Rain hit the car lightly and jackets were zipped up tight as we got into a small car in the early hours. We decided to grab a cab to Yerevan, hoping that it would save us some time and border crossing problems. Our driver, a native Georgian, spoke some mix of Russian-Georgian. He couldn’t fathom that we knew Georgian better than we could speak Russian. We made pleasant conversation as the Georgian countryside turned into Armenian hillsides. At the border, guards found us very amusing as well as our Georgian skills. As we scooted through the line, the female guard didn’t fail to mention her son and his marital status. Single.

Armenia’s landscape mirrored parts of Georgia. There were villages and small housing, there was rain. There were people yelling at us in Russian and Soviet block apartments. As we pulled into the first town, we suddenly heard a pop and bang while our driver started the usual obscenities that follow a flat tire. We huddled together outside of the car as our new Georgian friend tried to change the tire, managing to dent his frame from the misuse of the car jack.

After twenty minutes of jokes, wondering if we were going to make it to the capital or spend the night in this Armenian town, the driver put on the spare and we were off again. All the while, he was asking us when we were coming back, if we wanted a ride and how to get into contact with him. Our ambiguity wasn’t the answer he wanted but we remained noncommittal.

Not more than five minutes had passed when we stopped outside of a garage with a tire drawn on the rusty metal door outside. A man walked out, we were forced into the cold again, and the flat tire was pulled from the trunk. The Armenian and the Georgian spoke in Russian as they walked inside the garage and attempted to find the problem. Noises were made, metal tools hit the ground with clinks, and water was poured onto the tire to find the hole. One after another, we walked inside the garage to get out of the wind.

The two men put the old tire back on and as we prepared ourselves to leave, the Armenian knew the one trigger word that defies all language barriers: wine. He brought out a small bottle, handed it to us with a toothless grin, and kept holding up the number eight and pointing to the girls. Picking up a piece of chalk, he drew the number on the cement wall and continued to point to us. Smiling and nodding, not quite understanding what it was that he wanted, John gave back the bottle of wine and we scuttled to the car, saying thank you and motioning to leave.

As we drove away our driver asked if we understood what the Armenian man had said. A resounding “no” emanated from the backseat and the driver explained to us that March 8th is Women’s Day and he was giving us the wine as a gift. kargi gogoebi khart (“he said you were very good girls!”).

The driver’s phone continued to ring as we passed white plains and distant mountains. He finally told us in his mixed tongue that we were stopping to be traded with his Armenian friend. As we pulled up to a burned out shell of a car, another car pulled up on the side of the road. In it were some tourists and the Armenian friend. The two men shook hands and hugged as the trunk was popped and we were told to get out. Grabbing our backpacks and crossing the road, we crammed into the Armenian man’s car, quizzical looks on our faces. And just like that, we took off down the road to Yerevan, understanding even less than before.

“Millionaire, millionaire,” he said as he pointed to the gold-gated residencies. The Armenian suburbs were filled with presidential looking places, golf courses, and country clubs. Yerevan sat in the distance like the Emerald City. Finally reaching our destination, we said our goodbyes, took the man’s number and smiled at each other. We had finally arrived in the city but the journey was the story we were bound to retell.