Things Armenian People Like

Lavash. The word literally means good ("lav") food ("ash") in Armenian. It's a delicious, difficult to make wonder that is a true staple in the country. As we saw at the Yerevan food market, lavash is bought in encyclopedic folded wads. The so-thin-you-can-see-light-through it and so-chewy-it-is-elastic flatbread is about as close to a flour tortilla as a Dunkin Donuts bagel is to a real kettle boiled one. The baking process reflects its uniqueness.
We got to witness a lavash making troop of women in Goris and were mesmerized by the choreography. Woman A made balls out of the dough. Woman B rolled one out, stretching it by the corners and throwing it in the air like a pizza until it was less than 1/16 of an inch thick. Then, she threw it like a frisbee over to Woman C who was kneeling down by the in-groundtonir. Woman C stretched it onto a bata, a half pillow half board thing that reminded me of American Gladiators equipment. WHOMP! She'd quickly and forcefully smack the pillow onto the side of the oven so that the dough would stick right on, flat. After less than a second, Woman D swooped a long hook in and removed the dough, transformed into lightly blistered lavash. What's not to like?
Dried Fruit. The sheer variety available is staggering. Some market tables literally looked like a color scale: pear, fig, apricot, peach, papaya, persimmon, cherry, date, prune. It was extraordinary. Dried apricots were added to pilafs and rice dishes and raisins would find their way into vegetarian stuffed cabbage and chicken plates. It was the best fried fruit we've ever had - particularly the apricots - so it's no wonder they like it so much.
Pomegranate Imagery. Speaking of fruit, Armenians have really claimed the pomegranate as a sort of national symbol. It's odd, because the apricot or cherry would be more appropriate. I think it comes down to the fact that pomegranates are prettier. We saw the fruit incorporated into an old fence at Tatev Monastery, proving that this isn't a recent thing. However, there seems to have been a decision made on its marketability - because every souvenir shop is brimming with things shaped like the odd red fruit. Magnets, keychains, earrings, liquor bottlesand figurines.

Using Tissues as Napkins and, as a result, Branded Kleenex Boxes. In Armenia, a box of tissues is placed on every table to use as napkins. I have to say, tissues do not work particularly well in most eating scenarios. They tend to fly off a lap if placed there and stick to your fingers if you've eaten barbecue - which you almost always will have at an Armenian table. What made this affinity for tissues more interesting was the fact that almost every business had branded ones! Hotels, restaurants, cafes all had specially designed boxes made by a company in Yerevan. Right there, next to the bar code on the bottom, the product was listed as "dinner napkins." So, maybe I should say that Armenian people like dinner napkins that strongly resemble tissues?

Prayer Cloths. There may be another name for this. I know that in Celtic areas, they are called "clooties," but that simply means "strip of cloth." They say that tying a strip of fabric to a tree makes your prayer more likely to be answered. Some people do this near bodies of water as part of a prayer for healing. Armenia is a religious, Christian country and signs of the faithful can be seen everywhere. The most abundant and, I think beautiful, marks are definitely these prayer cloths. When we encountered them in Xinaliq, Azerbaijan, we weren't exactly sure what they were. Having traveled through Armenia, we now know for sure.

Gypsy Kitchens: The Yerevan

Here's a cocktail for a strange city and a wonderful liquor. Ararat brandy deserves to be drunk more. Yerevan deserves a cocktail. This one is pretty simple.

Yerevan is the thirteenth capital of Armenia, only recently becoming important at all. In soviet times the population boomed, growing from thirty thousand in 1900 to about a million people in 1991, the year Armenia became independent.

It's a funny place - as gritty and sleazy as one would imagine, with crumbling USSR facades and dozens of strip clubs. At the same time, though, it's probably the most cosmopolitan capital in the Caucasus, with influences from all over the world. We had decent sushi one afternoon, upscale lebanese at one dinner, french-influenced trout another night.

The Yerevan skyline with the double peaks of Mount Ararat in the distance.

But the thing that struck us about Yerevan was the cocktail culture.

For Americans, Europe can feel shockingly devoid of good drinks. Sure, there's great wine some places, delicious beer, local spirits. And there are plenty of places with a cocktail menu on hand. But bartenders here aren't used to mixing anything. Outside of a few bars in a few big capitals, Europe's mixed drinks are terrible. Take it from us. We've pretty much given up.

But in Yerevan, that's not the case. We halfheartedly went to a mexican restaurant (called "Cactus" - how unpromising!) that was supposed to have a good bar. We expected margaritas, of course, but didn't expect the bartender to carefully stir a Beefeater martini. It would be hard to count how many times we've ordered a gin martini and received a glass of Martini & Rossi.

In New York, maybe this drink wouldn't have been all that special. But considering where we are, it was magical. Think of this: the last good, European martini of the trip was in another surprising place, Košice Slovakia. That's deep in Eastern Europe - and about one thousand five hundred miles west of Yerevan.
So, what to mix to create a drink for Yerevan? The obvious base was Ararat brandy (let's not call it cognac), which has a lot of oak but also a nice balance. The second ingredient could have been a number of things, but we have a very limited home bar at the moment (we have to carry it), and something local seemed appropriate.

Armenia's two great fruit contributions to the world are the cherry and the apricot - both originated here. There's even cherry Oghee, a homemade vodka - but that tends to run at about 60 to 70% alcohol, which would have singed the brandy's flavor.

Even though it's foreign, the pomegranate is probably more popular, and the locals produce a liquor from it that's a better compliment for brandy. Pomegranate wine is bracingly tart, dry and almost without sweetness. A small measure goes a long way.
We found a tiny, souvenir-sized bottle of it (no point in buying more). After an initial trial, adding sweet vermouth in addition seemed like a good idea, to bolster the sugar and mellowness. It was barely heated in our room - ice wasn't necessary.

Our version was good, with an almost smoky note and lots of complex herb flavors. It's tart and refreshing, not overly sweet, a great winter drink. We settled on two parts brandy, one part pomegranate wine, one part sweet vermouth, stirred in a glass. Very similar to a brandy perfect manhattan.

In America, where pomegranate wine is difficult to find, consider making a normal brandy manhattan, adding a few drops of that syrupy "Pom" stuff, looking out the window and thinking about an arid, distant land on the south slopes of the Caucasus.

(Also - and we didn't think of this until too late - garnish with an apricot)

Honoring the Dead, Keeping an Artform Alive

Khachkars, especially stone ones, are found all over Armenia. They are oblong, carved slabs that commemorate the dead - and they are also exquisite works of art. We've seen over a thousand or them, 900 of which were in the Noraduz cemetery. From encountering our first ones in Southern Armenia to seeing the insane collection of them in that cemetery, our awe never wavered. No two khachkars are alike. The earliest ones date back to the 9th century, though the art form (and number produced) really hit its peak between the 12th and 14th centuries.
Today, there are still khachkar makers in Armenia. Walking through downtown Yerevan, we spotted one craftsman's studio. He was hard at work, but welcomed us into his tarp-tent to take a few photos. Most likely, he was fulfilling the order of a family who wanted to honor a family member in a truly special way. Of course, on a grander level, he was keeping an Armenia art form alive.
A large amount of Armenian khachkars, some of the oldest in existence, wound up in Azerbaijan, Georgia, Iran and Turkey when modern borders were drawn. Animosity led to a great number of these being destroyed, sometimes by a country's government and sometimes by anti-Armenia vandals. The largest collection is now on western coast of Lake Sevan. We traveled to the fabled "field of khachkars" and were amazed to find that the 900 piece collection wasn't out in some valley with sky all around it. It was right there off the main street of Noraduz, after the bakery and the minimarket. It was the town's cemetery.
A large group of newer graves were sidled right up next to the historic stones. A different type of engraved art adorned the marble slabs. Portraits of the deceased were masterfully etched onto the tombstones. Some vertical "khachkar-shaped" ones were full, life sized portraits. It was just amazing to me to think about how many day trips from Yerevan, how many tourists like us, make the trip to this small town to see the truly awesome field of khachkars. And, as a result, how many visitors the town's recently deceased wind up getting.
Nine hundred. Nine hundred intricately carved completely unique pieces of Christian Medieval Armenian art. Upright, knocked down, leaning to one side or another, covered in lichen. They were adorned, as is tradition, with crosses and rosettes, vines, grapes and flowers. Khachkars as far as the eye could see in one direction and the workaday town below in the other, it was an incredible moment of connection with the country. It's not too often that you get to experience a cultural and historic landmark without being somewhat removed from a country's real, present every day life. What better place to feel that connection with time than a cemetery?
There's something about seeing a cemetery in the distance, a series of upward dashes on a blindingly white snow covered landscape. Out the window of our rental car, we spotted this graveyard. We don't know what the stones look like, how old they are, what village they belong to. Looking at this photo closely, there appears to be a line of footprints leading up the hill toward the site. Maybe the visitor was still there adding to the mini skyline with their shadow.

The Ararat Distillery

European wine tours are funny things. You're almost never get the kind of access that you think you're going to.

We spent about an hour alone with a tour guide, being led through the aging facility at the Ararat brandy distillery in Yerevan. Forget fermentation tanks or distilling vats, bottling machinery or loading docks - this tour featured barrels. Some fifteen thousand silent, motionless barrels in various stages of dustiness. The smell was literally intoxicating.

We first encountered Ararat in Russia, where it's commonplace but expensive - something like the big brands of French cognac are in America. Of the five and half million bottles produced in 2010, 92% was exported from Armenia, most of it ending up in former Soviet countries (after Russia, the next two largest buyers are Belarus and Ukraine). What's interesting is that this brandy is still called cognac in those countries - or, rather, "коньяк."

The tour guide was insistent that this was because Ararat was being produced before the 1905 french law that began to regulate wine origins and protect regional names (Ararat was founded in 1887). In actuality, Armenian brandy is usually marketed in two ways: as cognac in non-WTO countries, and as brandy everywhere else. If Armenia were able to join the EU, as it hopes to, Ararat would have to give up the french name for good.

The distillery is immense - the guide joked that they should have taxis for the workers to get from building to building. Aside from the thousands of barrels and the stills themselves, there are also a bottling plant and a shipment center - most of the fermentation and grape processing is done in the provinces, closer to the vineyards. We were also told, somewhat cryptically, that the compound held "the largest laboratory in the country" and some kind of "stock market thing." Our guide looked at us for a moment and said, "you have this stock market in America?" We weren't quite sure what we were supposed to say.
The tour, though, focuses on none of the interesting aspects of the production process. We were shown, instead, probably the most boring part. When liquor is sitting in oak barrels, it is far from thrilling.

This, though, is a canny tactic. Had our guide shown us immense, stainless-steel tanks and mechanized corking assemblages, it would have felt... well, like a five and a half million bottle per year outfit. Instead, she focused on what might be considered the "quality" part. There was lots of talk about domestic oak, about replanting projects for that domestic oak, about the color of the wood, the "magical palate of the master blender," the blending process, the "resting" process and the smell of all the evaporating liquor.

"As our master blender says," the guide told us rapturously, "in this room, it always smells delicious, we never get sick and we are always happy." Strangely, there was almost no-one in the room.
There was also a long monologue about the foreign dignitaries who had visited, and about the french conglomerate - Pernod Ricard - who now owns Yerevan Brandy Company, Ararat's parent company. France figured very prominently in the tour, actually - it was almost as though this distillery were actually making real cognac.

That's the point - conflated with exclusivity, the name "cognac," even put down as "коньяк," really means something to a lot of people. Even if it isn't real, Ararat wants you to think that it is - or just as good as if it were. So there are lots of barrels on the tour, a display of old medals won in competition, soft lighting, a mythical master blender. There is a story about Winston Churchill calling Ararat's Dvin brandy his favorite (though this is probably untrue).

But how does it taste? Seated at a table at the end of the tour, we were each given three snifters of brandy - Ararat's 6 year "Ani," 10 year "Akhtamar" and 20 year "Nairi." With the liquor, we were given chocolates and a small speech about coloration and viscosity. The guide played with a glass of her own, but never took a sip.

The thing is, Ararat is really good. We liked it the very first time we had it and tasting it again only made us appreciate it more. It's very smooth, very tasty, with a wonderful oak taste that doesn't feel over-tannined. In the echelons of mass-produced brandy, Ararat doesn't deserve to be a knockoff - it's the real thing.
Which makes me wonder whether calling it "brandy" instead of "cognac" would be such a bad thing. Why is cognac automatically better?

It's a question, maybe, of an inferiority complex on the part of the Armenians. They make a delicious blue cheese that they call "roquefort" and decent sparkling wine that they dub - what else - "champanski." Armenia doesn't think its food is good enough to deserve its own name.

This is the country that not only developed the apricot, but bred the first sweet cherries (it's true, all apricots and edible cherries are derived from breeds first grown here). It makes fantastic lavash bread, delicious cherry oghi (homemade vodka) and nut-rich cakes. And, of course, a few great brandies.

This barrel, set aside on a little stage, contains a 1994 vintage that wont be opened until a lasting peace agreement has finally been made in the Nagorno-Karabakh conflict. Seeing it there in the midst of all the other thousands of casks, we were reminded suddenly of where we were. This isn't France or even Russia. This is a small, struggling, young country that is still freshly removed from independence and war. Most people have no idea where Armenia is or what to call its liquor. So it makes sense to hedge a few bets, to keep a name that's worked, to try to feel proud of what is being made - and not to worry what it's called.

To Ski or Not to Ski

After many days of snow, we decided that we may as well just give in and go someplace where all this cold white stuff would feel like it belonged. Some place that would have more people. Some place in its on season. What better choice than Armenia's premiere ski resort? And on the weekend no less! Tsaghkadzor is only about 40 kilometers north of Yerevan, making it an ideal getaway for the capital city's weekenders.
Old taxis competed with four wheelers for the non-icy side of the main road. The big, loud toys were for rent, which meant that there were a lot of inexperienced people zooming around the struggling Ladas and beeping at the Land Rovers with deep tinted windows that squeezed through as the evening approached. Every now and again, a snow mobile would pass through the town square. We figured there weren't more of them because four-wheelers are a better all year round rental investment.
Somehow, the number of wheels on the road never seemed to translate into people. So, Saturday morning, after two nights of eating dinner in basically empty restaurants we followed a little cluster of people to see where they were headed. None of them were dressed for skiing. The young women wore high heeled boots and the men, slender toed dress shoes and shiny sneakers. Up a hill we followed them to a sort of bobsled run carved out of a hill's deep snow. Down they were sent on deflated inner tubes as Maroon 5 blasted on a speaker and back up they were pulled by a poma lift with a Christmas tree, tinseled and spinning, affixed to the top.
In the main square, an uneven ice skating rink and a few kids on runner sleds slipped around. Nearby, the people who were really not interested in any sort of snow sport visited the Kecharis Monastery. Before heading into a small mass, they would take pictures outside of the 11th century church. A bearded monk welcomed us in for the service, but we declined.
It was really very beautiful and, as any premiere ski resort's ancient monastery should be outfitted, a big crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling inside. It cast rainbow light glitter on the old carpets and paintings in the chapel. After a pleasant visit, we began to wonder not "To Ski or Not to Ski? but, rather, "Where the heck are all the skiers?" Aside from the small rack of skis and boots for rent in our hotel lobby, we had yet to see any signs of actual skiing.
They were all up on the ski mountain of course! The sun was shining and music blared. A big yellow building outfitted novices with equipment and coffee was had in a cafe decorated with photographs of figure skaters. There were foreigners ready to really go for it and teenagers all geared out, but it still felt like a new phenomenon to a lot of the locals around our age or older. Never have we seen so many faded jeans and tight leather jackets on a ski slope. One man led a young woman, struggling in stilettos and encased in fur back toward their Range Rover - one of many lined up in the parking lot. People with skis on looked like they were having a much better time. Teenagers were geared out and proficient.
Unfortunately, we were forced out of town before the weekend was over. Big banners hanging on all the central hotels alerted us to the "BRIDGE International Economists Forum" taking place. A mix of foreign accents descended upon Tsaghkadzor and scooped up every last hotel room. It's always exciting to see a small town at full whirl, readying itself for a big event. A local camera man was settling in as we drove out.

The Last Armenian Great Lake

Armenia once had three big lakes. Lake Van is now in Turkey, Lake Urmia is now in Iran. That leaves only one - the high-altitude, brilliantly blue Lake Sevan, the jewel of the Lesser Caucasus.

To Armenians, it's a treasure - though this time of year, it's mostly ignored. The strange thing is, the country almost lost this lake too, but not because their borders were redrawn.
In the early part of the twentieth century, a group of Soviet scientists convinced the central government that something had to be done about evaporation. Their theory was that less water would be lost into the air (and more could be used for agricultural purposes) if the water levels in certain lakes were lowered.

Sevan was a prime target, and was actually used as an example in an initial proposal. While some twenty-eight rivers and streams feed Sevan, there is only one outlet - it's estimated that as much as 90% of the lake's water loss is through evaporation.
Between 1933 and 1949, a tunneling and channeling project lowered the water by about sixty feet. The original plan was to plant walnut and fruit trees on the newly-dried land, and to establish a fishery in the water that remained. The trees never worked out, the fish did.

What the soviets didn't count on was the blossoming of a domestic tourism industry that has redefined Sevan's shores. Quiet during these winter months, the area around the western edge of the lake becomes the most visited in Armenia during the summer - something that would have been unimaginable when this was a USSR borderland.

The trout are a staple - we had lunch at one sleepy canteen and were given basically this one option. Heavily seasoned with paprika and onions, grilled and served with lavash, it was even better than we expected.
Since the 1960's, there have been various efforts to replenish the lake's waters - the effect on its environment has been disastrous and the irrigation projects weren't as successful as the scientists had thought. Also, the level continued to drop. Adding to the worry about Sevan was the failure of similar projects - most notably the Aral Sea disaster - and the now understood possibility that the water would disappear entirely.

Two large inflow channels have been built in the past thirty years, though water from one hasn't begun flowing because its source is in Azerbaijan (and the political situation between the two countries remains icy). Still, the lake's level has remained mostly unchanged, which Armenia actually considers a moderate success.

Recently, there has begun to be opposition to replenishment. Because so much of the region's tourist infrastructure has been built right along the shore, rising waters would mean huge property losses.
The land around the lake has been inhabited for millennia, and some of the country’s most important bronze age and medieval sites are near the shores. Covered by orange lichen on the outside and by carved crosses on the inside, tiny Hayrivank Monastery was once just feet above the waves. Now, it stands on a rocky knoll high above the water, marooned behind a line of beach huts and scrubby grass.

The early Armenian name for the Sevan meant "black Svan," because it was darker than its sister waters to the west. The color of the water is very pretty, made even more cobalt because of the white mountains on the northern shore and the light blue of the iced-over bays.

Even though Sevan is now only about seventy percent as large as it once was, it's still among the world's largest lakes above 5,000 feet. As we drove along the southern edge a few boats crept along the surface, far enough out that it was difficult to keep track of them. The mountains faded into the distance, the far shore dipped below the horizon. It was difficult to imagine all of this as a dry valley, just as difficult to imagine the houses and hotels submerged and gone.

Khndzoresk Cave Village

I must not have a great imagination, because time and time again, the mental picture I excitedly draw up before visiting a place pales in comparison to the real thing. Such was the case with the cave village of Khndzoresk (I’m sure the pronunciation I’ve come up with is similarly far off from the real thing). Old Khndzoresk is a cave village. A village of caves. How magical, right? The word “village” made me think of a quaint cluster, a small community living in an unlikely place. What we found was simply gob-smacking, so surreal that my (still not so great) imagination had fraggles jumping out from the dwellings.
Unlike the cliff face with holes that I was imagining, the caves were built into diverse, sometimes whimsical rock formations. Standalone chunks of limestone were transformed into houses with their front doors and windows. Some of the rock shapes, like this one, resembled a castle - at least to me. There were big ones with loads of windows, a front and back door and personal space around it. Others were built one on top of another in a bigger rock - the larger cliffs, practically swiss cheesed were like cave condos.
We drove through ‘New’ Khndzoresk to reach ‘Old’ Khndzoresk, veering from the main road down a noticeably less traveled hill. It’s amazing how snow gives you an instant sense of the traffic of a place. No other time of year can you know for certain, right upon arrival, that no cars and maybe four people and some dogs have gone the way you’re heading. Walking around the site, the ghost town, we were in complete quiet. The clouds moved quickly overhead and our feet squeakily crunched the deep powdery snow. Across the deep canyon we could see even more caves. This should not have been described as a 'cave village.' It is immense, sprawling. Even with the snow hiding so much of what is there, it gave the sense of an ancient city.
Old Khndzoresk was once the largest village in eastern Armenia. The city is said to be about a thousand years old and grew to include houses and buildings alongside the caves. It was as simple as that. By 1913, there were 1800 houses, 7 schools and 4 churches. Where the ground wasn't level, people dug out caves and where it was, they built a house. Presently, there are about 400 caves scattered about and two churches left standing. Other than these facts, Old Khndzoresk's history appears to be a little cloudy. The mystery of it only adds to its allure.
Some people say that a 1931 earthquake destroyed the houses and, since most people had transferred out of the caves by that time, it was then that the town relocated to the higher, flatter ground of New Khndzoresk. Other people say that the Russians, when Armenia was Soviet, decided to use all the housing materials in the old town to build the new town, therefore forcing transplantation. One source said that no one has lived in Old Khndzoresk since the 19th century. Another not only disagreed, but even cited a specific year (1958) as the last in which there were inhabitants. The only commonality between all English-translated sources I could find was the fact that the caves were briefly utilized in the 1990s when nearby Goris was being shelled during the Karabagh War. Talk about a bomb shelter with a view.
As we climbed around, we heard a young voice echo in the distance. A boy, around 12, led a herd of calves to a trough on a plateau. We had seen it and the spring that ran into it earlier, nearby a cave that was overflowing with hay. A number of caves are used as storage these days and villages lead their livestock to the dwelling for shelter and to utilize the plentiful natural water supply. The boy's parents called out to him from the two door cave, where they took care of the older cattle. Hay burned in a pile, the smell of which - along with the sounds of the animals - nearly transported me through time to Old Khndzoresk's heyday.
This used to be the center of town. People who believe that it was an earthquake, rather than the Russians, that destroyed all of Old Khndzoresk's buildings admit that it was a bit miraculous that the only remaining buildings were churches. There is also a fragment of a school up on a high hill. St Hripsome, seen here, dates back to 1663. This used to be the center of town and the dwellings nearby seem appropriately fancy for the main square. Intricate windows and eaves are carved into some of them and various ledges and seating areas are built into the interiors. After ducking into other caves, which were simply round rooms, these seemed positively palatial.
In the summertime, yellow flowers fill the spaces between caves and birds fly in abundance overheard. This is what we've heard. In the wintertime, I think, it's easier to feel like you're seeing the place as it once was. You can imagine all the townspeople holed up in their warm homes. The snow and sky remained unchanged, though the power lines cut across a picturesque peak in the distance.
What an amazing place Old Khndzoresk is. As we drove back up to the new town, a man sped by us on a horse - it's footing much better than our perfectly competent 4WD machine. We passed by a few men right on the dividing line between New and Old Khndzoresk who looked absolutely baffled by our presence. How could they not just assume that we were there to see the awesome historical site right down the hill? I wonder how many of them grew up playing hide and seek in the abandoned caves city or used to sneak off to steal a kiss with a young love. Most likely, they just think of it as the place they dry their hay.

Tatev Monastery

Where the snout of the Arabian Tectonic Plate jams up against the Eurasian Plate a jagged line of peaks, earthquakes and raw rock has formed. Along this same division - between the mass of middle Eurasia and the confusion of forces below - religions have clashed too. For centuries, this has been a fault line of two types.

Built amongst the crags and cliffs of the Lower Caucasus, Tatev Monastery perfectly encapsulates the upheaval of beliefs and earth. Built as a fortress monastery during the waning days of the first millennium and the first upward push of Islam, Tatev's location is its identity.

This morning we were excited about two things: the monastery and the aerial tramway that would bring us there. We knew next to nothing about Tatev, except that it was beautifully situated. The tramway is supposed to be the longest in the world.

Well, the tram was closed for the day, but that turned out to be a good thing. The long, steep succession of hairpin turns that brought us across the abyss was just as thrilling. It also gave us a chance to stop and marvel at where we were.

Up close, Tatev isn't spectacular. There are some interesting details - carved doors and walls, a few remnants of frescoes - but too much time has passed since the glory days of the monastery for much else to remain. The main church was constructed between 985 and 996 AD, and the institution that surrounded the structure reached its height in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.

A community of some one thousand scholar monks and several hundred laymen grew around Tatev, and the university that was founded there became among the most important in the region, but that is part of the distant past. Today, it's only a tourist attraction.
The original religious buildings on the site probably dated to the seventh century, not long after Armenia was converted to Christianity. The present complex, though, was built as more of a fortress than anything. The Princes of Syunik wanted to create a haven for the treasures of their kingdom, and were less concerned about the prestige of a prominent church center.

As difficult to reach as Tatev is, and as well fortified as it was, the compound was sacked at least five times in its history - first by the Seljuk Turks, later by Tamerlane and the Timurids, finally by a succession of Persian Shahs. Despite christianity's strong hold in Armenia, there was very little support for the princes. The Caucasus remained a borderland.
Worse, maybe, than the Islamic incursions of the past is a threat that's endured into the present. The last significant damage the monastery suffered occurred in 1931, when a massive earthquake rattled the region. The dome required a lot of repair and a three-tiered belltower was so completely destroyed that it was never rebuilt.
It had snowed in the night, and the road was difficult. We found a place almost completely deserted - a few Russian speakers wandered with us, a man with a set of keys walked around importantly, the snow in the parking lot was almost unmarked by tires.

A much-posted sign enumerated the rules of the main church; there were many. In addition to the normal Orthodox rules (a woman's heads must be covered, a man's heads bare, no athletic clothing, no smoking or loud talk) we were also told not to put our hands in our pockets and that "attractive clothing" was prohibited. Also, that there was a specific way to pray inside, and that other forms of prayer wouldn't be tolerated.

There wasn't much to see. Tatev has been somewhat modernized, and feels much like any Armenian cross-dome church, with new, marble floors and tacky, red velvet drapings.
Outside, we were happier. The place, especially in the snow, has an overwhelming feeling of solitude.

It's unfortunate that the tramway has been installed, and that the government has more grand plans for tourist development. The best and most important thing about Tatev is its inaccessibility and loneliness. The buildings themselves aren't extraordinary. Catching a glimpse from a far cliff is magical.
As we ground our rental car's gears, half-sliding down the road from the monastery, we felt happier about having reached the place than having seen the place. We talked about that being the greatness of Tatev - how that feeling applied to the construction of the monastery, too. In the wilds, at the literal boundary between cultures and continents, high up in the still trembling mountains, it seems almost impossible that there is anything built at all.