Georgia On My Mind

I love Georgia, so much that I am writing this post in Georgian font. The country is beautiful, the people are the most hospitable on the planet. I loved my trip. Why then did it take me almost a month to post the blog? I don't know, really. It was one of the best vacations I have had. It was such a stark contrast to Russia, as most things are. OK, backstory first. Our little travel club (me, Roma and Tony Blair) decided to go to Georgia, the very next day the Georgian military fires on a helicopter carrying John McCain. Yeah, really. So we rethink our decision -- basically chicken out-- and decide to go to Armenia. However, the flight to Armenia is prohibitively expensive, so we re-decide to go to Georgia. When we start telling people, specifically Russian people, they go nuts: The country so dangerous, the people there are crazy criminals, but if you do decide to go, can you bring me back a bottle of wine?
So now that we have decided, we need to find a place to stay. Georgia, like most developing economies, Russia included, has a real problem with tourist accomodations. Basically, they have accomodations for high-end businessmen/investors or people with relatives in the destination country. The regular Mabel and Otis from Peoria cannot be accomodated. So we hit the internet and found a woman, Irma, who owns and rents a house in Tbilisi. She gave us a great rate and from the pictures she posted the house looked good. She also agreed to provide us with tour guides (her sisters and father), for a nominal fee. So off we go to Georgia.

We touch down and head to the largest airport in the largest city in Georgia, Tbilisi. Thi international airport in the capital city is probably no bigger than your local Best Buy store. When we entered you could see the exit about 50-60 yards ahead. We cleared customs, no problem, got our bags and found our host, I believe his name is Miranda's father.

As we are making our way to the car, a young man joins our group and starts to carry some of our bags. His movement was so smooth, that we thought was an acquaintance of our host. This guy then proceeds to tell us "I love black people". Well, so do I, and I am beginning to fall in love with this country. Then a gypsy girl approaches Roma (ah, the irony - for those of you not clued in, Roma is the official name of the gypsy people, they are properly called "The Roma") and asks for money in Russian and English. Roma says no about a thousand times, but the gypsy girl is relentless. We are at the car and Roma breaks down and gives the girl money. At the same our "I love Black people" guy sticks his hand out and asks for a little "help" since he just helped us. Ohhh, "love" means "exploit" in Georgian. We give him money, too, and we are off to the house.

Look who we ran into on the way to the house. Georgia LOVES George Bush. The current Georgian President Mikhail Sakashvili (almost all Georgian surnames in "dze" or "vili")came to power after the bloodless "Rose" revolution forced the Russian supported president out of office. Since then, Georgia -- at an enormous cost, has oriented itself towards the West and away from Russia. Russia, as always has been sensitive to disrespect, percieved or real -- I also think they are still a bit angry about the whole Stalin (Iosef Dhughashvili) thing.

In response, Russia has tried to cripple Georgia's economy, by imposing a ban on all Georgia wine, allegedly for health reasons. Georgia has been trying to court Western investors and break into Western markets to make up for the lost of the largest market for its largest export. They are actively trying to join both NATO and the EU. Good luck with that, Georgia.

Anyway, we reach the house, which is quite impressive. The house has a small trellis covered portico, with, of course, grapes growing. The grape fragrance is sweet, tart, heavy and heavenly. We open the door and look to our left into a large, spacious kitchen, directly in front of us is a small full bath and to our left is a very large, open, sparely furnished living room. Upstairs, there is another common area with a TV, a "full" bath and two bed rooms. There is a small balcony overlooking the kitchen. Over, the house is big, clean and neat.

We drop our bags and head out to dinner with our tour guides, who had been waiting at the house for us. We go to a place called Khingali's Garden. Khingali is a national Georgian dish, like a gigantic meat-filled ravioli. Khingali are best eaten with beer. Men in Georgia have khingali eating contests and have been known to eat hundreds. There is a specific set of instructions for eating these monstronsities. First it is shaped like a garlic bulb, so holding the inedible stem, bite into the khingali, then suck out all the juices, then eat through the "bulb" and drink some beer. Each of the khingali is about the size of a small woman's fist, so needless to say they are quite filling.

Our tour guides order more food for us and after the khingali we switch to drinking wine. We ate the khachapuri (cheese bread), 3-4 entrees, 2 salads ,3 bottles of wine, 2 orders of khingali. There was so much food, that we had to put dishes on another table. The final bill was $45 TOTAL. Oh, yeah, I am really loving this country. The food was incredibly delicious, the veggies were so tasty I was sure they had spent that morning on the vine.

We retired early and rested for our trip to wine country the next day.

Our hosts pick us up at 10 am and we head out to the wine country in the east and a small village called Singnari, the hometown of our host family.

The Georgian wine country is beautiful and out in the country the real soul of the people is on full display. We stopped to ask directions from a woman selling fruit and ended up touring a vineyard, eating figs straight from the tree and grapes right off the vine at the vineyard. We then washed it down with water from a spring. I told my travelling companions that I could actually feel the Hepatitis A kicking in.

We travelled further, stopping to take pictures and fill up the LNG tank of the drivers car. I tried real hard to not think about the big canister of flammable gas just inches away from my very flammable hair. We tried to get a winery tour and our first attempt was unsucessful, but then we happened on a winery that was more than happy to let us tour their facilities. After our tour, which was interesting but far from informative, we got to sample -- everything. They gave us new white wine, which was tasty. We sampled undistilled wine that was in the middle of the ermentation process, a sluggy mix that looked a whole, whole lot like vomit. Surprisingly it was also very good. The also gave us cognac, which I liked a whole lot. They offered cha-cha which is the Georgian response to vodka, grappa and the like. My travelling companions sampled it, but I passed. We hadn't eaten lunch yet and we were all on the equivalent of our 5th or 6th shot.

The winery guys were thrilled that we wanted to take their pictures. They weren't really all that busy because the day we visited was som kind of holiday and they were basically sitting around when we showed up. Note the guy in the back with the "cool" jailhouse pose. The guy standing up on the end on the right -- in the black vest -- is wearing, honest to God, FUBU. For those of you who don't understand why that is funny, the joke is not for you.







Then, because this is Georgia, we got stuck in an enormous traffic jam -- of sheep. There were sheep, literally, for as far as the eye could see. And guess what? There really are black sheep. I saw them, honest.







After the winery tour (and sheep jam) we made our way further into the wine country and to the village called Sighnari. Here there are is a university and the second longest wall in the world, after the Great Wall of China.



















We took long, twisty road up into the mountains. At the top you could look out over the valley and see the Caucasus mountain range.

This part of the world figures prominently in a very famous Greek legend. Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gave it to people. As punishment for his crime, the gods tied Prometheus to a mountain and a giant eagle came each day to eat out his liver, creating agonizing pain for Prometheus. Because Prometheus was immortal, his wound healed each night so tha the could endure fresh torture the next day. The Georgians say that Prometheus was tied to a mountain in the Caucausus range.













There is also a statue representing Georgian power, a sword in one hand for the enemies and a jug of wine in the other for friends.









This mountain village was stunning. The vista, the people, everything. On of our hosts told us that it was possible to purchase a "house" here (the quotes are mine, not hers) for $2,000. I immediately told my husband that I wanted to buy a summer house here. We could come 1x year and rent it out the rest of the time, it would still be a bargain.

We made it up to the top and had lunch at a restaurant built into the wall. Here are some photos of the wall itself.




















After lunch we visited our hosts' grandmother's house/vineyard. Grandma lived further in the mountains, in a place that may not have had an official name. Her place had massive trellises of white and black grapes, persimmon and fig trees. There was a pig in the front yard and a garden next to the pigs area. The pig didn't really have a pen, per se, he was just tied to a tree. Grandma came out to greet us. When we asked to take a photo, she went back into the house, combed her hair and gussied up before she would allow us to take the picture.


Due to all the wine at lunch, I had to use the "facilities" at grandma's and I asked accordingly. I thought it would be interesting to see the inside of her house. Instead, I was directed around the front storage building, down a path to the bathroom.

I have not used an outhouse in...um...ever, so it truly was a novel experience. There was, thank God, toilet paper and it was clean as it could be, given that it was an outhouse in rural Georgia. Grandma lived right next door to her brother and his wife. Uncle gave us some home-made white wine, that he mouth siphoned from a large underground storage container. The wine we tasted was a little sharp, but otherwise flavorful. That was one of the most interested days of the entire trip.

Friday, we toured old Tbilisi and visited several churches. The downtown area is incredibly beautiful.





Then we did the sulfur baths. Georgians tell the story that a famous hunter was shooting pheasants in the area near Tbilisi. The hunter shot a bird. The wounded bird fell into a warm spring, was healed and flew away. The hunter decided to found a city at the point of this miraculous occurrence. Hence, Tbilisi was born. Tbilis means warm in Georgian. The sulfur baths are much like the Russian banyas except there is a hot pool in addition to the cold pool and the hot pool is full of sulfur waters. You would think that the rotten egg smell would be oppressive and overwhelming. In fact, it was not. I enjoyed the sulfur bath, and I would recommend it as an experience, but I still prefer the Russian banya.







On Saturday, we went host-less, which was our first mistake. Our second mistake was deciding to take the metro into town. We found the closest metro station quite easily, but because the Georgian alphabet (one of only 14 alpabets in the world) is difficult to read, we got lost. Here is the metro sign we tried to decipher.



So we ended up about an hours walk away from where we wanted to be. The upside is that we got to see interesting parts of the city on foot. The downside is that taxis are dirt cheap in Georgia, so it was sheer stupidity (or the optimists among us could say adventure of spirit) that prompted us to take the metro. Two things to note: 1) taking pictures in the Tbilisi metro is forbidden, not sure why, but pretty sure the that the policeman who told us that wasn't kidding. 2) Georgians are a collaborative people, if you as a Georgian a question, say what time is it? He we gather together at least three other friends/acquaintances/passers-by and they will discuss the question, sift through possible answers, agree to a common answer then appoint a delegate to provide the answer. It happened many times during our stay and it never ceased to be funny or amazing. I am sure that Georgians are not even aware that they do it. It is just the Georgian way.

After our tour we lunched and then headed to the open-air bazaar and purchased some gifts and art-work. We then headed down to the English language bookstore and check our email at the free internet connection. The accompanying cup of coffee was $5 but it was worth it. The name of the bookstore is Prospero's and it is on Rustaveli Ave, but set back from the street. Look for the yellow and blue sign. Here is a statue of Shota Rustaveli the vaunted 12th century Georgian poet. I bought his epic poem, which is still in print.


Later that day we headed back for the house. Little did we suspect the madness that ensued. We had had some hot water heater problems -- namely no hot water. The host jury-rigged the heater and gave us some complicated instructions on how to use it. We followed the instructions to the tee-ish. When we came back home, I washed my hands in the downstairs sink and turned the water off. I came upstairs to watch some TV. Roma goes out onto the balcony and says, "Wow, where is all of that smoke coming from" The next door neighbors are looking up at us and frantically gesturing. Ohhhh, thats us...we're on fire!!!! Roma, Tony Blair and I run down stairs into the bathroom to find that the hot water heater has overheated, exploded and is expelling smoke (from the burned out wires, innards, etc) out into the neighborhood. By this time the neighbors are now pounding on the front door. In their defense, the houses in the neigborhood are literally stacked on top of each other, so a fire ignored at our house would quickly become a fire fought in their house. We let them in, explain --in our best Georgian/Russian/hand-signal patois -- that the hot water heater exploded, the water was off and that we had already called our host family. The woman and her two young sons still looked a little wary but left the premises. We, on the other hand are a little shook. What if the fire is now in the walls? Should we turn of the electric? Is the danger over? What if there is water in the walls?
So we call Miranda's dad and he comes over to assess the situation. His assessment is that there is nothing he can do. He also believes there is no further danger. He will call a plumber on Monday (it was Saturday night when he said that, we were scheduled to leave on Sunday afternoon). Meantime, Roma and I head out to purchase a case of Georgian wine to split between the three of us. We go back to Khingali's Gardens, the restaurant from the first night and buy every bottle of the vintage we drank. We head back to the house and begin packing. Our Georgia trip is almost over.

Sunday morning, Tamta meets us to take us to her apartment for a farewell dinner. We drive out about 30 minutes outside of Tbilisi to huge blocks of apartments. The cab driver lets us,and all of our luggage, out in front of Tamta's building. We enter and start climbing the steps because the elevator does not work. About 4 flights in, Tamta remembers to tell us that they live on the 12th floor. This is sheer madness. Roma and Tony Blair are carrying my luggage, which is a good thing, because I am just barely making this climb. We finally reach 12 and are warmly welcomed into their apartment. The apartment is very spacious and has a large dining room with a piano, a breakfront and a table that sets 8 comfortably. The table is laden, literally laden with food. I cannot make out the color of the tablecloth underneath.

We sit down and immediately begin eating and drinking. There is so much food, that it gets to be a bit uncomfortable. Even trying a little bit of everything would result in downing the equivalent of a 5-course meal. Everything tastes amazing. There are meat dishes, one called ostri or "spicy hot" is my particular favorite. There are fish dishes, mushrooms, potatoes, cheese, vegetables, so, so much.

So we eat and drink and toast and it is just a international love fest until...somebody brings up Stalin. Our host asks us what we think about Stalin. Now for most Westerners this is a slam dunk, no-brainer. Stalin was evil, he killed 20 million of his own citizens, he was the quintessential bad guy. We proceed to say this, because it is common knowledge -- everybody knows Stalin and Hitler were the dynamic duo of 20th century bad guys. Well, apparently Georgia did not get the memo. Because our hosts had nothing but good things to say about Stalin (he was smart, strict but fair and always looked out for the common man). When we said Stalin was evil, our hosts faces fell to the floor. It was awkward and embarassing for me and my fellow travellers. Cultural differences have an annoying habit of catching you unawares.

We muddled through for a few minutes and then joy returned to the table. Our hostess was a former music teacher and she played the piano for us while her daughters sang. Then our host a former historian and poet, read from his book of poetry. It was wonderful to be in the company of such an interesting and loving family.


Soon it was time to go. Our hostess cooked us -- from scratch -- a piping hot khatapuri to take on the plane. It was such a fitting way to end our trip to the most hospitable country in the world.

We got back to good ol' Rus around 10 pm Sunday night. Monday afternoon around 2 pm, Russia closed its border with Georgia. Timing? Luck? Who knows, but we were fortunate to experience Georgia up close and personal. I am hoping against hope that the tensions de-escalate, relations normalize and the borders re-open. I want to go back to Georgia at least once more before I leave Russia in April.


This is my favorite picture of Georgia. I think the image is symbolic and evocative -- beautiful, different, elegant but a bit run-down, past its prime, but still full of potential. I love that the door is just slightly open, beckoning.

The LA Clippers in Moscow -- Who Did We Tick Off?

The NBA has undertaken an effort to invade Europe. Somehow both the Clippers and the City of Moscow pissed off someone important because they ended up with each other. My beloved Sixers got Barcelona (maybe David Stern doesn't hate Allen Iverson after all) and Russia got the Clippers. For God's sake, the Clippers !?!? So anyway, a fellow Fellow and I decide to suck it up and go see the God-forsaken Clippers in God-forsaken Moscow.

Well, I call the ticket hotline on Thursday and cannot get through, no big deal, games are Friday and Saturday as well. Call Friday, no dice. Check the internet Friday night and find out that the ticket center is closed and will be closed for the remainder of the weekend. Yeah, that makes sense, why would the box office be open on the weekends anyway? What could possibly be going on in a sports stadium on Saturday and Sunday?

So now we have to shlepp out to the stadium and scalp tickets. Scalping is not illegal here, well maybe it is, but everybody does it and it is encouraged in the popular culture -- sort of like drinking too much. So after much confusion and a unneccessary and expensive cab ride, we arrive at what we believe to be the stadium.

The stadium couldn't be harder to find if they actually hid it. Its like behind this shopping mall down this little two lane street. Very strange. I mean you can see the Linc (the Eagle home stadium) from outer space -- well not outer space, but it is actually in the flight path for Philadelphia International. The Moscow CSKA stadium was so out of the way, you could hold a spy convention there.

Sidebar for a moment to riff on Russian addresses and building locations -- My fellow Fellow made the blazingly insightful (pun intended) comment that Russian fireman must have a difficult time finding fire locations, because establishments are almost never clearly marked with their addresses. Streets change names, many addresses have multiple buildings attached to them eg 12 Malaya Gruzinskaya dom 1, dom 2 etc. The address for my building is located about 30 yards from the street, off to the right, behind some trees. It is impossible to see my address from the street, in broad daylight. OK, back to our regularly scheduled program.....

So as we are walking up, a guy comes up to us and holds out a ticket. Odd, but he doesn't say anything. My fellow Fellow holds up two fingers and says we need "dva" . The guy whips out another ticket from his coat pocket and still doesn't say anything. MFF says how much. The guy underlines the price on the ticket R1700 with his finger. MFF says the price is too much. The guy gestures again. Finally we both understand that the guy is deaf. MFF borrows a pen and pad from me and continues the negotiation in writing. For two the deaf guy wants R2600. Too much, so we walk away. After we have gone about 50 yards -- I refuse to go metric, Russia will just have to deal -- MFF looks at the paper and says, maybe he wrote R2000 (about $40 each). We agree that is an OK price and we head back. The deaf guy agrees to R2000 for both tickets. I ask MFF to check the tix to ensure they are not fakes. MFF gives the tickets a cursory glance -- the date is correct, the bottom part is intact, its all good. We head off to the stadium, tickets in hand. I take a closer look at my ticket and notice that I am sitting in area A-4. On the back of the ticket is a schematic of the stadium. I see areas A1-A3 and A5-A8, alas, no A-4.

Hmmmm, we just got jacked by a deaf guy. Now see there are a few ways to look at this.

1) It is our fault for allowing prejudice to cloud our judgment. We were both secretly thinking disabled people are nice, they don't commit crimes, they are handicapped.

2)Deaf or not, the guy violated scalper etiquette and in a country where custom is far more powerful than law, that is a big deal.

3) Could we possibly be arrested for trying to enter the stadium with fake tickets? 'Cause we are going to make a run for the door.

So we nonchalantly approach the guards with terror-striken faces and try to pass off our A-4 tickets as legit. We make it through the first line, second line defense. We are now actually in the stadium, so far, so good. Now we still have a teensy problem, which is A-4 doesn't exist. So where to do we go to sit? We "estimate" where A-4 should be and head there. Thank God there are empty seats and we just sit down. Now the stress of the total fake out has made us both thirsty.

I offer to go get beers and chips (we both can't go because we will lose our seats). I purchase two room temperature beers and chips and start back to my seat. I am tiptoeing with the beers so that I do not spill them. About 50 yards away from me in the concourse is a security guard. He watches me tip-toe the entire lenght of the concourse. When I get within spitting of him, he tells me "Nel'zya" or forbidden. Basically, I can't bring the beers into the playing arena . I lose all my Russian and say in English "Are you freaking serious?" When the hell did Russians get all picky about where you can drink? This, in a country where it is not only legal but common to see people drinking beer on the street at 9 o'clock in the morning. So I can drink before my work day, but I cannot drink at a sporting event? Huh? So I leave the beers on a table outside the stadium and round up MFF. We leave the arena to drink/inhale our beers. We return to find that of course our "seats" are now occupied.

No worries, we just travel down to the front row and sit court side for about a quarter and a half.

A word about the game. First of all it was the third game in three days for the Clippers and they played tired. Secondly, there are three African-Americans on the Russian CSKA -- two guys you never heard of, and Trajan Langdon from Duke and Cleveland Cavaliers. Interesting insight into the Russian psyche: one black guy on the team, RJ Holden, is actually a Russian citizen AND Putin himself expedited RJ's citizenship paperwork. Has Putin gone all Angela Davis on us? No, not really, there is a law that firmly stipulates the number of foreigners allowed on Russian sports teams. Giving RJ Russian citizenship conveniently skirts that issue.

BTW, CSKA are the Russian National and Euroleague Champions. Makes you go hmmmmm.

Anyway, the game was absymal. I was embarrassed to be an American. The Russians never lead by less that 10 points, ever. They took our boys to the wood shed. It was interesting (in a car wreck sort of way) to watch the Clippers wake up to the realization that they were going to lose to two scruffy white guys and three NBA has beens. Sam Cassells was so mad, I thought he was going to stroke out. Anyway CSKA won 94-75.

So much for our dominance in Dr. Naismith's game.

Wynton Marsalis Hates Rap, But Not Me

Dear Readers,
Last Saturday I went to a formal ball at the American Ambassador's residence, Spaso House. The ball was held in honor of "Baba Leto" or Russian Indian summer. I had never been to Spaso House, which is like a mini-White house for the ex-pat community, so I was pretty excited. Plus I got to dress up in my slinky black dress and, joy of joys, wear a tiara. My friend from church and economic diplomat for Great Britain, NGD, had a pre-party at his apartment. I really hate to go to "grown-ups" apartments in Russia, it just makes me resent my perfectly serviceable (rent-free) home.
Anyway, NGD's apartment had 12 feet ceilings, two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a kitchen that must have an American passport. We had zakuski (snacks) and drinks. I had my first semi-official Pimm's cup. NGD is the mold from which all other British gentlemen were cast. He is smart, droll and looks dashing in a tux, which, of course, he owns.

Spaso House is grand and beautiful, everything you would expect in the Ambassadors residence. The party included heavy appetizers and a full, open bar. I drank much more champagne than was completely necessary, but I was trying to maximize the return on my investment of $55 (ticket price).

Well, towards the middle of the evening a rumor started spreading that Wynton Marsalis would stop by. About an hour after the rumor started, it came to fruition. Wynton came in and walked right by my group. He caught my eye, stopped, smiled and waved. Who can resist a woman in a tiara? Wynton started to play with the orchestra. People flooded onto the dance floor. NGD did not want to miss an opportunity to dance while Wynton and asked me to join him on the dance floor. Now all of you who know me well know that I am fly enough to mingle (not) but too fly to dance, but the tiara got the best of me. So we danced to the soulful stylings of Wynton Marsalis.

Soon enough, the party was over. An embassy acquaintance invited Wynton to come back to NGD's apartment for the after-party. The talk of the walk back to the NGD's apartment was whether Wynton would actually show. Well, 45 minutes into the after-party, in walks Wynton and the fireworks commence immediately.

I should say by way of background that Wynton Marsalis is a black, jazz musician from New Orleans. He is also never met a cuss word he didn't like. For some of the Embassy crowd, for whom a great deal of life is theoretical this was a bit shocking. The conversation turned towards politics and the fireworks turned into cannon fire. It is really difficult to explain the vibe at this point. Wynton is a man of many and fierce opinions.
His politics lean Democratic, but with a healthy dose of suspicion for all politicians. He admires the presidents cleverness, but to call him a fan of the Bush administration would be a step too far. The embassy crowd was very uneasy with the manner and content of the opinions Wynton shared. I am still try to process why. I too was a little uncomfortable, but my discomfort stemmed from the fact that I thought the discussion was too frank for the audience. Wynton dropped the "f " and "m-f " bombs so much I thought for sure NGD's carpet was going to catch fire.

The conversation meandered towards music at which point the fireworks went nuclear. Wynton said " I have not listened to the radio since 1976" . He thinks that no music made after that point has any musical value at all. He despises all rap music, even the very early incarnations. I made a admittedly weak defense of rap music that was immediately shot down. I will embellish my defense her and say that while there is a lot in rap that has no social value and is very misogynistic, dismissing the entire canon of an 30-year-old art form is extreme and flat incorrect. What about the Roots, Bilal, Gangstarr, lots of other people using rap to elevate the consciousness (political, social or otherwise) of the listener?

We talked with Wynton until about 3:30 am, at which point he left to pack for his 6 am flight (private jet to Seattle). We all talked about him till around 4 am and then the party broke up for good.

In the words of one party-goer, what a strange and memorable night.