Anyway last time I left you was in Samara and it’s semi-nude river bathers. About as far away from La Grande Jatte (if you know what that picture looks like) as you can get.

Me and Nelly eventually escaped in the middle of the night and in a totally packed TU154 (the Russian equiv. of a B727, bigger, but with less power … a great combination, so they have to accelerate like mad and go a great long way down any runway just to get into the air. The fight was AWFUL and I was most happy it only lasted two and a half hours. Packed out with about 150 (half of them children) and Nelly and I fought to keep the seat between us free, more to N’s efforts, who was in her grandmotherly and VERY formal way telling people where to sit. The problem had started with the fact that we had seat numbers and the crew decided in the middle of boarding that it was better to abandon them … would just love to see a BA 747-400 boarding under those circumstances ! So, chaos reigned and the crew hated us all to a man, even before we got off the ground. It was just grim and I was happy to land in Yerevan at some ungodly time in the middle of the night. And it’s a rough runway (why should I be surprised ?) so felt like the wheels had been removed and we were running along on fast eroding legs.

But the worst thing was and this really gave me the willies, was the fact that I saw, as we were skimming over the threshold, that no less than three of these grim looking flight attendants were happily standing up in the longitudinal front galley, with the open flight deck door ahead. Had we landed with a bump (or more of a bump than usual) they would have accelerated fast onto the flight deck and hit those nice big levers that put on the power and we would have gone accelerating to an uncertain end. Boy. did I give them my best black looks when I departed.

Well we are in immigration. I am well prepared with my visa, but of course no one on the plane has given us any forms and form filling in is a way of life, esp. when international travel is concerned. So I looks and looks and there is nothing.  I even have my pen ready. The line at immigration is positively zipping along by Soviet standards, so I lines up, shows the passport, open at the visa, as they will never find it and the man just looks at it and I am IN. What is the world coming to with NO forms? I’m still expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder with a handful of paper, which of course will only be in cyrillic. Bags take ages and when they do come I discover that practically everyone travels with identical bags. Hardly Samsonite or the like, but the thin blue and red striped nylon bags that are a staple of the third world traveler. They are all identical and no one has ever had the idea of putting a bit of ribbon on the handle or painting their name along the side (which I am sure Mrs Amarinda Ghosh of blessed memory would have done), so all is confusion and it is very hot and we have all had enough of the night already. When my big red proper suitcase turns up, it is riding around in state.

The local agents are there to meet and greet. Alexander (or Sasha) and his wife Elvira. Oh my oh my, how I wish you could all see Elvira as she really is a sight for sore eyes (no, probably a sight to GIVE sore eyes).

She is scrag end of mutton done up like lamb chops of the youngest variety. A mid-forties woman tarted up as an 18 year old and boy does it show! Tousled multi-blonde hair, but black roots, about every type of makeup that you can imagine, applied with a trowel and the mascara over the false eyelashes in veritable clumps. Looks like the oil you see on the news washed up on beaches from spills. There was a lot going on there. Lips are full and two or even perhaps three tone. The body is that of a middle aged woman, but we are 100% in denial, so the chest is up and away and there is a cleavage on a par with the Grand Canyon – a vast dark abyss. I try not to stare but can’t help it.  I bet she has a Victoria’s Secrets catalogue at home. The top is black and white knit and around the midriff it is all white see-through, so the spare tire can be appreciated in its full glory. The pants are toreador tight and you can feel the stitching screaming. But the best are the gold shoes.

She is on stilts, with the super pointed mules that everyone here is tottering around in. I wonder why they look vaguely familiar, as who do I know who could even stand up in them, let alone walk ? Then the penny drops… they are out of the Topkapi Museum in Istanbul ! The points at the front were so long that they have become turned up, to give an ever more Ottoman appearance. It just had to be seen to be believed. But having said all that, she was very sweet and we got on tres well. And amusingly enuf, it was battered Arabic that brought us most in contact. It turned out that she worked also for Syrian Airlines, so I called her habibi and we are now mates for life! I just don’t want to go shoe shopping with her, as I saw no less than three of her other pairs and they were all a disaster.

So we are kissed and warmly welcomed and jump into the battered old Lada and lurch into town. Most amazing sight half way was a mini Las Vegas. I kid you not. Lines and lines of garish casinos (casini ?), all with neon running amok even at 5am.. It seems we are big on gambling around here. The Marriott hotel is high on ceilings and has the creature comforts our patrons need. A sort of Armenian Manuel takes me to my room and makes a big production of showing me how to open the door with the card, which I was prolly doing before he was born and I am allowed to collapse for 5 hours, as we have stuff to do.

Time for a break.  Lots more to come.  I meet the daughter. And Lily, who is angling to give me a private tour…. Vera, I hope you have found Armenia on the map ?