(no subject)
Georgia is hard to describe--I could say that it's a lot like Ukraine, only different, but that wouldn't be very helpful. It's a beautiful country--Svaneti, especially, has dramatically high white mountains and pristine valleys dotted with red-roofed houses and, yes, defense towers for each family in the village (just in case). The streets are muddy and full of livestock, and as you walk down a narrow street the old stone buildings and rickety fences feel like a warm hug. The villagers are open and generous and speak no English; they feed you warm khachapuri and fresh tomatoes and ask, again and again, if you speak Russian. Every morning there is local mineral water, bubbly and yellow, from the spring down by the river.
Islam Pilpani is the grandfather of host family, and every day he sits at the table after breakfast in his felt hat and polar-fleece pants and waits for us to gather. He sings for us and we struggle to learn the parts, hastily transcribing the unfamiliar words. His smile is infectious. His grandchildren are ever-present, Anano and Beshken playing frisbee and flying kites in the yard, while little Eka toddles about, waiting for one of us to pick her up. Vashko is Islam's son, an imposing Svan who helped me to climb a defense tower when we went to visit Ushguli.
In Guria we are near the sea. The village of Makvaneti has straight roads and evenly spaced two-story square houses with external staircases and shiny aluminum siding. There is a warmth in the air and a kiwi tree in the yard and a chicken that looks like Conan O'Brien. Here a film crew follows us for several days, interviewing and setting up lights and leaving their gear everywhere. When the leave the electricity is shut off again; one of the neighbors hasn't paid their bill and there is only one meter for the block. We are twelve people staying in this five-room house, with one bathroom. No electricity means no running water, so we rely on the well in the backyard.
At the Black Sea coast, we swim and sunbathe, as vendors pass by, elderly women with buckets of hot corn and strings of shushkhela, a delicious treat that looks like a knobby candle and tastes like rich grape fruit leather with hazelnuts inside. We stop at a beachside restaurant for Ajaran khachapuri, a boat of cheesy bread baked on a stone oven with a sea of melted butter and egg in the middle. It's divine.
Back in T'bilisi, we spend our days roaming the streets, from flea markets to chic Parisian outlet stores. We meet Gia Chkhatarashvili, a brilliant photographer, and he leads us on a hike up the back streets of the Old Town to the old Fortress overlooking the city. The view is magnificent, with the river cutting through old stone buildings in the city below; the hills beyond the city are covered in crumbling Soviet apartment buildings and rows of identical red refugee houses.
That evening we make an appointment at the T'bilisi sulfur baths. There is a park in the Old Town that is dotted with many small stone domes; we descend into the underground maze of hallways and are led to a private suite with intricate tilework and comfortable couches. We sink into hot and cold tubs of sulfur water, feeling weeks of country grime melt off of our bodies. A small Azerbaijani woman scrubs our bodies with wine vinegar and fragrant soap.
I say my goodbyes, obtain a hand-written boarding pass and arrive in Minsk, not having anticipated that I would need a transit visa to reach my connecting flight or re-check my bag. A sympathetic policeman politely listens to my story, then fetches a policewoman who speaks English. I am told to wait, led through dimly lit back corridors and placed at a cafe in the transit hall. "Wait here." I repeat my story to an airport employee, who disappears with my passport, tickets and baggage claim check. My anxiety mounts in the ensuing half-hour; I distract myself by sneaking furtive glances at the large group of Deaf Belarussian teenagers waiting for a flight to Prague. The nice man returns with my boarding pass, informs me that "all is normal" and sends me on my way.
Joanna and I meet at the Rome train station. We stroll about the city for a few days, seeing the Vatican museums and the Colosseum, among other things. We stay at a 6 euro per night camping hostel. It's rather surreal. Venice is beautiful and Disney-like, and Salzburg is not in Italy. We eat lots of bread and cheese from supermarkets. We end with a lovely stay near Munich with our relatives.
Islam Pilpani is the grandfather of host family, and every day he sits at the table after breakfast in his felt hat and polar-fleece pants and waits for us to gather. He sings for us and we struggle to learn the parts, hastily transcribing the unfamiliar words. His smile is infectious. His grandchildren are ever-present, Anano and Beshken playing frisbee and flying kites in the yard, while little Eka toddles about, waiting for one of us to pick her up. Vashko is Islam's son, an imposing Svan who helped me to climb a defense tower when we went to visit Ushguli.
In Guria we are near the sea. The village of Makvaneti has straight roads and evenly spaced two-story square houses with external staircases and shiny aluminum siding. There is a warmth in the air and a kiwi tree in the yard and a chicken that looks like Conan O'Brien. Here a film crew follows us for several days, interviewing and setting up lights and leaving their gear everywhere. When the leave the electricity is shut off again; one of the neighbors hasn't paid their bill and there is only one meter for the block. We are twelve people staying in this five-room house, with one bathroom. No electricity means no running water, so we rely on the well in the backyard.
At the Black Sea coast, we swim and sunbathe, as vendors pass by, elderly women with buckets of hot corn and strings of shushkhela, a delicious treat that looks like a knobby candle and tastes like rich grape fruit leather with hazelnuts inside. We stop at a beachside restaurant for Ajaran khachapuri, a boat of cheesy bread baked on a stone oven with a sea of melted butter and egg in the middle. It's divine.
Back in T'bilisi, we spend our days roaming the streets, from flea markets to chic Parisian outlet stores. We meet Gia Chkhatarashvili, a brilliant photographer, and he leads us on a hike up the back streets of the Old Town to the old Fortress overlooking the city. The view is magnificent, with the river cutting through old stone buildings in the city below; the hills beyond the city are covered in crumbling Soviet apartment buildings and rows of identical red refugee houses.
That evening we make an appointment at the T'bilisi sulfur baths. There is a park in the Old Town that is dotted with many small stone domes; we descend into the underground maze of hallways and are led to a private suite with intricate tilework and comfortable couches. We sink into hot and cold tubs of sulfur water, feeling weeks of country grime melt off of our bodies. A small Azerbaijani woman scrubs our bodies with wine vinegar and fragrant soap.
I say my goodbyes, obtain a hand-written boarding pass and arrive in Minsk, not having anticipated that I would need a transit visa to reach my connecting flight or re-check my bag. A sympathetic policeman politely listens to my story, then fetches a policewoman who speaks English. I am told to wait, led through dimly lit back corridors and placed at a cafe in the transit hall. "Wait here." I repeat my story to an airport employee, who disappears with my passport, tickets and baggage claim check. My anxiety mounts in the ensuing half-hour; I distract myself by sneaking furtive glances at the large group of Deaf Belarussian teenagers waiting for a flight to Prague. The nice man returns with my boarding pass, informs me that "all is normal" and sends me on my way.
Joanna and I meet at the Rome train station. We stroll about the city for a few days, seeing the Vatican museums and the Colosseum, among other things. We stay at a 6 euro per night camping hostel. It's rather surreal. Venice is beautiful and Disney-like, and Salzburg is not in Italy. We eat lots of bread and cheese from supermarkets. We end with a lovely stay near Munich with our relatives.