Free The Doves of Ohanavank by Vahan Zanoyan Page B

inquire further. All they tell him is that, “Small villages don’t have street names. A family name is enough to locate any house in any village. If you have both the first name and family name, even better.”
    He checks into the Marriott hotel at two-thirty in the afternoon. The food on the plane was inedible. He decides to stay in the hotel for his first meal in the country, and goes to a restaurant in the lobby. The menu has some familiar items, while others sound too exotic for him. He goes for what he knows: a cheeseburger with fries. He’s been told to avoid raw vegetables and tap water. But Manoj is from India, even though he has lived in the Middle East for most of his life. Until several years ago, while his parents were still alive, he used to visit family in India. He can handle foods that will make most foreigners sick for weeks. So he is not too concerned about water and raw vegetables, but he orders a Coke anyway.
    He’s had a few fries and a bite of his cheeseburger when a man in his early thirties approaches his table.
    “Welcome to Armenia, Mr. Manoj,” he says enthusiastically in a heavy accent, smiling broadly, and not bothering to introduce himself.
    Manoj is taken by surprise. The young man adds, “My name is Armen. I am your driver, and I’m at your service. Again, welcome.” The explanation answers a question for Manoj, but does nothing to reduce his surprise. He had called the driver earlier to say that he has arrived and that he’ll call back with the schedule. The idea that a driver he’s never met before can identify him so easily, and just barge in, is unheard of in Dubai. Drivers usually do not even come in; they wait outside until the boss is ready for them.
    But Manoj takes a liking to Armen almost immediately. Maybe it is the relief of having someone who works for him in this foreign environment, or maybe it is Armen’s relaxed, simple demeanor, which somehow transcends all class barriers. He has not seen such behavior anywhere else: not in India, where the class consciousness is far too strong to permit this type of casual interaction, not in the Middle East, where the local VIP versus expatriate hired labor distinction is even a thicker wall, and not in Europe, where the old, stuffy aristocratic class structure, reincarnated as service sector protocol, dominates. He stops wondering how the driver found him, recognized him, and what gave him the nerve to walk in and greet him as if he was an old childhood friend. He takes one more look at Armen’s beaming, ready-to-serve smile, and smiles in return.
    “Thank you,” he says. “Good to meet you. You’ll be with me for the next three days, right?”
    “Twenty four hours a day!” responds Armen with another huge smile. “What’s the program?”
    What’s the program?
No hired help has ever talked to Manoj like this. Spoken as if he’s excited about an outing with an old friend. After a decade of service to Al Barmaka, he has never dared to address him in such an informal manner.
    As his nervous tension melts away, Manoj starts to laugh. He chuckles, first in short bursts, and then more fully. Armen starts to laugh with him, which reinforces Manoj’s good mood. What the hell, he might as well befriend this driver for a few days. That may serve him much better than a more formal relationship.
    “The program,” he says, still chuckling, “is…wait, what was your name again?”
    “Armen”
    “Armen. Okay. The program, Armen, is that we start with a lunch other than a cheeseburger and fries. Where can we get a good lunch that will not kill me by this evening?”
    “A local lunch!” says Armen laughing. “Come, we go to the Dzor.”
    “We go where?” Manoj is still laughing.
    “To the Dzor,” repeats Armen. Then he realizes that he might be expected to explain further and adds, “Mr. Manoj, there are only four places one can be in Armenia.
Dzor
, which means valley.
Sar
, which means mountain.
Kaghak
, which means