all. Suddenly a rough male bass interrupted her tender voice. The voice was shouting something in an unknown language.

Kevin opened his eyes and saw the smiling dark face of Gevorg with long moustaches and bushy eyebrows.

"Is the shower working?" Kevin murmured, still half asleep.

Gevorg shrugged his shoulders, not getting the question and screamed, " Ara Kevin jan , you are missingkhash !"

" Khash, " Kevin repeated, returning to reality.

"Quick, put on your clothes and get to the table," Gevorg ordered in Armenian, not caring at all whether his guest understood him.

Kevin got up unsteadily. He had a horrible headache, the flu was announcing itself.

"And I love you pretty baby but I always take the long way home ..." Kevin sang hoarsely in the bathroom, this time with a working shower.

"This is my wife, Karine," said Gevorg.

The woman smiled, extended her hand, said "Welcome," and went to the kitchen.

"No English," Gevorg said with pity, as if he himself had defended a thesis on the theme of "The English Spoken by the Queen of England."

Rina, Gevorg's daughter, who spoke pretty good American English, sat next to Kevin and began to inform him indulgently about what was waiting for him on the extraordinary planet called Armenia.

Kevin thought that she was speaking about Armenia with contempt, sometimes even with hatred.

Later on, he noticed that the majority of Armenians are in the habit of talking about their country's troubles as if they have nothing to do with it.

2

At around 8 am the guests, mostly men, began to gather. Some of them brought bottles of vodka wrapped in newspaper. The hostess came in with white bowls of steaming broth. The guests did not hasten to start in. They rubbed their hands with satisfaction, and then began to crumble dry thin bread into pieces.

Rina explained that the thin bread was called lavash; it had to be crumbed and put into the broth, i.e. thekhash .

"It was boiling all night," she said.

Kevin noticed that his bowl was the only one with a spoon next to it. The others from time to time glanced at the spoon with scorn. They themselves put the pieces of the dry bread into the khash and now were scooping it up with fresh pieces of lavash.

Kevin carefully took the spoon full of hot steaming broth to his mouth. Tried not to inhale the smell of garlic he had never been on good terms with.

A few spoonfuls later, he felt nauseous. Vapor laced with the smell of garlic heated his face, his eyes filled with tears.

Murmuring words of excuse - because of his excitement, in pure Armenian - Kevin left the table and went to the kitchen to have a glass of water after that nuclear mixture.

"Kevin jan," his host came into the kitchen with a bottle of vodka in his hand. "You eat khash the wrong way. You need to drink vodka with it. Vodka, vodka."

"No, no," Kevin shook his head. "I don't drink alcohol."

"Yes, yes," Gevorg nodded. "But," and he raised his finger for greater emphasis, "after khash, no drink bad, drink good."

Kevin felt so bad and his host was so persistent that the poor guy who had never even tried beer agreed to the first ever alcohol experiment of his life.

After a pretty big sip he felt like a rapid action bomb had been thrown into his stomach. The splash shook the whole organism and threatened to explode.

"Aha, see, I was right," grinned Gevorg, satisfied. "OK?" he inquired carefully.

"Yes, yes, I am OK", whispered Kevin, "Can I go out for a while?"

"?"

Kevin tried to show that it was hot, and then pointed to the open front door. Before Gevorg had time to say anything, Kevin rushed out of the house.

The yard of Gevorg's one-story house faced the street. It was not even 9am but the street was very lively. Children with pails, mugs, and plastic bottles of water were running back and forth screaming.

Both the children and the passers-by were drenched.

A few meters away from Kevin an enraged girl ran up to a policeman. She was in a short skirt and high-heeled open toed shoes. Despite the 35-degree heat she wore tights. Big drops of water were flowing down her legs and disappearing in the semi-transparent lycra, turning into greasy spots. She was shouting something to the policeman shaking the broken metallic handle of her bag.

"What can I do, kuyrik (sister) jan?" laughed the soaking-wet policeman, "It's Vardavar."

Vardavar.

"An Armenian holiday devoted to water," whispered Kevin. Quick! Back home! But he didn't have time. The kids, wearing only shorts, armed with plastic bottles of water surrounded him.

One, two, three. The Armenian water, so desirable at night was poured on the American, poisoned with khashand vodka.

" Hivand, hivand! (sick)" shouted Kevin in his poor Armenian, trying to outshout their laughter.

" Vochinch, vochinch, (it's ok)" the children laughed louder. "It helps!"

And they ran away in search of the next victim.

Soaking wet, with a sore throat and a burning stomach, Kevin sat down on the pavement helplessly.

Welcome to Armenia, Americano.