Lost Ring In Armenia.

Words: Mitchell Peters

I don't remember how this story starts. It's not a story, though. It's a tale. Not typical. Actually, I dont even know what a tale is. OK. It takes place in this little country called Armenia. It's tiny; I'm not exaggerating. Have you heard of the place, dear reader? Of course you have. Hey, do me a favor. Go to your nearest map/globe and find the country. It borders Turkey and Russia. And a couple others, too. I know what the other countries are, but I'd rather not tell you. You'll find out if you go and look for yourself. It'll be worth it, trust me. Do you trust me? Yes. Anyway. I was in Armenia with a handful of students from Fresno State. July 2005. Have you heard of Fresno? It's a town in Central California. It's hot. Dry. Desert. Or so they say. Roll down your car windows in the summer. No air conditioning. What do you call that? Armenian air conditioning. That's what someone once told me. Maybe my brother-in-law. Or my cousin. Some people like Fresno; others don't. I like certain aspects of it. My house if one of those aspects. It's peaceful: grapevines and pink sunsets. Quarter-mile driveway. Wild dogs. Rooney. Coyotes screaming at night. Packs of them. Stray cats. Lizards. Soaring hawks. Oh, how I love watching the hawks. Sixty-foot pine trees. My dad's '77 golden El Camino all original. Dirt roads. Shattered windows. Sheds with lime green chemicals inside. Tractors. Many tractors: green and red. A long canal with tadpoles; sometimes small fish. Quiet. A chemical plant down the road. An orange orchard across the street. Acres of plums in my front yard. Almonds. Flames. Raisins. Fowler. Planted with Armenian hands. Yes. Armenian hands. Not mine. Family that came before me. Many years before me. Sounds good, right? It is. But there's something that saddens me. And angers me at the same time. Track homes. But we won't get into that. They won't destroy my property. I'll stop now since you have no idea what I'm talking about. Or do you? It doesn't matter. Let's get back to the story - I mean - tale. Tail. I was about to tell it, remember? Tangents.

The tale is about a ring. The ring is silver. I wear it on my right hand almost every day. On the fourth finger from my thumb. I don't know what that finger is called. I don't care. Now, I don't wear this particular ring on special occasions. I save my Madrid ring for that. I got it in Spain. Madrid. Miriam. Madness. Denmark. Copenhagen. Pilgrimage. Breathtaking. Random art museums. Sol. OK, I'm done now. Tangents, dont you love 'em? The ring (not the Madrid one) has a black line going around the center. The inside has an imprint: "925." That means its silver. That's what they told me. I don't remember who "they" are. But I know "they" told me. My sister gave it to me. A gift. Older sister. Do you know her name? I do. I've had the ring forever. Yes, forever. I'm not sure how long that is. But It's a long time. I think. When I went to Armenia, I simply had to take the ring with me. I'm not sure why. I guess I would feel sort of naked without it. Or maybe it's because I wanted to have a piece of my family there with me. Although, they were already there. My ancestors. Like I said, I'm not sure why. But I took it. I love that ring. Connected. I'm not wearing it as I write this. It's nighttime. I usually take it off at night, then put it back on in the morning. Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes; the ring. We were about two weeks into the trip. The group was based in Yerevan. Yerevan is the capitol (I spelled that wrong on purpose) of Armenia. You didn't know that. Well, maybe some of you did. The special ones. One night, I was with some friends. We were standing in front of a post office in Yerevan. It was near the city square. Republic Square. Sounds Soviet. It probably was. You know, back in the USSR. Long gone. Or is it? As I was standing on the steps under the dark sky, I used my thumb to reach over and play with the ring, which should have been on the fourth finger over of my right hand. I'm left-handed. It wasn't there. Missing. Panic. Let me repeat that: PANIC. I never take my ring off. Only when I got to bed. Or the bathroom. I'm in the streets of Armenia. Lonely. The name of the street is too difficult to spell. (Mesrop Mashtots.) Armenian alphabet. A. B. C. (Ա. Բ. Գ.) Heart beats faster. It never does. "Where the fuck is my ring?" Over and over, I repeated this. In my head. I'm a little obsessive about it. Can you tell? I try to stay calm. Search my pockets. Not there. Look on the sidewalk below me. Not there. I stay silent. Cigarette smoke everywhere. Could it be at the restaurant where we just ate? Mmmm. That was a great meal. So good; so cheap. No. Confusion, followed by more panic. Ugh! I leave the people I was with. I did. You already know why. I don't remember if I told them my ring was missing. The ring with the black line. "925." My sister. It was 10 p.m. Or something like that. I wouldn't sleep that night until my ring was found. My eyes grew wide as I walked the street retracing my steps. I walked for what seemed like miles. Maybe more; probably less. My eyes focused on the ground, hoping to spot a silver sparkle. It slowly slipped. Hope, that is. So cliche. But that's OK. It was true. I kept telling myself: "There's nothing you can do. It's gone. Just accept it." I began to accept it. I tried to spin the tragedy to my favor. "Hey, at least you lost it in Armenia - the Old Country." It would be like leaving a piece of myself in the birthplace of my ancestors. My people. Bitlis. My family's old stomping grounds. Armenia. Sunflower seeds. Authentic, beautiful women. Mona. Saroyan. Fresno. $8,400. Farming. Ashes scattered over the mountains. That whole bit.

I walked for a couple hours. No ring. Gone. Goodbye. Forever. I went back to my hotel room. 413. I thought it would be there. (The ring; black line) I had little doubt in my mind it wouldn't be. I arrive at our room on the fourth floor. Five beds. One bathroom. Four flights of stairs. I search the room. Nothing. Hope fades, fades, fades. Gone. I've accepted that its gone. My heart breaks silently. Tears. Beats skipped. Whatever. It did something, I know that much. Empty pain. Filled my stomach. Hurt. Bad. I walked back to the outdoor caf where my friends were. I order an espresso. I love coffee at night. They asked if I found the ring. No. No more words. A sad silence. I walk back to my hotel. 413. Who knows what time it is? University Hotel. Alone. Depressed. Miserable. I crawl in bed and sleep. The window is open. The breeze blows the blue curtain. The comfortable night reminds me of Fresno. So does the day. And the people. Of home. On the ranch. My favorite tree, the Canford. It's roots break the brick surrounding it. The next morning in Yerevan. In the hotel. My room. I wake up early. Go downstairs. Get breakfast; the same thing every morning for weeks: bread, butter, ham, Apricots, cucumber, boiled egg, olives, yogurt, tea, water. OK, I'm full. Our group is meeting at 9:30 (a.m.) in the lobby. The blonde one is late. Again. As usual. It's funny. Seb gets upset. While I'm waiting, I walk down the hall. There's a bathroom at the end of it. I need to take a leak. So I do. I finish. Wash my hands. Look at the white sink. Sitting there. So perfectly undisturbed. My ring. Found. Life has new meaning. I had taken it off at some point yesterday. Bar soap. I feel a slight sensation: disappointment. I dont know; why?