Today while at work our system administrator Arthur came in and told me that the building in which I live was on fire. It didn't sink in at first as I thought he was joking, but he assured me that he was dead serious. I went running down towards Republic Square and saw that Nalbandyan Street near the metro station was completely blocked off by about three large fire trucks. Three more were in the back of the building, wedged in the space between the entrance passage and the small secret village that is situated there.
I live on the third floor of the “Gastronom” building, directly across from the Republic Square metro station. From below I could see the billowing smoke rising from just behind the “Gastronom” sign that spans across the middle of the roof. It turns out that a wooden shed caught on fire when one idiot neighbor decided to make a barbeque up there. The fire thankfully did not spread to the lower floors, although our building entrance is completely filled with water. But at least the stairway is now shiny clean.
Although I was very concerned, people in the building were not. The roof is above the fifth floor, and I saw a family come out onto their balcony to see what was going on. They all looked up in turn, shook their heads, then went back inside without a care in the world. I told a fireman that they should get those people out of there, but he said that "it was not yet necessary." Armenians love to live on the edge, especially when it's time to eat the sacred “khorovadz.”
Labels: Personal Experiences