Somehow, I drift off to sleep. It is a feat akin to napping during a performance of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. On the floor of the percussion section. Between kettle roll and cannon fire.
I stand on the terraced roof of our hotel and scan the horizon. Doğubeyazıt (Daroynk to Armenians) reminds me of the Great American West. Could this be Wyoming? Perhaps. It is a cowboy town, a trucker town, a mountain town, a border town. It is gritty in appearance and demanding of all who pass.