Three years ago

"Hello, do you speak English?"

"Yes," I said turning around. I saw a broad smile between the plump cheeks and eyes, squinting because of the sun. Then shorts and T-shirt with "Manchester United" written on it.

He is an Englishman. Arrived in Armenia just yesterday. Do I mind him walking with me a bit?

"You are the first person today who said she spoke English," he said as if apologizing for bothering me.

I do not mind and we walk up Abovyan Street to the Yeritasardakan subway station. The Englishman's name is Duncan. He holds a Yerevan map and two books about sightseeing in Armenia.

He looks around with delight, smiles at passers-by, and they smile back at him. Had he been an Armenian they would have frowned at him.

"You see," Duncan, says, "I have been dreaming of visiting Armenia all my life. I have been saving money around 20 years to come here and travel all throughout Armenia."

"Really?" My surprise is sincere. At that time Europe was far away and unreachable and England was perhaps the most unreachable European country. We dream of moving to Europe and it is natural, but I have never before come across a European who dreamed of coming here.

Duncan tells me that he has learnt about Armenia accidentally, from the Internet, having come across a page about the Genocide.

Simple. Genocide. Earthquake. The Nagorno Karabakh problem. The most common answers from foreigners when they are asked what they knew about Armenia before coming here.

"It's your fault," Duncan mildly reproaches me. "English language information about Armenia is very scarce."

Perhaps. And what he would like to see in Armenia?

"There is a temple in the book, like the Acropolis."

"Aha, that's the temple of Garni temple, not very far from Yerevan."

"One more thing", Duncan says. "Where I can meet Armenians to socialize with them?"

Surprised, I explain to him that he is in Armenia and here we have Armenians everywhere.

"You don't have Armenians in the hotel?" I ask. Duncan is staying in the Hotel Armenia.

"We do, but they all are busy men, always in a hurry. I don't want to disturb them."

I am going to tell him that he will not get far in Armenia with English delicacy, but do not have time to.

"Please, give me money for bread." I hear behind me.

It is an old woman in rags, with hundreds of wrinkles on her face.

I immediately start to feel bad as if she is my grandmother, or it is I who brought her to this state. At that time, I did not give to beggars; I did not want Armenia to become a country of beggars. At that time I was younger. Now I often betray that principle.

"Please, go away", I whisper to the woman.

Not paying attention to me, she begs Duncan, "Please, give me money."

The Englishman looks at me, scared, "Who is she, what she wants?"

"Go away, please. He does not understand Armenian. Don't disgrace yourself," I say to the old woman.

She looks at me with hatred, steps back, and when we are about to cross the street she screams after us. Screams so loudly that all the passers-by on the crowded street stop and look at me.

"Enjoy your foreigner! Enjoy him alone!" she screams.

I feel my cheeks blushing. I feel pain. I do not want this grandmother to think of me that way. I do not want her to think that way of Armenian girls.

"Who was that?" asks Duncan.

"A beggar," I say, perhaps sharply. "A beggar. You don't have them in England?"

"No," he says.

Interesting. I did not know there were countries without them.

When we reach the subway, we agree to meet sometime again. I send him to the cafes near the Opera to meet Armenians there and go to work.

In some two weeks we meet again. Duncan has managed to learn a pretty good deal about Armenia and now rushes to share his impressions with me. He is a bit dispirited, although tries not to show it.

"What, in the books Armenia was much better than in reality?" I laugh.

"No. it is just strange. Life in England is much calmer; no one is in a hurry. And here people are rushing all the time even when they have no reason to be in a hurry. And the people are nervous and don't smile often."

"It is because of an uneasy life," I shrug.

"Yes, everybody complains about their lives, the condition of the country. about everything, but they never do anything to improve the situation."

I suggest we move to the next topic. This one is too hard and too long to explain.

"Armenians are very friendly and kind. But too unceremonious," Duncan changes the theme.

He complains that when talking to him people put their hands on his legs or tap on his shoulder, even if they met him just five minutes ago. Or else they breathe on his face and laugh too loudly.

Within these days Duncan has managed to meet a man who is 42 years old and, with his wife and children, still lives at his parents' in a two-room apartment.

"Imagine me living at this age (50) with my parents," he says, horrified.

Another day a man trampled on his foot at the bus stop. Duncan turned around with a smile waiting for an apology, but the man even did not look to the side.

Then he met a young girl, a student at the Foreign Languages University.

"Your girls dress up so frankly, wear such short skirts, and their behavior is so bold, but that all is just appearance," says Duncan. "In reality, they are stuck in inhibitions, especially in the issues concerning sex."

During a conversation with a girl, Duncan asked her at what age Armenian girls prefer to begin their sexual life.

"When we get married," the girl pulled him up short and asked him to change the topic.

Duncan spent around half a year in Armenia. Within that time he managed to discuss and criticize all aspects of life in Armenia, fell in love and married (by Armenian tradition) one of the "complexed Armenian girls". Then he returned with his wife to the United Kingdom.

3 years later

Now I go to England. My image of that country is based only on my image of Duncan, the only Englishman I have come across so far.

I believe that since the times of Queen Victoria nothing has change here. Only courteous ladies and gentlemen live in England. The country is so wealthy that it has no beggars.

In the East Midlands airport in the cold winter wind we are waiting for our English friends to come and pick us in a car. A young man with an upset face approaches us. He is in good quality jeans and leather jacket.

"You know," he cries out from afar, "I should have met my friends here but they did not come, and now I have to get home by taxi. I need only two pounds. I'm so sorry to disturb you-do you have two pounds?"

I am standing a bit far away and I look at my husband consoling him and taking two pounds, equal to 2000 drams, out of his pocket, and realize that the first man to meet us in England is a beggar.

At least Armenian beggars only ask for 50 drams.

We will meet them a lot here. English beggars are not like Armenian ones. Rags, pitiful look, begging eyes. nothing of the kind here. Here they have other ways to beg.

I have nothing to do here and most of my day is spent hanging around on the streets.

I come out on the street and get the feeling I am a crow in a crowd of humming birds, moreover, naked humming birds. It is winter, two or three degrees below zero, but the girls walk down the street in skirts, hardly 4-5 centimeters long from the waist and short tops. The majority of them are pretty fat, bright pieces of cloths threaten to split apart on their body but you should see the pride that they carry their fat bodies with. This is freedom here.

Unlike Armenian girls, English ones are not constrained at all, especially in the issues concerning sex. I have got the impression that the most important business of women here is man-hunting. And they are ready to do everything for a successful hunt, even to freeze and get sick.

In their conversation, sexual topics take second place, after the weather. The favorite TV program of the average Englishmen is the show "Big Brother." It is like "Dom-2 (House-2)" but of course much more open and concentrated on sexual scenes.

In our city, bars close at 10-11 pm. Around 10 minutes before closing the very quick "storing" drinking of alcohol begins, one shot after another. The drunk guys and girls then stream out screaming, laughing and fighting and old men look at them with the same reproach that Armenian old men look ay, say, girls in short skirts.

Life in England is indeed very calm, without any serious stress. The slogan "Health and Safety" lies at the base of everything.

Nevertheless Englishmen also complain all the time. As they do not have serious problems, they complain for instance about ceaseless rain or short holidays.

And then in the evening I go to a pub with Duncan and my other English friends and I also complain about life in England. Complain not because here everything is wrong and in Armenia everything is right, but because I am used to ours.

I criticize the British government that takes care of single teenage mothers, provides them with an apartment, car, everything that is necessary for the future baby. And because of that, have no lack of pregnant teenagers here. Some girls who, for instance, get fed up with living with their parents even sign contracts with guys to get pregnant.

I complain about life here that is so calm that one's brain gets rusty from the lack of thinking and worrying.

I complain about too much courtesy, about official courtesy even towards family members, in relations between parents and children.

The words "thank you", and "sorry" are pronounced here 100 times per minute. Every passenger getting off the bus says thank you and the poor driver has to reply to everybody, always keeping smiling.

And what is the most ridiculous is that the British suffer from the same big depression as we Armenians. In our case because we frown too much. Perhaps in their case because they smile too much.