I am lying down on a sleeping bag right near the stove. I have two pairs of eyes staring at me: Ocalan's eyes from the right and a young freedom fighter's eyes from the left.
It happened or did not happen; it is true or false.
I happened upon a huge crowd of Indian students walking up the Baghramyan Street.
"Entering home, not even having unpacked my luggage yet, I turned on the computer and began to type fast. My first impressions about Armenia.
“A female tamada? Can you imagine a woman lying drunk under the table?”
January. 4 a.m. The flight has been long and tiresome. They have only one wish: to reach home as soon as possible, warmth, sleep.
"Hello, do you speak English?"
Through the window glass I am looking at the car in front of me. At the windshield wipers and the side mirror. Only they are in view.
On the wall opposite me a Canadian flag is hanging. The CD player is giving out Polish Patriotic songs and a Komitas CD is waiting for its turn on the table.
The morning train is bringing us - me, Martin and Haniel to London. Martin and Haniel are my English friends. More precisely, Martin is an Englishman and his wife, Haniel has a mixture of French, Greek and Armenian blood.
An American's First Day in Armenia
The light is off in the room. It is evening but not dark yet. Through the half-open door typical English old men in dark breeches can be seen bowling, with expectant smiles.