Two years ago in Armenia

October 17, 2013 by Beth Shepherd

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

Running on fumes

October 23, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

Day three: on the road to Gyumri. We had a different translator than we had on days one and two. She was a quintessential Armenian beauty with dark brown hair blown-dry straight, large luminous brown eyes, always dressed to the nines, model-thin body. We’d had her translate for us before and on several occasions also experienced some interesting taxi conversations. I remember one ride that ended with some yelling, then a bit of disdainful laughing, followed by throwing money at the driver and, finally, slamming the door of the taxi shut. She told us the driver proposed to her during the ride.

Our driver for day three was young, handsome, and a big smoker. Smoking is very common in Armenia and many of the cab drivers smoke. Usually our translator asked them not to, and since we were hiring them by the day, they usually comply (although I’m sure they light up the second we leave the taxi). I smelled cigarettes hanging in the air of the cab and my eyes began to sting after a few minutes in the cab.

Our translator and the driver talked amiably. A beautiful girl and captive audience—I got the impression the drivers liked her as much as a full day’s wage.

As we made our way to Gyumri, the sky was dark and ominous looking clouds loomed overhead. About an hour into the drive, I happened to notice that the gas meter hand appeared to be millimeters away from empty.

The highway to Gyumri had several filling stations for the natural gas most of the taxis used, but the distance between one station and the next was many kilometers. The process of refueling was unlike anything I’d seen in the U.S. When we had to stop and refill the tank, we were asked to exit the cab and stand a safe distance away in a small way-station for this very purpose.

I whispered to Big Papa, “Does it look like the meter is on empty to you? Should I say something?”

Big Papa looked over the cab driver’s shoulder.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Um, hey…” I say tapping our translator on the shoulder.

“I’m a little worried that we are running very low on fuel.”

The words were barely out of my mouth when the taxi began to slow. Then it started sputtering.

I moaned to Big Papa “Can you believe this–another taxi fiasco, three days running. Oh man, I really do not want to run out of gas in the middle of rural Armenia.”

“No kidding” he replied with an edgy nervousness in his voice.

Oddly enough, the driver didn’t seem the least bit concerned. Slower and slower, we inched along with the cab lurching and spitting. We rounded the bend, and there, like an oasis in the middle of a desert, was a gas station.

Big Papa, our translator and I let out a collective sigh of relief. We pulled into the station and the three of us got out and waited at the station house while the driver filled up. I should add that by now it was raining like nobody’s business.

Getting back into the cab, we didn’t talk much the rest of the way, but all I could think about was how lucky we were the gas station was there when we needed it. Maybe the driver knew the station was right around the corner or maybe he hedged his bets that he could make it, but all I know is we drove the last several hundred meters on fumes.

When the blue gates of the children’s home finally came into view, I couldn’t have been happier. As per usual, the greeter dog was there to meet us. And I, for one, was over-the-moon to see him.

Ticket to ride

October 16, 2012 by Beth Shepherd

Big Papa and I made three more visits to the children’s home in Gyumri to visit Baby Bird. On day two, as our taxi pulled up to the apartment where we were staying, I paused, remembering the lack of shock absorbers…and the flat tire, from the day before. As soon as we climbed into the taxi, it was pretty obvious this particular driver was an extremely loquacious fellow. He started talking the second we pulled away from the curb. And he didn’t stop talking until we arrived in Gyumri, except once. That was when he got pulled over for speeding.

I wish I’d been looking at the speedometer when the whirling red lights appeared in our rear view window, just to see the number. I can only imagine how fast we were going. Most of the taxis drivers drive well over the speed limit. Because of this, I was a bit surprised that the officer even bothered to pull us over.

Our driver slowed. He was angry and a torrent of muttering erupted from his mouth. We pulled over to the side of the road, he rolled down his window and, for a moment, stopped talking. The police officer stepped up to the door of our taxi, and our driver got out and headed back towards the police car. I’m not sure what the protocol for traffic stops is in Armenia, but it’s definitely different from U.S.

When the driver came back, he was grousing as he gave our translator an earful. She seemed more amused than anything else. I imagine she was thinking: what did you expect? The ticket fiasco added twenty minutes to our ride and, from what our translator told us, cost the driver about $40. He continued to grumble, and I’m sure he was pretty unhappy about the ticket, but I figured—given how fast we zipped along that highway—this was not his first time.

I don’t think we were back on the road for more than a couple minutes before he lead-footed the pedal and off we sailed at lightning speed. Not even a ticket was going to slow this guy down.

When we arrived in Gyumri, our driver headed straight for the children’s home, no directions needed. We flew around the corner, practically on two wheels, the taxi bobbing and popping over potholes. Thankfully this cab had better shocks than the taxi we took the day before. As we careened toward the gates at the children’s home, dust billowed out from underneath the tires. We stopped, suddenly, and I could feel my head lurch forward. Then the ride was over, and it was very, very quiet.

The greeter dog raised his head from where he lay on the front steps of the children’s home, and trotted down the steps to meet us. I pictured him saying: Welcome back.

It’s hard to describe the feelings that went through my head each day we spent time with Baby Bird. On the one hand, I wanted to drink in every moment, memorize the hue of her eyes, her scent and the sound of her cooing. But I was also well aware that she was not our child until we attended court, some five to six months down the road. And because we’d already had one adoption fail mere days before we were going to bring a baby home, I felt cautious with my heart and I know Big Papa felt the same way. I remembered all too well how slowly the months passed the last time we were in this place and how painful it was to raise my hopes up so high, only to have them fall to the greatest depths of sadness.

Despite our apprehension, we enjoyed our time with Baby Bird immensely. She was a very animated baby, eager to interact, make eye contact and imitate anyone around her. On several occasions one of us made a sound, and she replicated it to a “t.” We would say to each other “Did you see how she just…” When she did the same thing with our translator, who said the exact same thing we’d been saying, I thought to myself: This kiddo is on the ball. I loved her inquisitive nature: her fascination with the raindrops trailing down the window as well as the babushkas toddling along outside the window. I also admired her drive, like the way she gathered her strength and tried with all her might to sit upright on the couch, even as her tiny body listed port and starboard.

My head told me: Shield your heart. But I could feel myself soften when I held her in my arms.