A slow Sunday morning

Sunday arrived without urgency. I woke at 8:30 a.m. and had breakfast, watching the day take shape through the window. As I traced possible routes on the map, it became clear that the city itself was in no rush — most places wouldn’t open until 10:00. I left the hotel at 9:45, stepping into Yerevan as it gently stirred.

The Cascade: Ascent and interruption

My first destination was the Cascade Complex, the monumental staircase rising from the city center toward the hills. Built of pale limestone and dotted with sculptures, it feels both ceremonial and exposed, a place meant to be climbed and contemplated. When I tried to photograph a small plaque naming the artist of one of the sculptures, a guard sharply corrected me. It was a minor moment, but it lingered — a reminder that public spaces don’t always feel public.

I began the climb. The steps seemed endless, repetitive in a way that slowly narrowed the world to breath, rhythm, and stone. Each terrace opened the view wider, the city flattening into geometry below. Near the top, the illusion broke: the staircase simply stopped. An unfinished section yawned open, a large hole interrupting what should have been a triumphant ascent. The incompletion felt symbolic — not disappointing, just oddly honest.

Victory Park and Mother Armenia

From there, I walked toward the viewpoint crowned by the monument marking the 50th anniversary of victory over Nazi Germany, then continued into Victory Park. The space opened up, quieter and greener, with the city spreading out beneath it. Towering above everything stood Mother Armenia — sword in hand, gaze fixed forward. She recalled Kartlis Deda in Tbilisi, but where the Georgian figure feels welcoming and dual-natured, this one felt stern, protective, shaped by history and loss.

Inside the museum at her base, the exhibits traced Armenia’s military past. When I emerged, the reality of geography set in: there was no gentle descent. I had to go back the same way I came, retracing my steps, gravity now doing the work.

Crowds and flags

Back in the city, the streets felt livelier. Welsh voices and jerseys appeared everywhere — remnants of yesterday’s football match between Armenia and Wales. The presence of traveling supporters gave the city a festive undertone, even as everyday life continued around them.

I walked toward the Arts Market, where color and texture returned in the form of paintings, woodwork, and handmade objects. From there, I continued to St. Gregory the Illuminator Cathedral. Vast and imposing, it rose from the city in clean, severe lines. The scale alone demanded silence.

From squares to gardens

From the cathedral, I made my way to Republic Square, the city’s formal heart, before continuing on toward the Blue Mosque. Passing through the English Garden, the pace softened again — trees, benches, quiet conversations.

At the mosque, I finally noticed the working vending machine selling commemorative coins. I had forgotten to buy one on Sevan Island the day before, and this small recovery felt strangely satisfying, as if closing a loose thread from yesterday.

Resting before taking the wrong direction

I stopped at a supermarket and returned to the hotel for a leisurely lunch, letting the afternoon stretch and settle. At 5:00 p.m., I set out again, this time with a clear intention: the Armenian Genocide Memorial.

The receptionist had given me three possible bus numbers. I chose what seemed the logical side of the avenue, heading toward the memorial — or so I thought. Instead, the bus carried me steadily out of the city. The mistake unfolded slowly, without drama. I got off, accepted it, and returned by metro.

Not every destination is reached, and not every plan survives contact with the street. Some days simply circle back on themselves — and that, too, becomes part of understanding a place.