Precerpt from In with the East Wind: A Mary Poppins Kind of Life - Armenia: On the Way to Lake Sevan
We were 20 American professors of
Russian on a Soviet bus, heading northeast from Yerevan toward Lake Sevan. The
trip was supposed to be simple: two hours, one lake, and a KGB minder named
Liliya to make sure we didn’t stray. But the road had its own ideas.
About an hour in, we passed a sign
for Charentsavan. The bus driver pulled over to the side of the road, turned to
one of the professors with whom he had struck up a friendly rapport, and said,
“Georgii, so mnoi.” Georgiy followed without hesitation, and the two
disappeared into a nearby bazaar.
Liliya’s reaction was immediate.
“You must not follow,” she said, her voice tight. “This is a closed city.” Then,
she ran after them, coat flaring, shoes kicking up dust from the road.
We waited a moment. Then, as if on
cue, we scattered.
Into the market we went—curious,
amused, and slightly rebellious. There were onions, bread, eggplant, and the
quiet rhythm of a working-class town. No one stopped us.
Back on the bus, the driver was
triumphant, and Lilya was clearly disgruntled. The driver had secured
provisions for our lakeside lunch. But he wasn’t finished.
Just past town, the road curved
along a hillside where sheep grazed in the sun. The driver spotted a shepherd,
pulled over, and began another negotiation. A sheep was purchased—for lunch. It
was hoisted onto the bus with us, which made for more professor merriment and
KGB agent sour disposition.
Later, somewhere along the road, we
passed a tree. Its branches were mostly bare, but they held dozens of cloth
strips—mostly white—fluttering in the breeze. “Wishes,” the driver told us.
“People tie them for hope.” We fell silent.
It was a journey of contradictions:
a town that was marked but forbidden, a sheep bought under the nose of the
state, and a tree that held the quiet longings of strangers. Lake Sevan waited
ahead, cold and clear. But the road to get there had held its own story—in
bread stalls, hillside pastures, and the flutter of cloth in the wind.
by Dr. Betty Lou Leaver
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