After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, I continue to wonder if the apostrophe in ‘night’ is correctly placed to indicate a possessive noun or because of the rather bland adjective, I am inadvertently portraying that the ‘night’ possesses the ‘good.’
Having missed breakfast, I was slightly pissed. But I knew full well that anything other than biscuits and gravy was gonna suck anyway. I don’t think Islam knows biscuits and gravy. Nonetheless, our first order of business was to head over to the Old City.
Quite a beautiful walk really. Up and over and through and under the rather chic shopping district, we worked our way through the freezing rain and rather large numbers of people who should’ve been at work. People selling crap here, beggars huddled there, dogs crapping right here. For a few minutes, it seemed I had stepped back into the 21st century. It was short lived.
Passing under the stone gates, we made a B-line to the nearest tea house where we could thaw our bones. But I said, “Tea? Nay.” What followed was one of the best cappuccinos I’ve had since Italy. And just when it looked like the rain had ceased, we donned our cold weather gear, and headed back out. Into the freezing rain. But we couldn’t be discouraged. Hopped up on caffeine and eager to get away from the rug stores, we found our way to the Maiden Tower. Something I was looking forward to since I heard about it minutes before our arrival.
As we approached the crossing to the entrance of the Tower, an older gentleman, possibly in his early to mid 40’s, approached us and groomed us into coming down to his rug store. We conceded. He and my new friend exchanged pleasantries, and I countered with an introduction in my best Russian. What followed was a half hour of tea and chatter over how the one place he had heard of and wanted to visit was unknowingly the same city in which I was raised. Also, how I should never get married. They clearly understand the concept of, “half.”
We said our Goodbyes and expressed our gratitude for one another’s time, and headed out the door, I now more confident in the proper use of the apostrophe. As we encroached the 5’ doorway into the Tower, we noticed it was closed. Not ajar, as one would expect. Behind us, a frail old man, grey beard, weathered skin, tired eyes, obviously pushing his mid 50’s, brought a cigarette to his mouth with a laboured hand, and explained to us that a local had thrown himself off the tower a few days earlier. And while today, the Tower was closed to the locals, he was happy to invite us into his home where we could go to the roof on the 4th floor and catch a view of the city and surrounding Caspian Sea.
Upon leaving, we expressed our thanks, and were again, invited to stay for tea. But I had to seriously piss, so we politely declined. Where we ended up next had no bathrooms, but still beautiful in its own right.
Shirvan Shah Palace, founded in the Thirteenth Century, this was a place I didn’t entirely understand. Arabic passages intricately carved into the stone complimented by 8-sided rooms with high, conical ceilings, it was a beautiful compound that resonated no religious aura to me. Neither welcoming nor uncomfortable.
But if it was a sense of welcome and comfort I was longing for, it was found at dinner time. A traditional Russian restaurant beneath the ground, we were greeted with a kind face who helped us remove our coats and gently hung them up. A recurring theme I would see over the coming days. Decorated with dark colours and low ceilings, I felt oddly at ease as I braced myself for a positively memorable dining experience of all new tastes and birthday wishes from the softest, friendliest Russian singer you could imagine. She was like a Mrs. Potato Head with a traditional red dress and a smile from here to Armenia.
Having missed breakfast, I was slightly pissed. But I knew full well that anything other than biscuits and gravy was gonna suck anyway. I don’t think Islam knows biscuits and gravy. Nonetheless, our first order of business was to head over to the Old City.
Quite a beautiful walk really. Up and over and through and under the rather chic shopping district, we worked our way through the freezing rain and rather large numbers of people who should’ve been at work. People selling crap here, beggars huddled there, dogs crapping right here. For a few minutes, it seemed I had stepped back into the 21st century. It was short lived.
Passing under the stone gates, we made a B-line to the nearest tea house where we could thaw our bones. But I said, “Tea? Nay.” What followed was one of the best cappuccinos I’ve had since Italy. And just when it looked like the rain had ceased, we donned our cold weather gear, and headed back out. Into the freezing rain. But we couldn’t be discouraged. Hopped up on caffeine and eager to get away from the rug stores, we found our way to the Maiden Tower. Something I was looking forward to since I heard about it minutes before our arrival.
As we approached the crossing to the entrance of the Tower, an older gentleman, possibly in his early to mid 40’s, approached us and groomed us into coming down to his rug store. We conceded. He and my new friend exchanged pleasantries, and I countered with an introduction in my best Russian. What followed was a half hour of tea and chatter over how the one place he had heard of and wanted to visit was unknowingly the same city in which I was raised. Also, how I should never get married. They clearly understand the concept of, “half.”
We said our Goodbyes and expressed our gratitude for one another’s time, and headed out the door, I now more confident in the proper use of the apostrophe. As we encroached the 5’ doorway into the Tower, we noticed it was closed. Not ajar, as one would expect. Behind us, a frail old man, grey beard, weathered skin, tired eyes, obviously pushing his mid 50’s, brought a cigarette to his mouth with a laboured hand, and explained to us that a local had thrown himself off the tower a few days earlier. And while today, the Tower was closed to the locals, he was happy to invite us into his home where we could go to the roof on the 4th floor and catch a view of the city and surrounding Caspian Sea.
Upon leaving, we expressed our thanks, and were again, invited to stay for tea. But I had to seriously piss, so we politely declined. Where we ended up next had no bathrooms, but still beautiful in its own right.
Shirvan Shah Palace, founded in the Thirteenth Century, this was a place I didn’t entirely understand. Arabic passages intricately carved into the stone complimented by 8-sided rooms with high, conical ceilings, it was a beautiful compound that resonated no religious aura to me. Neither welcoming nor uncomfortable.
But if it was a sense of welcome and comfort I was longing for, it was found at dinner time. A traditional Russian restaurant beneath the ground, we were greeted with a kind face who helped us remove our coats and gently hung them up. A recurring theme I would see over the coming days. Decorated with dark colours and low ceilings, I felt oddly at ease as I braced myself for a positively memorable dining experience of all new tastes and birthday wishes from the softest, friendliest Russian singer you could imagine. She was like a Mrs. Potato Head with a traditional red dress and a smile from here to Armenia.
