#25 Anatomy of a Conversation with an Armenian Taxi Driver

2019 - 2023 | Yerevan, Armenia

“Barev dzez,” I say in greeting as I slide into the backseat of the musty car, the air saturated with the smell of cigarettes.

“Barev dzez.”

Slowly, the car kicks into gear. The driver begins his route. He asks me where I’m going, ignoring the GPS open and running on his cellphone, mounted near the steering wheel.

“Sasuntsi Davit,” I answer him, if it’s a weekday and I’m headed to work.

There is silence, serene despite the chorus of cars honking outside. We turn right onto Mashtots.

The driver adjusts his rearview mirror, and surveys my face.

In the times when the ride doesn’t continue in silence, it always starts with the same line:

“Duq vorteghits eq?” Where are you from?

Now, depending on the day, the time, and my mental capacity for socializing in a language not my own, the conversation can go a number of ways. If I feel particularly happy, or energized, personable, and ready to engage, it is a welcome challenge, a pleasant experience. An opportunity to practice. Oftentimes, though, it feels more like a chore, because it tends to follow the same basic script.

My body tenses. Either my accent or my appearance has given me away. Usually it is a combination of both.

I know the trajectory of this conversation. So I sidestep the question, and answer with a careful, measured, yet relaxed, almost reflexive “I live here.”

I cannot say America. If I say America, it will take me down a path that I am sick of walking. I’ve explored it enough times that it isn’t new or interesting anymore.

“But where are you from?” He doesn’t miss a beat. They never do.

And with a small, hopefully imperceptible sigh, “Yes Amerikayits em.” I am from America. I try my best to sound friendly, with a hint of restraint, a sprinkle of animosity even. As if that will keep him from pressing further.

“Hay eq?” Are you Armenian? Because, to him, that’s the only conceivable reason that I’d choose to live here. It hurts to hear him show such little faith in the appeal of his own country.

“Yes, my father is from Baku. He is Baku Armenian.” In case he thinks my family comes from Syria, or Lebanon, or Turkey, or Iran.

“And your mother?” he continues. Or, in some cases, with conviction, “but you’re something else too.” Or “but your face.”

“Right. She is Tatar.”

And with understanding washing over his voice, “ahhhhhh.” According to some locals, there is a perceptible touch of Central Asian in my eyes. Go figure.

From there, it goes something like this:

“Why do you live here?”

“I like it here.”

“More than America?” Always incredulous, like he can’t believe what I’m saying.

“Yes, I prefer to be here.” I always use the word “prefer,” or nakhundrel. It’s one of the first verbs I learned in Armenian, and I love the sound of it. It makes me feel more fluent than I really am.

Then comes the bit about how he thought America was supposed to be a better place to live, the land of promise, where money grows on trees or something like that, where people are safe and they drive nice cars.

“Well, I don’t like it there,” sharply, ready to defy expectations. Why must the world idolize America so? “Everything is expensive.”

To which he agrees wholeheartedly. And cites some figures, numbers a friend told him, of how expensive houses cost, or something like that.

“Here it is safe,” I continue. Domestically, that is. Geopolitics is another subject. “And the nature is beautiful.”

“Ayo.” Yes. “That’s true. Mountains, and greenery.” Outside of Yerevan, of course. Here the air is dusty and hot and reeks of car exhaust. Still, I prefer it here.

This is usually where he mentions that he has a relative or two in America. In Glendale.

Then he asks, “are you from Glendale?”

My resentment bubbles. Why does every American Armenian have to come from Glendale? Why is that the place everybody knows? It might be America’s “Little Armenia,” but I went the first twenty-three years of my life not even knowing it existed. Perhaps it bothers me when people assume I’m from Glendale because I feel lumped into a very specific group of people, categorized so that this stranger can feel he knows me, understands me, and can assign to me the traits he has seen exhibited in other American Armenians from California. And I place too much personal worth in feeling unique, so anybody who tries to take it away is my enemy.

“No, I’m from Philadelphia.” When the recognition doesn’t come (and it never does), I add “Nyew Yorki mot e.” It is close to New York.

“Do you study here?”

“No, I work.”

“What do you do?”

How do I explain that I work for a local nonprofit organization that is working to boost Armenia’s tourism sector and bring jobs and revenue to local Armenians based in rural areas?

I also work freelance as a journalist, so I say “I’m a journalist” and hope they don’t push for too many more specifics.

“So your parents are here too?”

“No, they’re still in America.”

“Do you live alone?”

Here comes the part I really don’t like. And if I really wanted to avoid the topic, save myself the trouble, I could lie and say no. But fuck him.

“Yes.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Why the fuck not?

“Because I don’t want to get married,” I say with a snap. It isn’t necessarily true, but I like shocking people. And it would do this man good to see that not every young Armenian woman in the world aspires to marriage.

He shakes his head. “That’s not good.”

“I’m still very young.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.” Depending on the day, the year, I might say twenty-six, -five, or -four, all the ages I’ve been in Armenia.

“That’s old.”

“No it’s not.” One time during this exchange, the driver retorted proudly, “I was TWENTY-THREE years old when I got married.”

“You should marry an Armenian.” A lav tgha. “A good man.”

“We’ll see, maybe.”

Sometimes the conversation dies here. Sometimes we part amicably. Sometimes he follows with an offer to marry me to a son of his, if he is elderly. Sometimes he offers himself. Sometimes he shows off the little English he knows, and asks if I’ll be his English teacher. Sometimes he tells me to write down his number, and insists we get a coffee. One man was quite kind, an Armenian from Tehran who had moved to Yerevan with his wife and daughter. For some reason, I found his Iranian Armenian accent easier to understand than the local accent of most other taxi drivers.

Another man offered me a piece of candy, a hospitable if not strange gesture, whipping his head around enthusiastically to me and saying “konfet uzum eq?” Do you want candy?

“No, thank you.”

“Take it,” he insisted.

So I took it and held it in my palm for a moment before gingerly unwrapping the red foil, no brand or flavor written. I bit into the chocolate, which was dark. Ick. But I didn’t want to seem rude, so I ruffled the foil a bit to signal that I had finished it, and continued to hold the bitten chocolate until the ride was over.

Arriving at my destination, whether it’s Sasuntsi Davit or Komitas or Charents or my apartment on Pushkin, I hand the driver some kopek, some coins. Or pay by card. And slide out from the car, and say “Shat shnorhakalutyun,” finishing with a “lav or dzez” or good day to you for good measure, striving, to the very last minute, to seem like a local. I will never be a local.

If you’d like to go back and read my past musings and meltdowns, hit this link.