Through the Fountain

Yerevan was thirty degrees and the park had a field of fountain jets rising straight from the granite, and every adult walked around it and every child walked through it, and I stood at the edge doing the arithmetic of dignity for about eight seconds. Then I put my glasses in one hand and ran.

Total soaking. Immediate. The jets are colder than the city admits and the shriek I produced was not literary. I went through twice more, barefoot on warm stone, shirt glued to my ribs, laughing in a register I last used some decades ago. The camera sat safe on a bench on its little tripod, collecting evidence with the patience of a co-conspirator.

I dripped dry on the walk back through the evening, entirely presentable within the hour, which felt like the city forgiving me. Some research trips need one entry with no research in it. This is that entry.