By Mariel Howsepian West Dressed
Two weeks ago, Armenian president Robert Kocharian declared a 20-day state of emergency after eight people were killed and more than 100 injured in a riot in Yerevan, the capital city.
Guess where I’m going tomorrow? My plane takes off at 7 p.m.
On Feb. 19, Armenia held its presidential election. Prime Minister Serzh Sarkyan won, and not everyone was happy about it. In the 10 days that followed, people who believed that the elections had been rigged began camping in a public square in Yerevan. CNN reported that, at times, the number of protesters grew as high as 60,000.
Meanwhile in Santa Monica, I was on the phone with my dad’s sister’s husband’s uncle Kev Balian of Kev Balian Travel. Los Angeles was making me claustrophobic, and spring break was coming up, so I decided to get out of town.
Two days after I purchased my ticket, the riot occurred.
Why not Hawaii? Why not Cancun? Why Armenia?
I’m half Armenian, on my dad’s side, hence the last name: Howsepian. But my mother was what my dad’s parents called an “odar,” a foreigner; she was white, born in Oklahoma, descended from the Scottish clan Campbell of Argyle. And so, I was not christened in an Armenian church, I did not learn to speak the language, I did not go to Armenian private school, I did not minor in Armenian Studies at my alma mater Fresno State, and I married a guy with the last name “Rodriguez.”
Last Thanksgiving, my Armenian grandmother asked me when I was going to the Old Country.
“I can’t just ‘go’ to Armenia,” I said. “I can’t even read the alphabet. I wouldn’t be able to get out of the airport.”
People don’t go to Armenia for vacation; they go there to build houses or dig irrigation ditches. But for two and a half months, I replayed what I had said to Grandma — “I can’t just ‘go’ to Armenia” — until I accepted that the only way to stop hearing that sentence was to prove myself wrong.
Plus, I have an aunt there whom I’ve never met: My dad’s half-sister he’s never even met.
My first stop was Borders to buy a travel guide. Armenia is geographically close to Russia — it was once part of the Soviet Union — so I searched the shelves near the travel books about Russia. Nothing. Armenia is bordered by Turkey, Iran, Georgia, and Azerbaijan. I searched near Turkey. I searched the Middle East. I even searched in Eastern Europe, although I knew Armenia is in western Asia. Finally, I found one book. It had been misplaced in Scandinavia.
And no, I’m not finished packing. I don’t want to check any bags. I only have two hours to make my connecting flight in London, and Uncle Kev tells me not to be surprised if I don’t. I have to travel light.
There are two schools of thought when it comes to packing. The first is to pack too much: You never know when you might be invited spur of the moment to a formal dinner at a castle or something. The second is to pack too little: You can buy pretty much anything you’ll need wherever you go.
This is a state of emergency. How do I stuff a parka, camcorder, laptop, pharmacopoeia, and a good book in a carry-on?
Travel tips Always travel with a big scarf. (I just bought a gorgeous one from CP Shades on Main Street.) A big scarf can be used for... • a head-covering in a church or temple. • a belt. • a shawl. • a cover-up for a swim suit.
QUICK NOTE In my last column “Formally angst-ridden,” I advised that girls should forgo wearing the color red to prom so as to not look like everyone else. One reader contacted me to remind me that the women who chose to wear red to the Academy Awards were doing so to bring attention to statistics claiming that more women die of heart disease than all the cancers combined.
By advising girls to wear colors other than red to prom, I was in no way trying to discount the statements being made by red-dressed women like Heidi Klum. That said, when girls go shopping for their prom dresses, I doubt they will choose to wear red because they to want to educate their classmates about women’s health. I’m fairly certain their concerns will be choosing dresses that make them feel less fat, less short, less flat-chested or flat-buttocked, less teenaged.
MARIEL HOWSEPIAN digs black coffee, fairy tales and a man in coveralls. She lives in Santa Monica and
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on March 14, 2008. Read the original PDF.