I miss the crisp autumn air tinged with the watery smell of the canals. The quiet of the streets. My red bike with its faulty break and dim lights. The college building. The sprawling tree in the library garden. The wooden benches outside the cafeteria, that would warm up under the sun. Thursday nights and Friday nights. Saturday nights, most of all. The languor and hangovers of Sunday. Fries coated with mayo and served piping hot. Strong and cheap Belgian beer. Lazying around in my dorm room. Eating breakfast for dinner. Air-drying my damp hair. Singing along with the theme songs of favorite TV shows and painting my nails and toes with the craziest colors. Buying Coke and chips from the night shop. Having the luxury of a locked door.
Walking home at 5 a.m.,dizzy and drunk. Being responsible for myself. Getting startled by horses. Learning Arabic from my friend and delighting her in repeating simple words of greeting every day. Watching the back of his neck and dreaming of impossible things. Listening to Bollywood remixes and studying for exams. The canals at night, covered with swan couples.The windmills and the parks. Small cafes overrun with wealthy old tourists. Waffles with strawberries for outrageous prices. The lack of McDonald’s. The same three songs during every college party. The people, who were my friends. The people, who were not. The cobblestones that ruined my shoes.
It’s only been six months, but it already feels like somebody’s else’s life.
Dear taxi drivers of Yerevan,
Let’s face the facts here, you will never read this open letter. Well, never say never, but I’m 95% sure, it is after all in English, plus it’s on my personal blog. I just need to get this out of my system.
As I’m a super lazy person, who detests all kinds of public transportation that require standing, bending over and/or squatting (this rules out ALL types of public transportation in Yerevan), I prefer taxis.
Taxi drivers (you won’t mind, if I call you TDs, will you? Of course, you won’t…you’re not reading this), I have some questions for you (rhetorical, obviously…cause, again, none of you is reading this):
- Why do you think that your taxi is an ashtray?
- Why don’t you EVER know how to get where I want to go? Isn’t it in your job description to “drive and know where to drive”?
- Why do you get horribly offended when I offer you directions? It’s only fair I do so, cause you most definitely don’t know how to get to my destination (see previous point)?
- Why must you scream at every passing car? Why must you then turn around and seek approval and encouragement for being such an ace screamer?
- Why must you drive either a) like it’s your first time behind the wheel, or b) like you’re in Formula 1 and I’m the only one, who didn’t get the memo?
- Why do you have only two modes of communication: a) fucking rude and b) fucking creepy?
- Why do you ask me weird personal questions? (This, btw, falls under “fucking creepy”).
- Why do you feel the need to share your fascinating life story with me?
- Why must you charge poor clueless tourists five times the regular fare?
- Why must you try and scam me for extra money by choosing a particularly long route/driving like a turtle on pot/telling me a sob story?
Look, TDs, I know…Your job is not the most rewarding job in the world. It’s a hard job, and I’m sure you have your reasons for behaving the way you do. BUT. BUT…(ok, this is gonna make me sound like an entitled asshole) I DON’T CARE. Be better at your job. Don’t make an ordeal of each and every day of commute for honest, hard-working people, who have chosen to use your services.
Phew…at least this was therapeutic.
I can’t be. No. It’s ridiculous. I’m just watching these movies for educational purposes. Also, India is a fascinating country. And the colors are really pretty. That’s it. I can’t be a fangirl. I mean, this person has been known to wear mesh sweaters in the Swiss Alps.
ANI, WHY DID YOU SPEND AN UNHOLY AMOUNT OF MONEY TO GET INTO A FREAKING WAX FIGURE MUSEUM? YOU DO REALIZE IT’S A WAX FIGURE YOU’RE TAKING A PICTURE WITH, RIGHT? IT’S CREEPY!
I’ll just read this one obscure article from Filmfare 1997 and it will be the last of it, I swear. I SWEAAAR. Maybe one last re-watch of KKHH. It will be the last re-watch, really. I mean I obviously need to make the number of re-watches an even 10.
I suck. I’m a failure of a person. He’s not even young enough or conventionally attractive enough to make this obsession ok. I’ll just keep this shameful secret and hide under a large rock for the rest of my life.
Screw this. I’m not doing anything illegal, am I? I’m just fangirling, come on. I’m letting the fangirl flag fly, bitches. I’m side-eyeing Salman fans and openly making fun of “serious actor” Aamir. I’m hanging the Koyla poster over my bed and making Haule Haule my ringtone. I’m making “SRK” “Shah Rukh Khan” “Shahrukh Khan” and “King Khan” Google Alerts and re-watching KKHH for the 11th time.