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Uzbek. But I speak only Uzbek.”
    What do you eat in Armenia? Camels, mostly. Oh, are there many deserts there? No, they aren’t desert camels, they are plains camels. And how are the camels prepared? They are prepared with many native spices, including saffron, tunic, and monticello.
    How fascinating! Tell us more! And so I have bamboozled many strangers with stories about my non-homeland. Occasionally someone who has heard something about Armenia will interject a morsel of relevant trivia. In these cases, I usually explain that my people are Southern Armenians, who have a very different culture from the Northern Armenian culture that is so frequently portrayed in your Hollywood movies.
    Armenia is the answer to all irritating questions. For instance: I am in the habit of wandering aimlessly around antiquarian bookstores, because I like old spines. I never ever buy anything. I really don’t think this is such a crime, but book-thropes who hope to subtly unwelcome me from their shops usually begin their efforts with some sort of inquiry along the lines of first “Ehem,” then “is there something in particular that you’re looking for?” When dealing with these unpleasant people I usually do my best to send them on some sort of hunt:
    “Yes, in fact, do you have any Armenian poetry?”
    Usually the proprietor is very certain that they don’t have any such stuff. But you know, booksellers really can’t keep that good a track of their stock. Say: “A friend of mine told me that he saw a very nice collection of Armenian poetry here just one month ago,” and then they will get all tizzified looking for it. Insist that they search thoroughly. I used to think there was actually no such thing as Armenian poetry, but once I got a call from some antiquarian bookman who had noted my interests and made me write my number down. Months later he left an excited message on my machine pertaining to a collection he had located quite by accident, known to be available for sale, of Armenian love poems in translation. I called back to ask him whether the poems were in sonnet form. They were not. Now I ask for Armenian sonnets specifically.
    One fine cocktail I found myself surrounded by a trio of young, attractive female college students — my favorite kinds of people, really — and was asked about my background. Upon my reply, I was informed that they were all Armenian too. The three of them were the first Armenians I ever met, and in my haste to impress them and create a bond, I unfortunately forgot that all my Armenian knowledge was drunken fabrication. I stumbled through an interrogation. What city in Armenia? Ludou. Where is that? In the south. Do you play Kratsky Tolny? I love to when the weather is fair. Do you know where a good dolma can be had? No, I have never had a dolma like my dear dead grandmother’s. (Much commiseration here.) So, are you spatni or strashny?
    Eh?
    You know, are you red or blue? It’s okay, they said. We aren’t political. Just curious.
    I launched into an oration concerning the international brotherhood of humankind and the need to erase borders and heal broken scars. They applauded my sentiments, and then asked again, this time most intently: Spatni or Strashny?
    I said I was half-and-half. My mother was spatni, my father strashny. They paled. One of them turned and stormed away. Another one said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I don’t mean to embarrass you.” But after that they looked at me like I was a troll, and the conversation returned to safe topics, and then petered out completely.

Metrophobia

    Everybody knows you can’t just go out walking around. There’s places in Northeast where they’ll just come running out of their houses with guns, looking for meat. Anyway, there’s a huge speed trap out that way — the cops there are real rednecks. Downtown you have to watch out for feral cats. There’s packs of them, some have rabies. Don’t — DO NOT — flash your headlights at