“Qàter,” the Lyft driver reminded me as she winded down the narrow, razor-sharp turns of the Pasadena Freeway. “It’s pronounced Qàter.”
This was actually the third time in the past few days that I was reminded of my mispronunciation of Qatar, the small nation which daintily extends out like a pinky from the palm of the Arabian peninsula. A friend of mine earlier this week was the first to correct me, having erroneously rendered it previously as sounding akin to the Spanish catarro—“catarrh,” or nasal congestion. My mind was weighed with a number of other matters this week, so my usual attentiveness to such details ended up on the wayside. Here’s to hoping I remember the proper pronunciation by the time we touch ground in Doha.
The heart of the Middle East will only be a temporary waiting station on the way to my ultimate destination: Yerevan, Armenia. For the next week I’ll be walking the roads of a country whose people already existed in classical antiquity, a detail which reminds me of the Basques from whom I am descended many generations ago.
“We are close, the Basques and Armenians,” Vatsche Barsoumian, whose generosity allowed me to travel to Armenia this week told me earlier this year. “We both have endured so much.”
Indeed, Armenians have been fought over and ruled by Greeks, Romans, Parthians, Greeks again, Persians, Turks, and Russians, before finally eking out their hard-fought independence. Through it all they have managed to retain their very unique culture, swinging with outsize heft in the arena of global culture.
Chile, from where my parents came, has existed since the 16th century, around 500 years, barely an eyeblink within the span of Armenian civilization.
This will be my first time venturing outside of the U. S. in 15 years; my first ever trip outside the American continent. It is also my first journey to a country in which I have no command of its language. My accrued rudimentary knowledge of Russian and Armenian will hopefully help me through the next week. I practiced the former for a bit with my Hungarian landlord a few days ago.
“Khorosho,” he told me with a light chuckle, “a little more and maybe you make it into military service.” A student protester during the 1956 uprising in his country, he was arrested, sent to Siberia, then pressed into service in the Red Army upon his release.
Feelings of anxiety mingle with even stronger ones of anticipation.
We are beginning to board. The next time I post, I’ll be in the sweltering 118°F heat of—Qatar (pronounced similar to “cutter”).