Armenian Gentlemen.

By Ashley Corinne Killough

If you would have told me last year that in a year I would go on a six-hour road trip in Armenia with four men I had never met, that we would get lost for 30 minutes near an old chemical plant, that we would take breaks to pick funny-looking fruits off of trees and eat them, that we would wind between and around Iranian semi-trucks on the highway, that we would get blockaded on the road by numerous herds of cattle and sheep—and that I would do the same thing all over again the following day—I would have said that you have quite the imagination.

Actually, if you had told me all of that last week, I would have said the same thing.

And I would have been wrong.

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