Photos from Gyumri, Armenia show her old world beauty. Not beautiful in the way one might describe Paris or Prague, but with her breathtaking metal downspouts, luminous tuff buildings, and plentiful sculptures, Gyumri has a beauty all her own. Even with the destruction wrought by the earthquake that devastated the region in 1988, fragments tell a story of what once was. Three years ago, I stood amidst it all. And one day I will see her again.
Take the road less traveled, Beth
Three years ago we met a tiny girl from Gyumri…
The girl
The girl and her Dada
The girl and her Mama
The three of us
…and a kitten
Take the road less traveled, Beth
You can’t love a city if you have no memories buried there.
~Marina Tavares Dias
Take the road less traveled, Beth
Two years ago in Armenia…we awoke in Yerevan and made ourselves a cup of Armenian coffee. Okay, we made several cups.
Next we had breakfast: Matsun (yogurt). I heart Matsun.
Omelets (nice work Big Papa!)…and more Armenian coffee. of course.
Then we walked down the stairs of our apartment and waited for our taxi and translator.
We don’t look nervous, do we? But we were!
Our taxi took us to the Ministry of Justice, where we could see all of Yerevan and Mt. Ararat. There, we expressed our intent to meet and register a child for adoption.
Next up was a taxi ride from Yerevan to Gyumri. It’s a long, desolate highway but I love the landscape, stark and lovely.
Until our taxi got a flat tire. Not so lovely.
But after the flat was fixed, we made our way towards Gyumri. There were one or two unplanned stops along the way.
Finally. Gyumri!
We drove through the city.
Past old buildings,
monuments,
churches,
and people.
Until we reached the blue gate at the orphanage, where you lived.
We went inside and waited, and waited, and waited.
Staring out this window,
looking at this cup,
and intently watching this door, because this is the door you would come through. Time passed slowly. At one point we got very excited, because one of the nannies brought in a baby. We jumped up, but it was the wrong baby! So we sat down and waited some more. We waited for nearly an hour.
And then there was you…
There were birds in the sky
But I never saw them winging
No, I never saw them at all
Till there was you
~Beatles
To Baby Bird and Armenia: both in my heart forever.
Take the road less traveled, Beth
Gyumri, Armenia
Gyumri’s stark, old world beauty is particularly suited for black and white.
,
Want to see more cool shots? Check out Delicious Baby Photo Friday!
Two days after we became family in the eyes of the court, we went to take our daughter out of the orphanage. Other than a few weeks in the hospital as a newborn, this was the only home she’d ever had. The eight nannies who tended to her every need were the only “moms” she’d ever known.
I’d thought about this moment for nearly four years. Sometime I’d get teary contemplating the enormity of it, but the perspective I always imagined was how I would feel when my baby was in my arms and we were embarking on our first steps as a family. I didn’t spend as much time thinking about the loss her caregivers would feel, and I now know I also underestimated the impact this transition would have on our child.
We sat, waiting expectantly, on a bench outside the orphanage director’s office, waiting for one of the nannies to bring our daughter to us. I was excited and sad at the same time. Excited because we were about to become a family, 24-7, and sad because we’d spent many hours in this building during our two trips to Gyumri, watching the nannies counting diapers in the doctor’s office, seeing the same smiling faces of the children laughing as they ran around the playground. I knew that one day we would bring our daughter back to her homeland, to Gyumri, and to the orphanage where she’d lived, but I didn’t know when that day would be, or if the nannies or doctor who cared for her would still be working there. So this goodbye could be the last goodbye for all of us.
I felt like we’d been sitting on that hard wood bench for a long time, when down the stairs came a nanny holding Baby Bird. She was dressed in the clothes we’d brought for her: a long-sleeved cotton onesie topped with a matching shirt and pants—brown with colorful elephants, a lavender cotton sweater over that, a green cotton cap on her head, a pair of red wool shoes on her feet and a fuzzy leopard print jacket with a hood. It was cold outside, but we knew that in Armenia children are always dressed in multiple layers, and we wanted her nannies to feel confident we’d take good care of her and keep her warm.
As the nanny handed her to me, I noticed a pair of navy blue tights peeking out from under her pants. The tights were decorated with woven buttons. Tights! Of course, the one thing I’d forgotten to bring with us. I felt momentarily embarrassed and then secretly elated, because I’d seen those same tights on Baby Bird on a few of our visits and realized they would be the only belonging from her life here that she would ever have.
There were—and always will be—unanswered questions about her days in the orphanage. Who were the children who fell asleep in the cribs beside our daughter? What are their stories and how did those stories end? How did the nannies soothe Baby Bird when she was frightened or woke up during the night? Which nanny did she like the best? Were there memories, even visceral, that she would tuck away in the corners of her psyche?
I had planned to tell our daughter’s nannies how much it meant to us that she was so well cared for. We left thank you cards for each of them with pictures of Seattle, and a photo of the three of us taken on our registration trip. But in the end, we weren’t able to say goodbye to them in person We were told there were important visitors at the orphanage so, after taking a photo with the director and signing our names in the book the orphanage keeps to record the names of adoptive parents, we were led out of the building.
We took a few photos together, standing on the steps, and then we walked through the blue gate. I glanced over my shoulder. Sun streamed into the courtyard, and the crisp breeze whipped my hair. The greeter dog we’d seen every day during our visits lay on the steps leading up to the front door of the orphanage. Behind him were the buildings where our daughter spent the first eleven months of her life. Inside were the wonderful nannies who watched over her. I closed my eyes and silently said thank you. As our daughter grows, we will share their names with her in a book we’ve made about her adoption, and make sure she knows these eight women watched over her until we were able to be a family.
Our driver was waiting beside the taxi. We crammed two suitcases in the trunk and strapped a third to the front passenger seat. Big Papa and I climbed into the backseat and looked at each other with that deer-in-the-headlights stare, because there in the back seat, nestled between the two of us, was a baby!
Then we drove off, heading south towards Yerevan, on our maiden voyage as a family, and the first leg of the journey that, in two weeks time, would take us HOME!
Having a place to go – is a home.
Having someone to love – is a family.
Having both – is a blessing.
~Donna Hedges
“You’re in good hands,” our agency’s attorney told as we climbed into the back of a black sedan idling in the airport parking lot. It was midnight, Yerevan time, and the moon was new which meant it was so dark outside that I wouldn’t have been able to make out the taxi if the headlights hadn’t been turned on.
The hands being referred to belonged to our driver. He took our suitcases, and I sized him up: roughly six feet tall, probably 250 pounds, solidly built with a neck the size of a small tree trunk and hands as big as baseball gloves.
“Aram used to be a professional wrestler.”
No kidding, I thought to myself.
“And he’s a great driver, but he doesn’t speak any English.”
I plopped myself in the back seat and Big Papa slid in beside me. I was shivering because it was cold outside. Really cold, like 7-below.
We closed the door and our driver pulled onto the road. As the lights of Yerevan grew faint behind us, I wondered: do I feel more or less safe with a non-English speaking former Armenian wrestler driving on a remote highway in Armenia, with sub-zero temperatures outside our taxi?
I recalled the week of hair-raising road trips we took during our trip to meet Baby Bird six months ago: we got a flat tire on day one, a speeding ticket on day two, and nearly ran out of gas on day three. On that trip, I stopped counting how many times our heads hit the roof of our taxi as we flew over bumps—without shocks—and I winced remembering the countless times our last driver used the center line as a lane.
Our trip to register our daughter-to-be took place in October. On this trip, when we were scheduled to appear in court and finalize our adoption, it was March, visibility was poor because it was snowing and the roads were slick with ice.
My nervousness ratcheted up a notch when I realized we were driving west, not north. We meandered slowly, up and down slippery hills, through tiny villages. At one point, we passed a petrol station and a pack of wild dogs ran angrily toward the taxi. They followed us, for a few hundred yards, growling and yelping.
Where were we going? We’d been back and forth to Gyumri enough times to know this wasn’t the route we’d taken on previous trips.
I felt scared and gripped Big Papa’s hand tightly. He gripped mine right back. One taxi ride and 80 miles of wintry roads stood between us and the baby who was soon to become our daughter: one taxi ride, 80 miles, and our driver.
Eventually we found ourselves traveling on a familiar highway, heading due north. I breathed a sigh of relief, even as car headlights continued to emerge, seemingly from out of nowhere as we made our way through the pitch-black night, snow falling furiously at first and then becoming lighter and lighter the farther we drove. A few fishtails every now and then kept our adrenalin flowing, but our driver was indeed a good driver and we arrived, intact, at the doorstep of the Nane Hotel. I looked at my watch. 2:20 a.m.
We checked in quickly and collapsed into bed, exhausted and exhilarated. Tomorrow we go to the orphanage and see Baby Bird for the first time in six months. She had been a five-month-old baby then; she was eleven-months-old now. I tried to imagine what she might look like—we hadn’t seen a single photo of her since our last visit. And then I fell asleep.
Who would have guessed that in a small landlocked, mountainous country in the South Caucasus, you can find the most delicious fish? Not me. But you can, and that’s why I’ve been dreaming about eating fish, Ishkan fish.
Ishkan fish is a lake trout from Lake Sevan in Armenia.Lake Sevan was once the largest lake in the region, teeming with Ishkan trout, which was a species endemic to the lake. Unfortunately, during the era of Soviet control, the level of the lake was lowered, competitive species of fish were introduced (whitefish, goldfish and crayfish) and Lake Sevan trout were fished to near extinction (the “winter trout” sub-species no longer exists in the lake).
Today, farm-raised trout are released into the lake, and licenses are issued. The fee for each fish caught is U.S, $ 25.00, but you can buy the same trout in Yerevan or Gyumri, the second largest city, for a fraction. And if you like fresh fish prepared skillfully on location, head to Gyumri and ask for directions to Cherkezi Dzor Fish Farm and Restaurant.
Cherkezi Dzor is located in a valley at the foot of the Red Fort. The fortress was built in the early 1800’s under the decree of Russian Tsar Nicholas I. The restaurant company owns and operates seven fish farms throughout Armenia and sells sturgeon along with fresh lake, river, and brook trout. And…Lake Sevan trout.
Although we visited Cherkezi Dzor on a cold day in March, I’ve heard the fish farm is lovely in May when the apple and pear trees bloom. For us, the restaurant was a warm and quiet respite. We ordered our fish, and while it was being prepared, wandered around the grounds, peering into pools teaming with fish, watching lavash being made in a tonir (deep, in-ground clay oven), until we headed back to the main building, and enjoyed our lunch.
Big Papa and I ordered our trout wrapped in lavash, but I also wanted to try it poached the Armenian way, half steamed and half boiled. Our fish was delicious, the ambience at Cherkezi Dzor was rustic and homey, and the service was friendly and very competent. I can see why many people make the two-hour drive from Yerevan, the capital, just to enjoy skillfully prepared fresh trout or baked sturgeon, in a beautiful setting.
Sadly, Seattle is a long, long way from Lake Sevan. To satisfy my craving, we bought steelhead trout. Big Papa cooked it on the grill. We paired it with a salad and rice mixed with nuts, dried fruit and pomegranate seeds.
It was delicious. But it wasn’t Ishkan fish.
Grilled Steelhead Trout
Recipe makes 4 servings
Ingredients
Directions
Want to fish for more deliciousness? Check out Wanderfood Wednesday!
When I was in Gyumri–in 2011 and 2012–I could still see evidence of the massive earthquake that struck Armenia on December 7, 1988 at 11:41 a.m. The epicenter was located in Spitak, at least 25,000 people lost their lives,and hundreds of thousands were left homeless. Measuring 6.8 on the Richter Scale, the massive earthquake destroyed poorly constructed Soviet buildings across the region and many other buildings sustained heavy damage or collapsed.
The small city of Spitak was destroyed, while the nearby cities of Leninakan (later renamed to Gyumri) and Kirovakan (later renamed to Vanadzor) sustained a lot of damage as well. The tremor also caused damage to many surrounding villages.
Since most of the hospitals in the area were destroyed, and due to freezing winter temperatures, officials at all levels were not ready for a disaster of this scale and the relief effort was therefore insufficient. The Soviet Union allowed in foreign aid workers to help with the recovery in the earthquake’s aftermath, and this was one of the first cases when rescue and relief workers from other countries were allowed to take part in relief works in the Soviet Union. Gorbachev cut short a visit to New York City in order to visit the disaster area. He promised to have all of the damaged areas quickly rebuilt.
The outpouring of aid from both private individuals and governments around the world was very generous, though much of it had a great deal of trouble reaching Armenia through Azerbaijan which was blocking and damaging shipments.
Although I have read that, in 2003, the last of those homeless due to the earthquake were either given new apartments by the Lincy Foundation or vouchers to purchase homes, when I visited Gyumri it was clearly evident that many people were still living in boxcars and quite a number of buildings have yet to be reconstructed.
I am posting this because a part of Gyumri will always tied to my family…my daughter was born in the nearby countryside. I was taken with Gyumi’s beauty, its history, the intricate ironwork of the buildings and the spare, dramatic landscapes that surround the city, and I mourn all they lost–as a city and a people.
Three girls from Gyumri
A little over a month ago, Big Papa, Baby Bird and I took a trip to the east coast to visit our families. One of the highlights of our trip was a rendezvous with two of Baby Bird’s “sisters” from the children’s home in Gyumri, Armenia where she lived for the first year of her life. Both moms drove with their daughters, for nearly five hours, to meet up with us in Pittsburgh and share a bit of time together.
I have been email pals with these girls’ moms for almost four years, our exchanges so frequent and intimate I count them as good friends. They are amongst a small cadre of adoptive moms who have remained by my virtual side from the beginning. If things had gone as planned, the three of us would have become parents around the same time. For Big Papa and me, things didn’t go as planned. During the dark days of our adoption journey, these moms listened to me, consoled me and rooted for me, until—finally—I became a mama too.
Amazingly, one of the two moms grew up in the Seattle area and, in a twist of unbelievable serendipity, she was in Armenia to register her daughter’s adoption at the very same time I was in Armenia to register an adoption that ultimately fell through. We sat side-by-side in the Ministry of Justice office, tears running down our faces, as we formally expressed our intent to adopt. A few days later, during that same trip, we toasted with Armenian brandy and enjoyed an unforgettable meal at a restaurant in Yerevan.
Months passed. She became a mom. I didn’t.
But here’s the irony and the beauty of this story. If things had gone as planned, Baby Bird would not be my daughter, I would not be the mother of a girl from Gyumri, and the three of us would not share this additional–and somewhat unusual–bond.
Gyumri holds a special place in my heart. The brown barren hills and mountains that surround the ancient city remind me of the landscapes in the eastern part of the state where I live. I admire the tenacity of the people who call this rugged land home, and I see this same trait in my daughter.
We tell Baby Bird her story over and over, and show her pictures: pictures that describe where she was born, the people who cared for her, and what the country of her birth is like. But it will be years before she truly understands. And while I show her pictures of her Gyumri sisters, even more years may pass before she fully comprehends that three girls–who spent their first year in a children’s home half way around the world –laughed and ran and played together in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
For me, the hours spent in each other’s company passed much too quickly. I’m sure there will be opportunities for us to meet again in the years ahead, and I look forward to those times because I hope that, one day, our girls might feel inspired to forge their own friendship…just like their mamas did. No matter where they may travel in life, and no matter who they become, our three girls were Gyumri girls first and will always carry a bit of Gyumri with them.