There is so much strife in the world today. Every morning I open up my iPhone to the New York Times Now app and more times than not, I am plainly confronted with death, pain, and sadness. It has gotten to a point where I have simply grown numb to the words and images. Rhetoric is more bellicose and less respectful, less tolerant than the day before. Hope seems to be fleeting at a pace that I have not seen in my twenty years as a part of the human fabric. Frankly, the world is a scary place at this point in time. Yet, I have really found a diamond in the rough in the land of fire – Azerbaijan.

Here, I have been shown the ultimate definition of hospitality. The population here is significantly less fortunate than American travelers, yet I have been consistently refused when I offer to pay for anything. I have been treated to the best of the best. They do not know me personally, yet the people here have been bending over backwards to make sure that I am okay, that I don’t need more food (I will be dieting as soon as I step foot in the States), that I don’t need a more comfortable chair, more tea, more this, or more that. This is one thing that I will not forget when I leave Azerbaijan. I have been taught the art of being completely selfless: giving all you have to someone without expecting anything at all in return. My first experience with this happened a few days after I landed in the capital, Baku.

A semi-arid city of four million, Baku has what seems to be thousands of tea gardens populating it’s greenest nooks and crannies. A majority of the customers are old, graying men who have eaten their fair share of kabobs and don’t wear deodorant, and seem to have a common nostalgia of the good ole days of the Soviet Union. They sit, smoke cigarettes, drink pot after pot of the best tea I’ve ever had, and play backgammon, or “nard.” Their ebony and ivory game pieces are slapped–with all their remaining arm strength–onto the board in a sort of chest-thumping, inherently male routine. They joke with each other, talk about the beautiful group of women who happened to walk by, and complain about how they are in the doghouse with their wife (the latter two are not connected whatsoever).

I had been observing these little worlds nestled within Baku since I landed. I had flirted with the notion that I’d one day go in and learn the ways of nard and the rest of the routine of kibbitzing. Almost daily I would walk past, and one game in particular caught my eye. The sounds of laughter and pieces slapping onto the boards was an irresistible mixture. On the airless summer days in Baku, shade is extremely prized real estate, and this place had an abundance. One day, I had enough of the heat and decided it was time to try my luck.

I walked anxiously from the scorching asphalt stepping down into the greatly appreciated shade of some pomegranate trees. I looked from gang to gang of men, and they looked back at this weird white guy with a Jewfro. I realized my decision had to be quick and a couple of guys in the back looked intriguing to me; they were vigorously playing nard and both had a cigarette in one hand and a tea cup in the other. I approached, and in my broken Turkish, I proclaimed something along the lines of “I want to learn this. You are my teachers?” Chuckling, they nodded at me as if it were instinctual and said “otur” which is the command “sit.” The second my butt hit the chair, a glass appeared out of nowhere and was immediately filled with black tea infused with rose stems. Dice were rolling and hands were flying at the speed of light across a board which was far past its day. They did not speak English, and in hopes for better communication, they asked if I spoke Russian. I retorted with a shake of my head: no. So we got by with hand gestures and broken Turkish. The plump old man sitting to my right, Hüseyn, was uttering each and every number rolled on the dice. He had managed to win the game eventually. The losing party, Kamran, vacated his seat and again commanded “otur,” but this time I was behind one of the sides of the board.

I had absolutely no clue what I was doing, but Kamran had basically decided to take me under his wing against Hüseyn. He seemed to be the reigning champion in this particular tea garden. Kamran would move my pieces around because I could not move them at the expected, seemingly required speed, paired with the same mesmerizing slap that a native here could. After a few times around the board I understood the goal of nard (which I realized was quite literally an elementary version of “Sorry!”). I slowly began to make my own moves. This was over a period of about an hour.

These old men were absolutely random people from a tiny country sandwiched between Iran and Russia. They did not have to help. They did not have to make sure my tea pot was filled at every moment. They did not have to teach me. Yet they did, and after an hour I had learned the gist and I figured that in return for their hospitality I would pay for the tea. I told them I was ready to go. I stood up and began reaching for my wallet, upon which I was promptly told I was not to pay. I refused and started pulling money out. The skinny man stood up, grabbed my wallet from my hand briskly, and firmly shook his finger at me. He only returned it to me after he was sure I wouldn’t try and pay again.

From that point, I had realized I was in a special place: I had found a diamond in the rough. Lately, few things in this world have given me hope. But this hour in the cool shade of the pomegranate trees gave me that unexpected slice of humanity. Or what humanity should be.

Signed,

Eric Gerson