Armenian Psycho

'Impressive. Very nice. Now let's see Paul Allen's boarding pass. Look at that subtle off-white colouring. The tasteful thickness of it. Oh my god, it even has an airline watermark...'

Unfortunately, mine did not. No, mine looked like someone had printed a Tesco receipt on tissue paper. I spent the entire flight to Yerevan clutching my pass, trying not to tear it into a thousand tiny pieces in case I needed it at the border.

We finally arrived in the Armenian capital at 03:30 am, bone-tired and beat, but emerged out of passport control to find an airport that was suspiciously lively. Fleets of sports teams came parading past in matching tracksuits, while many waiting behind barriers clutched armfuls of flowers, and actual celebrations were erupting outside. Locals danced in the car park, while traditional music blared and fireworks were popping in rhythmic bursts. Who knows what they were celebrating, maybe it was a returning relative, or the national team winning the yo-yo world championship (or something equally bizarre), or then maybe it was just the fact it was Monday (I, too, shake with excitement before work). But it felt like we were arriving somewhere vibrant.

Once we'd got our heads around the latest squiggles, having gone from Latin to Greek to Cyrillic to Ayuben alphabets in quick succession, and without sleep or a plan, we decided to head for sunrise.

Transport in the Slavic world means one thing and one thing only: Yandex is love and Yandex is life. If you're not familiar, let me fill you in. Yandex Go is the closest thing humanity has ever come to teleportation. You need only tap a yellow button and within seconds you've summoned a battered wreck of a car, usually missing a wing mirror or two, and probably piloted by a stern man named Anatoly, who definitely doesn't speak a word of English. And the best bit: the ride will only cost you 88p, although admittedly that won't include the cost of therapy you'll need from speeding scares, illegal U-turns, and the near-death experience of overtakes.

And so, rekindling our love affair with Yandex, we headed south to Khor Virap, a monastery perched near the Turkish, Iranian and Azerbaijani borders. The journey there took us from witnessing storks nesting upon telegraph poles to seeking out the silhouette of Ararat through the morning haze. And then there it was.

Biblical and towering. Drenched in golden light, as though basted by the heavens and anointed on the horizon. Despite technically being located in Turkey, Mount Ararat is the spiritual heart of Armenia, a symbol of national identity and longing, said to be the resting place of Noah's ark. The 5,165 m volcano, and his friend little Ararat can be seen like lone sentinels over the otherwise arid and featureless land. And while seen from Yerevan, they can no longer be touched. Let's just say that Turkey and Armenia aren't exactly the best of friends.

Soaking in the light of dawn, we sat and watched the orange shades unfold upon many nations, and reflected to ourselves in a peaceful state of meditation, joined by our stray but four-pawed friends.

We were alone for some many hours before a local man appeared, and after a bit of broken conversation and gesturing, he kissed us both on the forehead! Sounds bizarre, and maybe it was, but it meant more than that. As we understood it, he was from Nagorno-Karabakh, a region of bitter territorial conflict and ethnic violence. He was a refugee, he had lost his homeland. Let's just say that Azerbaijan and Armenia aren't exactly the best of friends either.

With our zombified state beginning to kick in, we zoomed around the monastery, where Thomas briefly got stuck in a dungeon (no, really), eventually making an escape to check into our hotel in Yerevan. A doze or two later allowed us to recollect our strength, and we set back out to explore the capital in all its charm and grit.

First stop, Vernissage market. Now I LOVE a good market, but a market selling Soviet-era memorabilia!? Take my money, I tell you!! I'm rubbing my hands together here just thinking about the damn thing. 🤤🤤 Part flea market, part open-air museum, the air buzzed with the murmur of bargaining, and everything was for sale, from dusty typewriters to antique relics, intricate scarves to six hundred identical chess sets, and even shirts with the minions on (or in this case, the Arminions). Giddy and euphoric, I lapped up as many Soviet pin badges as I could plant my hands on for my now eclectic collection (gimme that shit), before I skipped the whole way home.

Elsewhere, café terraces blended harmoniously with soviet blocks and we sampled the many squares of the centre, from Republic to Aznavour (🤞) to Freedom. After pausing for dinner, where Thomas chowed down on a plate of parsley and I clinked a Kilikia beer, we ended the day with an ascent of the Cascade Complex, the vast limestone staircase to nowhere, with glowing views overlooking the city's sprawl. Undeterred by the stirring clouds, we got absolutely soaked. Water dripping from our noses, it was time to call it a day (much like I need to with this entry, dear god.)

We'd barely arrived, and already Armenia had given us so much. Mostly soaked clothes, sleep deprivation and forehead kisses to be fair.Leer más