Typically, communication begins with the word. Communicating with the country of the word ends. However, which then pops up first in memory. It is each his own. 10 memories. 10 stories. 10 words about Armenia. The first was – Astvats (God). He gave man the kar (stone), so he could build a tun (home). Throughout his kyanq (life) people attended and created a tar (letter) to write. Mined snund (food) to eat. During the feasts he drank gini (wine), sang erg (song) and was bari (kind) to his neighbor. And it was sirun (fine). And it was always.

Astvac – God
Elena Kalashnikova – translator, essayist
Moscow, Russia

In Armenia, you feel closer to God. Of course, this is the effect of the mountains, thin air, landscapes, ancient civilization … And the fog that shrouded the valley, we met young bulls, flashed in the window trim groves of trees and boulders on the side of the road. Higher and higher, somewhere in the clouds. Looking rushes up, where the fog and the outlines of the mountains, and then, like a ball, rolled into the valley of reliable, spreads on the right. When your ears start ringing very clearly, I am fearfully close my eyes, but then open up. And suddenly during these moments of a preserving blindness I will pass something important, the sign given to me?
It can be everywhere — in avaricious color of hills, in number of white roadside columns, in a look of not met shepherd …And I listen attentively, peer, I absorb strict magnificence of this edge, worthy new Ortega-and-Gasseta.
He will pay a tribute to natural pedagogics and a national suit, and in its traveling notes as in the Lake Sevan, pain, wisdom and greatness of Armenia will be reflected. In mountains where Astvats is so close, my heart.

Kar – a stone
Yefim Bershin – Poet, novelist
Moscow, Russia

First, Noah opened the window of the ark a raven. And I do not understand why.
– Why have you sent out a raven, Noah? – I asked. – What does it bring us?
– He will bring us the word, – said Noah. – And if he brings us the word, we immediately realize there is something in the world but water.
Raven flew long. He flew and returned. And once again flew. Finally he returned and, spreading their wings over the ark, drowned the roar of the waves rolling a long word, “kar-rr.” “kar!” – Cried the raven. And it meant that he saw not only the land, he saw the stone. And from this word there were much others. Sometimes the first deaf letter was lost, and it turned out “ar-ar”
That is sun. And at times at the end it was heard by “t”. Also it turned out “Ararat”». And our ark moored to this word stone.
Noah was right. But he did not know that God uses the word not only to save lives, but also for its destruction. And never explains why.
– Car! – Cried the raven.
– Car! – Repeated Noah.
– Kara! – Responded to the mountain, destroying towns and villages in the earthquake.
– Kara! – Shouted the ancient Persians, driving not only people but also the whole church in the womb of stone.
– Kara! – Could be heard over the centuries, Russia, when the then with the East, the West came the people to burn all living things.
Sometimes you want to shut the window of the ark!

Tun— the house
Elena Tchernikov – prose writer, playwright, journalist, teacher
Moscow, Russia

I am orphan turtle, the comedian freak; it is left terrestrial relatives; the house always with me: I can not take to myself — there is no place. It is beaten to the house. Half a century in vain vanishes terrible thirst of the house on two turtles, but skin won’t leave, my house is developped, and bear it, an orphan turtle. Also I bear. You — the freak, the orphan. So much love isn’t present on the earth.
Eternal in vain, a vanity, hopelessness, I will tear on flying, aim, hot in and ancient Armenian tun. I will tear, and in the heavenly house we will meet, people, turtles And I, the orphan, will cease to pour infinite tears, in tun for eyelids on ice open air of space of the homeless.
“Life – is the way home.” — American Melvill, the writer told. Knew. From where, interestingly? He, probably, too was a turtle.
Half a century flows from eyes combustible, obedient, wet sodium on clumsy calcium of an armor, and they seize in heart, and it is firmer some carbon. Inhuman it is chemistry there were at you, children. Diamond damnation of an orphanhood.
Armenians speak: where strong you build, there you will not live. Truth it. Truth. My armor is stronger some steel: orphan turtles, and the orphan never lives, but it is blind, in vain, moving a thin foolish neck, looks for the biggest on ligh tun.
… And when tears come to an end, sob chilly in a prickly bush, then blood on sand, then are silent, at last, and speak nothing, for nobody will understand, and nobody can sob so long, and then is dry, and then blood, only an orphan turtle.
My Tun, tun, where you? Take a turtle.

Kyanq — life
Lina Zhelyoniyen – worker of language school
Kaunas, Lithuania

I fell in love with Armenia still before saw this country. And so it is not enough one word to write about this country and its inhabitants. Who was here, will understand me.
If think that know about life already everything if to you to liking German punctuality if you the fan of road rules if always in advance agree with the friend about a meeting — live as lived, and don’t take in head to go to Armenia at all. But if feel that somewhere there are people who will help to learn the real taste of life — at once take vacation and buy the ticket to Yerevan. I have never regretted that one day, did just that.
I was improbably lucky: to the trip I got acquainted on the Internet with Hayk from Yerevan. If to make it is a lot of Hayk’s clones and though on one to give to each travel company of the country, tourists would eat all fruit and vegetables, watched the film “Mimino”, learned everything about the Armenian toasts and would fall in love with Armenia how it was made by me even before arrival here.
All would understand at once that it is necessary to kiss friends at a meeting, and to meet — in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening. On the street, at home, in cafe, in park. All would understand, it is possible what to be sated to food, pleasantly what to walk both in the afternoon, and at night about anything without worrying. You — the guest. To you it so easy, simple, tasty, it is pleasant, interesting, unexpected, warm and it is solar!
Having visited Armenia for the first time, I understood that before didn’t know taste of an apricot, value of friendship and greatness of Ararat. Having arrived to the second time, I dived into cold waters of Sevan and tried mulberry vodka, in the third time — visited good friends, and in the fourth — danced on that Ike’s wedding which acquainted me with Armenia even before arrival here. Life is good. And if though once in a year to go to Armenia — it is just fine.

Tar— a letter
Mikhail Vizel – literary critic, translator, editor
Moscow, Russia

In Armenia all guests surely carry to Oshakan — on a grave of the founder of the Armenian alphabet of Mesrop Mashtots near which «the garden of letters» is broken wonderful: a small flower bed where magnificent herbs and knotty a tree, grown from the Armenian soil, braid stone sculptures in the form of letters of the Armenian alphabet.
I saw many magnificent gardens — Aleksandrovsky, Peterhof, Shenbrunn, a country house of Pamphylia, the Central park. All of them are made with love and an invention.
But neither in Russia nor in America, none of the countries of Europecan not be anything like oshakanskomu “the garden of letters.”Because neither common to all West European Latin or common to the eastern Slavs Cyrillic is not able to convey both the indissoluble unity of the “spirit and letter” of the ancient Armenian culture, as it makes a unique Armenian alphabet. The Italian can’t tell «my alphabet» because it divides it with people absolutely other mentality — Germans or Scandinavians. The Armenian can.
In a year before last I was lucky to transfer to the Italian poet the Karabakh magazine where transfers of its verses were published. It was shaken not only that fact that its verses are interesting to people who should solve daily a set of the problems far from the European poetry, but also a type of these transfers, their graphic shape. He admitted to me that didn’t suspect, how terribly, ephemeral lines of its verses can significantly look. Not without reason Mandelstam compared letters of the Armenian alphabet to «forge pincers». This image can seem rough, but it is absolutely exact. 36 letters created by sacred Mesrop Mashtots — are the material subjects leaving a print on everything what touch.

Snund— food
Sebastian Kravchik – designer
Munich, Germany

My name is Sebastian, and, should admit, I — the glutton. For me food — a gift, fascinating travel, history which was told by the person who has prepared it. I came to Armenia, stepped off the plane, there were six in the morning. Friends greeted me warmly, happily, were treated to an amplebreakfast, which had nothing to do with the European concept of thefirst morning meal. Food was much that, certainly, became the best surprise for me and my stomach. I didn’t know, with what to begin. And the most important — didn’t know when to finish. The more long we ate, the table became fuller. It seemed a place for a new dish on it anymore, but it will still be found. The real paradise! All I’m telling you, everything was delicious! Cheese, sharp meat, stewed vegetables, pilaf with raisin, an unleavened wheat cake … New tastes, aromas and combinations. A little fatly on my taste, but Armenians acquainted me with the excellent solution of this problem — vodka! Fine idea. In the morning?. And too I quickly got used to it.
Armenians have each meal — a family holiday. It helps to keep a family solid, adjusts on communication. And it is unimportant, whether are you the member of this big family. If you have dinner with them, you — one of them.
Armenians! I really hope that many people will start to have dinner, as you, to enjoy food as you, to do of each meal an event as it is done by you. I know precisely: I became the carrier of this culture and I am going to extend it.

Gini — wine
Igor Shiryaev – psychologist, traveler
Moscow, Russia

When I was going to go to Armenia, I was told that to refuse to drinkwith food in a friendly company – is tantamount to insult a man offendfriendly, hospitable host and his family. In addition, the friends saidthat if all that Armenia has no sobering-up stations. Not at all! So Iwent to this country not the best mood on the alcohol. And so I do not like to drink, and even more forcefully.
And here I am in Armenia. Comes a most terrible moment – on a table wine. The friendly owners of a pleasant conversation told me that the Armenian wine is called the “Gini”. Gini – a tenderness andpassion, Gini – the joy and health, Gini – Armenia! So say the owners… With horror (because I almost never drink at home, and Armenia has no sobering-up stations!) I try to Gini and suddenly realize that actually nobody forces me to drink. A Gini – is not just wine, but something different, and more. Tasty, tender, very natural and slightly intoxicating, giving good mood! Now to me it is clear, why in Armenia there are no sobering-up stations. And what for? If after wine to the person it is not bad, and it is good. Since that moment in my life appeared gini. The present gini — is Armenia!

Erg — the song
Ravil Bukharayev – poet, prose writer, playwright, historian and translator
Moscow, Russia

t was the collapse of troubled times when I forgot how to touch a native substance of life: the heart of numb, and I no longer distinguish between rest and movement. Chess, on which are inscribed rectangular plots, laid by fine snow powder Ararat Valley, which has brought me a sad journalistic craft on the way to Lachin, stretched to the edge of possibility. And the ice cold space responded on understanding of a sincere emptiness in which it was hardly guessed silent, but unrestrained struggle of life: light love against darkness weight. I, like everyone else, want warmth and happiness, and remembered me from another life years, tearfully, spring water and the river Azat Gegard, sounding in the valley inviolable sonorous name, strangely coinciding with the native Tatar, song by the word “freedom” … And suddenly, in the icy turmoil going on, and I grasped that there is nothing in the whole world were crucified around the native song of will, which is an unspeakable consolation tears and remains with you, when everything else is taken away by force and deception …
“Er” — the word “song” in Tatar «So sounds. Еrg» — she so responds the star Armenian name-nazvanyem, dissolving in tears of the returned children’s happiness a ego and establishing that terrestrial unity — universal relationship, is more native which doesn’t happen. And heart, and it can regain consciousness, as a star pulsing, radiating in an ice cold gloom of a universe love relationship; a star eternal, for its fuel — time. The grief so leaves, and anything else doesn’t remain for pleasure as soon as to fill the become empty space. Because love — this compassion, and the person — this compassion, and strength of the person — only power of compassion. And erg— forever in soul and heart even if any more didn’t remain neither forces, nor words.

Bari — kind, kindness
Grigory Pototsky – sculptor, President of the International Academy of Kindness
Moscow, Russia

For the first time I close faced Armenians in 1974. In Georgia, at all in Armenia. I walked on the Tbilisi center when got acquainted with the 14-year-old boy Aram. And he to me told: «Grigory, you are a guest. Come to us on a visit! You will have dinner, you will have a rest». I terribly was surprised (I am afraid of all unfamiliar, another’s), but thought: I have no money, and, eventually, I am not a girl, what with me can happen? We came to a typical Tbilisi court yard. Through all yard highly in the sky the linen on ropes hung. Houses two-storeyed as though scramble at each other, because a place sublime. Earned additionally the shoemaker. What waited for me a table! So everything was plentiful and tasty. Me laid to have a sleep for hour or so, to have a rest after a dinner. As, I am a guest! Then fed again, asked on Moldova, from where I arrived, about Odessa where studied … I left struck with such participation, such kindness to another’s person. Thirty years when the hard time came later, I established in Karabakh the symbol of kindness — a sculpture “Dandelion”. Then created a portrait of Aram of Khachaturian, a monument to Paradzhanov. I met Armenians everywhere. For them there are no borders. They bear good, cheerfulness, love, diligence. They live worldwide because they kind.

Sirun— it is beautiful, the beauty
Lydia Grigoriev – poet, screenwriter, culturologist
London, Great Britain

There are two layers of memoirs. Concrete, everyday: remarkable beautiful people, the handsome Ararat, Garni and Gegarda’s inexpressible beauty, amazing beauty of ancient Armenian miniatures in Matenadaran’s ancient manuscripts. Beautiful faces of parishioners in Echmiadzin, turned to the Catholicos which person too is shined from within by the person, noble beauty descending from heavens. I could kiss his hand. And this one of the brightest memories of my trips to Armenia. Long it seemed to me that all Armenians — poets and artists. So there was there my circle of contacts.
And there are intimate memoirs of heart. These are tears, rushed of my eyes when in one of the Yerevan workshops the fine Armenian artist at the desire of friends started singing ancient spiritual anthems. My heart responded and emanated into tears. It was the enlightenment and purification of the soul of the accretions of immediacy and the futility of our everyday existence. By the force of impact on the noble soul, I think, very close to religious hymns and many Armenian songs. And home to me, from the very first soundswhich compresses the heart, – “Oh, sirun, sirun …”.
A man once told me: “You are a poet, and therefore idealiziruesh us,Armenians. But among us there is evil and dishonest people! “And where arethey not? But they leave the earth without a trace. And the beauty ofthe ages is perpetrated by the beautiful and noble people. And eachof them live in the heart of its unique beauty, be it a lover, wife or daughter. Or his mother. Or his birthplace …