Modern Armenia

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Avan Marak’s restaurant, Zanazan, is a short stroll away alongside the village, where guests can chat with locals, pick up an armful of fresh fruit or accept the hospitable offer of a bottle of mulberry vodka. This fiery local brew, sold from roadside stalls in second-hand water or soda bottles, is 70- to 80-percent pure alcohol. “The Armenians have a saying,” Hayk tells me. “If you are sick, it is medicine; if you are crazy, it is booze.”

The next morning, as we’re driving through a tunnel that cuts straight through the mountains north of Sevan, Hayk announces, “Now you will see Switzerland.” Emerging from the darkness, we are suddenly presented with a huge vista of green hills and endless forests. The winding mountain path flanked by pine trees really does remind me of the Alps, along with thick forests of deciduous trees in vibrant shades of yellow, orange and brown.

Our lunch is at Kima’s place: a cute if slightly crumbling wooden cottage-cum-restaurant with wild flowers in the front garden that’s just outside Dilijan, the location for another planned Tufenkian hotel. Kima has deep wrinkles and missing teeth. She presents us with enough food for six. “These foreigners eat like birds,” she mutters in Armenian as she clears my plate, so I quickly help myself to another stuffed vine leaf. I proudly use my only Armenian expression (other than “merci,” the expression locally used for “thank you,” which I’ve been using a lot) and say, “Hammova” (it’s delicious), which pleases her.

We continue to Tufenkian’s most recent project. Accessed by a short bridge over the rushing Debed River, Avan Dzoraget is a luxury property on the road to Georgia, surrounded by imposing mountains and close to the Haghpat and Sanahin monasteries. This stylish hotel, which resembles a castle, is full of Armenian furnishings and impressive marble and stone architecture; its location gives it a slightly wild retreat-like atmosphere.

Back in Yerevan at the Club, a cool restaurant and cultural centre, the conversation turns to tourism. “Armenia is very exciting right now,” says Anahit Ordyan from the American University of Armenia. “Yes, we have lots of history – we are an open-air museum with a map full of monasteries and archeological structures – but we are also in the process of transition. It is amazing to see how Armenia has changed in recent years.”

Hayk had told me of an Armenian saying: “You always have a place on my head.” (It loses a little something in translation.) As we sit sipping Armenian brandy in the tasting area of the Ararat brandy shop in Yerevan, he announces – for about the 20th time this week – “I would like to make a toast.” Here drinking is a popular pastime, but toasting is an art.

Hayk’s toast is an impossible-to-recreate speech on his expectations – and even prejudices – about guiding an English woman for a week, about the joy of making new friends and the importance of building relationships across nations, about his pride at being able to show off his country and his pleasure at my enthusiasm and enjoyment. It’s a humbling moment and, I realize, indicative of my Armenian experience.

When I was planning my trip, the very word “Armenia” provoked puzzled expressions from friends and colleagues – all successful, well-educated people – who weren’t ashamed to admit they knew nothing about this distinctly foreign-sounding place. But now, I felt I had discovered a brave new world, a place that is just about to appear on the radar of serious travellers. Roads, phones, loos and Tufenkian Heritage Hotels are only the beginning.

As the toast comes to an end, just before we sample the best brandy I’ve ever tasted, Hayk says, “And, above all, you must remember…” Here he pauses dramatically, with an expectant grin, waiting for me to finish his sentence. I reply sincerely: “You always have a place on my head.” 

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