A stroll through Yerevan at night
In Yerevan, golden hour starts at 16:30. If I am in my apartment at that time, I periodically look outside the window to see where the light has reached. At first, the skyline is covered in light, suddenly warm and welcoming compared to the autumn-winter chill that has recently begun making us sink our necks into our collars.
Yet very quickly, partly due to Mount Ararat’s looming presence in the West, the light begins to climb up the buildings. At about 17:00, every building has been sliced in half; the top glowing ever brighter, and the bottoms returning to their shadowed greys and beiges. It reminds me, perhaps oddly, of a millionaire’s shortbread; we are all here for the caramel on top, but the biscuit underneath grounds the dish with nutty and oaty flavours which cannot go unappreciated. I frequently post this view on Instagram, showing off how the sun sets fire to the sky behind the mountain. Yet, what happens afterwards is impossible to capture in a photograph.
Night descends at 17:40. Strolling home from my singing lessons just after dark, I catch glimpses of the city skyline between buildings. From the top of the hill, I can already see wisps of tomorrow morning’s fog descending from the hilltop where Mother Armenia stands…or maybe it’s the pollution rising out from the streets at rush hour. Either way, this does not take away from the twinkling lights that romanticise the brutalism.
That is not to say that brutalism is not beautiful. At 23:16, facing the opera house’s striking façade, I meet an Armenian friend, my tour guide for the night. This monumental building, grey and grand, looms over the surrounding streets, lit up by various stage-lights like it is a stage itself. Sitting on a bench and discussing the importance of crying over your exes, we observe people of all ages enter the expansive square carrying cans of cocktails from grocery stores, shawarma, or simply heading home.
Tonight, these passers-by meet a busker next to the statue of Hovhannes Tumanyan, a cherished national poet of Armenia. I imagine Tumanyan, whose poem Anoush has become Armenia’s proudest and most famous opera of the same name, frowning down in confusion as this man plays the Mario Kart theme tune out of a speaker and plays along on a string of glass bottles. I chuckle to myself and explain to my companion that it reminds me of Oxford’s Cornmarket, which has its own absurd mix of buskers; a strange reminder of home.
Yet the best view is when we stand by the nearby statue of Arno Babayanian, a famous Soviet Armenian pianist and composer. Positioned across the street from the square, he stretches out his arm backwards, so enthralled in the music he is performing. Following his direction, our eyes are drawn straight towards the opera house, lit up in all its glory. This is a perfect interplay of artistic disciplines; music, visual artistry, and architecture all joined together to convey the richness of Armenia’s creative industries during the USSR.
After debating the pros and cons of adding milk to tea, we embark on a stroll down to Republic Square. On the way, we pass a fascinating bronze sculpture of a three-metre-tall woman. Whilst I pass her every morning on the way to classes, she suddenly takes on a disturbing new light at night. She is a complete shadow, with hundreds of crevasses in her clothing like the marks of an erratic pencil sketch, only distinguished by moonlight. Her name? We don’t know. Our only idea is the statue’s title, a sharp reminder of Armenia’s torn past, and, indeed, present: The Karabakh Woman.
We reach Republic Square at midnight, with preparations for Christmas well underway. I realise I have never seen this space without some sort of preparations for another huge concert taking place. First, it was Jason Derulo in October, then the 2608th anniversary of Yerevan a few weeks later. This time, it is fairy lights which cover the sandstone columns, clocktower, and government buildings. A massive triangular Christmas tree has been erected in preparation for 8th December, when the city will gather to welcome the festive season and see the lights turn on.
I ask my friend where his favourite places are in the city. He says everywhere. Perhaps he is just used to the landscape; he has lived here his whole life. Perhaps he sees it as a sum of its parts. These landmarks are tiles of an intricate mosaic, depicting both history and modernity, Soviet and Armenian stories and identities. From the unfinished Cascade to the countless monasteries, it is clear that I have many more tiles to uncover to be able to fully understand and appreciate this complex landscape.
