Armenia was a journey shaped by distance more than density. Roads mattered. Valleys opened slowly, towns appeared briefly, and history surfaced not as narrative but as presence — in stone, in placement, in what had been left standing and what had not.
We moved between Yerevan and the south, allowing the landscape to dictate pace rather than ambition. Monasteries were part of that movement, but never its purpose; they arrived as pauses along the way. Towns like Goris mattered not for what they offered, but for the simple act of stopping.
What follows are individual days and stretches of road — written as they unfolded, without attempting to tie them into something larger than they were at the time. Armenia, for us, remains unfinished. And that feels appropriate.