X.B.!

So, X.B. stands for XPUCTOC BOCKPECE (khri-STOS vos-KREH-seh), which, in English, means "Christ is Risen!" It's the Paschal greeting, to which the proper answer is, "BOUCTUHY BOCKPECE" (vo-EEST-ih-nu vos-KREH-seh), which means "Truly he is risen!"

Church was very nice. There were probably upwards of 400 people there when the service began around 11 p.m., so it was good that Fr. Vladimir decided to have the service outside. The Greek deputy chief of mission (second to the ambassador) was there, and when the choir sang the Paschal hymn, "Christ is risen from the dead," in Greek, he joined in enthusiastically, which was very endearing. The police were there too, outside the fence. I presume they were there to keep people from harassing us, as they didn't seem to have any other purpose (they themselves were not harrassing us). I was hit on for the first time ever during a Pascha service (though not for the first time during any service - during my first and only trip to an Armenian church for Sunday services, a man tried to butter me up, then groped me). This time, the young man in question spent a good hour trying to butter me up by professing interest in Orthodoxy (he was Armenian and not Orthodox), following me around during the procession around the church and asking all sorts of questions about the service. It was only once he began waxing poetic about my beauty that I finally told him to get lost. I also met an Armenian-Russian-American woman from LA whose parents (one Armenian, one Russian) were from Sukhumi, and who was visiting a relative for Pascha.

Despite the several abnormalities (service outside, the mack-daddy), Pascha in Armenia was Pascha. That's one of the nice things about Orthodoxy - the service is the same, so no matter where you go, you are always home.

Almost Pascha!

Well, I'm back from the States. It was a whirlwind and sad trip, but it was good to be with family, and good to see Jeremy. There are little moments where you realize that your husband/fiance is becoming family, and one of them for me was when Jeremy helped my brothers, father and uncle carry Babushka's casket to the hearse, and from the hearse to her gravesite.

It's Holy Saturday today, and as I write, the bells of the nearby Armenian cathedral are tolling. They have been tolling for about three hours, actually, which I don't quite understand, as it's not Pascha yet. I'll be going to church in a few hours for the midnight Paschal liturgy, which will be interesting. The church is under renovation, so its cavernous nave is off limits. We have been having services for the last six months or so in the offices, which can only accommodate about 60 people if you really pack 'em in. This morning after the liturgy, the priest announced we would have Pascha services outside. It's supposed to be about 40 degrees with showers, and it's a four-hour service, so we'll see how that goes. In any case, Holy Week has been a good one this year; despite our sadness about Babushka, these last few days of Great Lent really help put it all in perspective, and helps us to remember that she is not gone. Memory Eternal.

Levon's Divine Underground

Katie visited from D.C. a couple weeks ago, so on a Sunday afternoon, she and I, Taline and Sonya drove out to the Yerevan suburb of Arindj to visit Levon's Divine Underground. Though the name would be fitting for a hip club or a punk band, it actually refers to a network of subterranean caves dug by one man - 66-year-old Levon Arakelyan. Levon has been digging these caves for 22 years. He says that God told him he will need to dig another 28 years before he is finished, and before the reason for his digging is revealed to him. This is Levon.



The directions to Levon's house read something like this:"make a left at the post office, park at the end of the road, walk down the dirt path and take a right at the rusty pipe." When you get to Arindj, you basically walk around asking folks where Levon's house is. This is his house.



We banged on the door for a few minutes, until Levon popped out. Didn't bother asking us why we were there; apparently the sight of four Western-looking girls with cameras was pretty self-explanatory. We walked through this door ...



... and entered into Levon's underground world. Levon began digging after his wife, Tosya, asked him to dig her a pit to keep her potatos fresh. He dug a couple of meters (the deeper the hole, the colder the potatos), and then decided he quite liked digging. He kept going.



That was in 1985. He did not have an overarching vision. Levon says that directions come to him in dreams and visions. Once he begins his day's work (he told us he digs 18 hours a day), he knows how many centimeters he will dig, and in what direction.



When you enter Levon's Divine Underground, you descend on a staircase made of what appears to be soft clay. Levon digs the rooms without any support structure, a fact that sat uneasily in my mind, particularly when I considered that Armenia is earthquake-prone. Still, Levon has had thousands of visitors and no one has been buried alive yet.







This is the prayer room. Levon considers himself a religious man, though he usually spends his Sundays digging. After he had completed the room, he says, he realized it was the perfect place for people to make a wish. He asked which of us wanted to make a wish in the room, and then made the rest of us clear out into another room while each took her turn.



































Above are Levon's tools, and a giant pile of the dirt he removes with them, sitting on the street outside his house.




















The End.

Babushka

My Babushka died today. She was 86 years old. She was a strong, believing woman who raised her three children alone after my grandfather died in 1960, just eight years after they had arrived in the United States from Austria. She had some fascinating stories. We will miss her very much.

I'm flying back to the States on Monday. Jeremy will meet me at JFK and then we'll travel together to Valley Cottage, NY, for the funeral. I'm sad that she never got to meet him, but I know that she would have liked him.

Mauritanian thieves stole my beanie!

It's true, they did! My friend Josh is a Foreign Service officer in Mauritania (west coast of Africa, I didn't know either). A few nights ago, thieves broke into his house. They stole his computer, among other valuables, and the green-and-gray beanie I knitted for him while we were in training in Washington. He's very upset about it, but I'm kind of flattered that they wanted the beanie. Andnow I have an excuse to break out my knitting needles again and correct the mistakes I made on the first hat. It was supposed to be a winter hat, but I made it too short, thus the beanie. I don't have a photo of Josh actually wearing the beanie, but here's one of us at a party while we were in training in 2004.



While we're talking about Josh, I should note that he is going to Juneau for home leave right before Jeremy and I take our trip there this June. I'm bummed that we won't be able to meet up in Alaska (it being Josh's first time there and all). But Jeremy and I are planning to pay him a visit at his next assignment (Sydney) during one of our R&Rs from Kabul, which I'm really looking forward to.