Lessons of a religion reporter

Lesson #1: blond haired blue-eyed girl = sore thumb at Armenian church.

Lesson #2: Armenian Apostolic divine liturgy = very, very long. Doubly so when it's in Armenian.

At 9:55am I was the first one there. For an hour I had the service to myself. The priest in his blue silk cloak, the red velvet curtains ornamented in gold, the handful of choir ladies with lace kerchiefs over their hair, the incense and chanting and kneeling and singing.

The congregation slowly trickled in and I was the spectacle of the day.

Afterward the Armenian grandmas took me under their wings and gave me sticky buns and showed me their kitchen and told me about Christianity's long history in Armenia.

That is, after one looked at me and exclaimed, "she's not Armenian!"

I wonder what tipped her off.

I walked out into the Sunday afternoon sunshine with about a dozen fliers for the church's street fair and about as many story ideas.

Waiting for the train at the El station I was recognized by the congregation's two grad students who were also on their way downtown. It caught me off guard. In the church I had on my Observer hat, but here I was, a grad student among grad students. Can I be their friend? Or must I maintain my unbiased nod and ask only questions that require complete sentences to answer? This is the stuff they don't teach you in class.