postally absurd

Today, I would like to start with a story. Once upon a time…

I went to the post office yesterday (one of my favorite pastimes…let me tell you) with explicit instructions from my sitemate James to pick up any packages that may arrive for him. James was in Yerevan, taking the GRE, and planning to return on Friday. Being the Michigan State football fanatic that he is, his parents actually send him every televised MSU football game on DVD so that he can watch them on his computer. It was especially important that I get him this week’s game because the post office would be closed upon his return, and the game had to be watched. He had even gone so far as calling the post office to specifically tell them to give his packages to me or our other sitemate because he would be in Yerevan. He had also told me, no less than 5 times, to make sure to get the package. Dually noted. I was on it.

So, there I was, at the post office, and there was his package, sitting on the desk. The temperamental post lady was back sorting mail somewhere. Some other guy gives me James’ package, at which point, the temperamental post lady came running out to tell me, on no uncertain terms, that I could not have James’ package. I argued. The answer was no. I reminded her that James had called about this. “You may not.” I told her James was in Yerevan. “You can’t sign for it.” I got fed up, threw my hands up in the air, and left. Angry.

The very next day my host mother receives a phone call…from the post. “Jill has a letter here and a small thing (the small thing turned out to be a post card…I guess they don’t have a word for that one)…and she needs to come pick up James’ packages.” What? James’ packages? What happened to you may not, you can’t sign for it? So I went, ID in hand to get my letters, my small thing, and James’ packages. When I arrived, the temperamental post lady asked me where James was. OK, for like the 17th time this week…he is in YEREVAN. “oh, so I guess you want to take his packages,” as she heaves a big sigh, as if this was the most inconvenient thing to happen in months.

As it turned out, all of the fuss was because SHE would have to fill out a small form, instead of James, and the day before she had a headache. So much for customer service, as if such a concept ever existed here in the first place. This small form consisted of James’ name and his address. Then I signed and was on my way. How taxing. What a wonderful example of Armenian business practices.

Meanwhile on the home front, other new and exciting things were taking place. This morning I was home alone, studying and enjoying the peace and quiet. This was a fleeting existence as before long my host brother came home and while I was on the phone with jams (who had just gotten back from…you guessed it, Yerevan), noticed that one of his parakeets was missing. Suddenly we had an emergency on our hands. He asked where his mother was and I told him she wasn’t home. The next thing I knew he was running around the garden area yelling for his mother. Hurriedly, I hung up and told him where his mother had gone. He called her, but like me, she had not noticed the missing bird. We looked for a while and pretty soon, thinking it was a lost cause, I went back to studying.

A few minutes later, my host brother was yelling for me. He had found the small yellow parakeet at the very top of the tallest tree in the garden. He asked me what we should do (I was at a loss) but before I could come up with an answer, he picked up a clump of dirt and threw it at the bird (bad idea for those of you scoring at home). Small pieces of garden soil rained down on us, and the bird took off (I would too if someone was throwing clumps of dirt at me). We watched it fly right out of the garden and then promptly lost track of it. It was then that I learned that this is the third time...the third parakeet that has flown away. One would think they would fix the cage. Oh well. Now we have one parakeet to keep us company, which cuts down on the noise factor considerably. Lets just say that I am not too sad. Fortunately, my host brother doesn’t seem to be either.

To add to the strange comings and goings of the week, the annual harvest festival was held in Yegheghnadzor this past weekend. It was an enjoyable event, but not the festival that the A12’s had attended last year, and thus a bit disappointing. None-the-less, I got to experience my first Armenian festival, replete with a parade and a ferris wheel. The ferris wheel is always in Yegheghnadzor, but is typically not running. I was excited to finally have the chance to ride it, but after about five minutes standing in the blob (Armenian version of a line) getting elbowed, pushed, and shoved by unruly Armenian teenagers who desperately needed a bath….like last week, I decided the ferris wheel wasn’t worth it. I am sure the opportunity will arise again. The parade, on the other hand, involved the majority of Yegheghnadzor and the neighboring villages….sitting in an amphitheater type thing. First there were some lengthy introductions by important people, some dancing by local children and some poetry screaming by a local poet. He seemed like a cool guy, very un-armenian, very creative, but I still don’t understand why Armenians yell their poetry. Maybe if I understood the language better…maybe. Next was the parade: about 10 old cars and trucks, one from each village represented in the festival. The villagers had decorated them by piling baskets of fruits and vegetables and random vines, pumpkins and other harvesty type things on the hoods, trunks and roofs. I am pretty sure they were in no way fastened or secured to the vehicles in most cases. Then, one by one, the vehicles drove into the amphitheater, made two slow circles around the cement stage and then left. That was the parade. At some point there was also a wedding party running around the stage. I am still not sure where they came from, when the actual marriage was, etc., but there was some throwing of rice or some type of grain and some dancing with a loaf of bread. Wedding complete.
We were able to buy wine by the liter (if we brought our own plastic bottles). I also bought some goat cheese, which is an exciting alternative to the non-descript, salty, white, Armenian cheese. Very salty. The remainder of the evening was spent as a volunteer get-together, with homemade pizza, and of course, wine.