When I was 13, my parents moved to Yerevan, Armenia, and lived there for two years. Armenia was one of five Foreign Service postings my parents had during my peripatetic childhood, and for me it was a vast territory of teenage resentment, a place of exile where my first boyfriend and my BMG music subscription couldn't follow. What memories I have are flimsy and vague and colored by adolescent angst. I remember buying a bootleg Pink Floyd CD and lying sulkily on my bed to listen. I remember the breathtaking speed and depth of the escalators down to the metro, built in the Soviet era. I remember the milky waters of Lake Sevan; I remember the green hills, dotted with sheep and mist.