To those that said, “Oh, you have two, year-long Armenian visas in your Peace Corps-issued passports, they’ll take your Lonely Planet guide and turn you away so fast.” – go fuck yourselves.

We got in. But Baku up until this point has been the hottest, most disorienting, frustrating time getting from one place to the other. Jon and I consistently are commenting on “time-honored Caucasus tradtions” – such as, but not limited to, finding a number on a building. Baku by far takes the cake … no one knows where a goddamn thing is. But we have yet to pay for tea at a restaurant, probably because they pity us so much from seeing my, sweat-stained light blue shirt slowly turning navy blue, accumulated from a two-hour hike up Mount Baku (really just a steep, boutique shop filled street) to find the goddam Uzbek Embassy to pick up our second to last visa. Fortunately, that went smoothly. Now the ferry to Turkmenbashi. Not a clue when that is leaving. So, we will continue to sit in our sweat until that glorious day arrives when we board a cargo tanker with god knows who else.


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