Tuesday, 10 October 2017

 

Morning: Tbilisi (GE)

Evening: Baku (AZ)

Total: 580 km

 

On which I learned:

 

that, like me, Tbilisi is not a morning person

that a sleepless night, followed by a sleepless day, is not a good idea

that some capitals really do look like fantasy filmset backdrops

 

 

The bus ride into Tbilisi took about half an hour. There is a good highway connecting the airport to the capital, so at first the ride was nice enough. Then an elderly woman draped in a long shawl boarded the bus. She was muttering to herself in Russian, clutching her hands and gesticulating dramatically like she was in great distress. Instead of sitting down, she proceeded to address each passenger in turn, moaning an incessant stream of barely intelligible Russian words. The other passengers just ignored her. I felt uncomfortable. Then she turned to me. Sensing my discomfort, she must have pegged me for an easy target, because she became very insistent, touching my hair and clothes. Finally one of the passengers gave her a pen, which she clutched like a prized object before leaving at the next stop. Outside, we saw her rubbing her face and making praising gestures towards heaven. I felt sorry for her. But only minutes before, I had felt a lot more sorry for myself.

 

We got out of the bus at Avlabari station, close to the Kura river and not far from the main sights. High up on the hill, we saw Sameba Cathedral. We figured a church would be open this early in the morning, so we might as well start there. We wound our way through the small backstreets. The pavement was cracked and uneven, the houses seemed pretty run-down, all the shops were closed and the few people we met on the street looked old and defeated. Just like a lot of people on the bus. We wondered why there were mostly elderly persons about during what should have been an early morning rushhour. Frankly, my first impression of Tbilisi was not the best. Granted, I was tired and cold, the rain drizzled down from a sky as pale as my bleary-eyed face, but the electricity cables hanging loosely from the house fronts and the hungry cats meowling at us did not help with the holiday feeling.

 

After about ten minutes, we reached an open gate leading to a little park. The only other persons present were two or three old women, begging at strategic places in the park. The park itself was well groomed. Trees, flower beds, benches and balustrades formed a charming ensemble leading up to a magnificent new cathedral. As much as I admired the beauty of it, I couldn't help thinking that the money would have been better spent patching up the roads and giving the people adequate living quarters. But who was I to criticize, I had barely been in this town for half an hour. Let's explore some more first.

 

The walk back down rewarded us with a great view over treetops, colourful houses with their characteristic Georgian balconies and the sprawling city as a backdrop. I even spotted some palmtrees, and I'm just a sucker for palms. With my good mood thus restored, we scrambled down through backalleys which suspiciously looked like someone's backyard. My resourceful Indian friend assured me that, just because you wouldn't use a shortcut through someone's backyard in Luxembourg, it's quite all right in most other countries. To which I countered that just because people DO use shortcuts through other people's backyards in India, doesn't mean it's all right to do so in this here particular country. Thus opinions differ.

 

Skidding down a weedy dirt path, we landed back on a main road with souvenir shops and beautifully restored wooden houses. And there, in front of us, was the parking entrance to the President's residence. "Do you think he lives here?" I asked curiously. The gate looked foreboding, and the security man's steely stare even more so. I decided to play my favourite make-the-official-smile game. I always love a challenge, and in Russia I had been getting quite good at it.

 

"Privyet," I ventured. "Eto presidentski dvoryets?" The security man acknowledged with a nod that this was indeed the presidential palace. "Mozhno poseshatj?" A mechanical shake of the head informed me that, no, one could not visit the place. Too bad. Meanwhile, Aarat had run to the gate, which separated the common plebs - viz, us - from the front yard with a smashing view over the fortress and the old town. He was taking out this cellphone. "Wait," I begged him anxiously, remembering each and every scare story of stupid tourists taking pictures of politically or militarily sensible buildings and ending up in jail. I turned back to the guardian. "Nelzya fotografiravatj?" I asked sheepishly with an apologetic it's-his-day-out glance in the direction of my friend. The security man's face relaxed into a smile. "Mozhno," he said good-naturedly. Sandra - Grumpiness 1-0! I beamed my most engaging thankee-smile at him and strolled over to Aarat.

 

"I had my first interaction in Russian with a Georgian, and we understood each other," I declared proudly. Strolling back down to the river, we discussed Russian politics in the Caucasus. "A pity I don't know the Georgian anthem," I mused, "I love to learn national hymns. On the way to the Russian border in Finland, Sonia and I kept singing the Russian anthem." "Let's hear it," Aarat asked. "I'm a really bad singer," I laughed. "It goes like this, right?" and he launched into what I think was the former Soviet Union anthem. "No, they have new lyrics," I grinned and started "Russiiiya svesheeenaya, nasha dirzhaaava...", only to stop short after the first stanza. I had just sung the Russian anthem, not 100 meters away from the president's residence, in a country that had only recently been at war with Russia. I looked around sheepishly. Luckily, there was no one there to take offence, neither at the song itself, nor at my bad singing.

 

We reached the main thoroughfare separating us from the river. By now, the constant drizzle had turned into a more serious downpour. I spotted a subway and we ran down the steps, grateful for the temporary shelter. Lucky for us, the subway led to a pedestrian passage under the bridge, taking us all the way across the water without getting wet. Neat.

 

"I need a coffee," I declared when we arrived at the other side. "It's a good idea to get out of the rain for a while, don't you think? Breakfast would be good too." Aarat agreed and so we looked around for a bar in the area of the Bridge of Peace. Unfortunately, all the places we found were closed at this time of the day. One street looked really promising for a night out, and we made a mental note to return here tomorrow evening, after our trip to Baku. Later, I would find out that Shardeni Street and its surroundings was indeed the hippest area in Tbilisi, with fancy pubs and restaurants, karaoke bars and trendy shops. But at ten o'clock in the morning, everything was boarded up and deserted. At last we found a really nice, modern café where you could order a bespoke breakfast at the counter. Aarat is a strict vegetarian, and we had an inkling that Georgia might not be the easiest place to go meat- and eggfree. But we managed to compose a yummy plate full of croissants, sandwiches, scrambled eggs (for me) and of course, steaming hot coffee.

 

The place seemed to be popular with locals and tourists alike. By the time we had finished our breakfast, every table was occupied. I had a pleasant chat with an elderly couple from Turkey about must-see places in Tbilisi. But all this had to wait, if we didn't want to miss the flight to Baku. We quickly found our way back to Avlabari bus station and hopped on a bus back to Shota Rustaveli Airport.

 

The airport is named after the most famous poet of the Georgian Golden Age in the 12th century. I was well acquainted with his name, having catalogued many books and articles about him from the library of another enthusiastic Luxembourgish Caucasus traveler, the writer and former director of the Pushkin Institute, Rosemarie Kieffer.

 

While discussing Georgian literature, we became aware of a commotion on the bus. A man was standing next to the ticket dispenser, seemingly arguing with the inspector. Obviously we didn't understand what they said, but the discussion clearly became more heated. Suddenly, the man pulled out a knife, stabbing the air and yelling at the other person. The knife looked like a prop out of an old Karl May movie, daggerlike, curvy and lethal. There was just one row of passengers between us and this man who was clearly very upset. We tried to make ourselves as unobtrusive as possible. I just wished he'd stop screaming and waving his knife. And why didn't the bus driver stop the bus? When the armed man took a step toward his opponent, another man got up and calmly tried to restrain him. Ah, Georgian men have courage and aren't afraid to step in! I immediately felt safer. After another minute or two, the bus pulled into the next bus stop and the man was asked to get out, which he did, after some more yelling and taunting. When the bus moved away, he jumped at the window and banged against it, his face pressed to the glass, his eyes wide with impotent rage. This person clearly had an anger management problem.

 

After this incident, any last trace of sleepiness was gone. I felt ready for my next flight. But should we take our luggage from the storage room? In the end, we decided to travel light. This time tomorrow we would be back in Georgia and it was just easier to sightsee, unencumbered by any baggages. We quickly checked in with Qatar Airways and shortly before 1 PM, our plane was ready for boarding. This was a much smaller plane and luckily there were not many passengers on board, so we were allowed a free seat between us. Aarat tucked the complimentary pillow behind his head, snuggled under the blanket and was asleep before we even took off. Even though I was almost sick with sleepiness, I couldn't will myself to drift off. It was only a 70-minute flight and between take-off, safety instructions, complimentary snack followed by complimentary drinks, the announcement that we were approaching Baku airport and the subsequent landing, I barely dozed for two minutes at a time. When the plane descended into Azerbaijan, I didn't even care about a possible crashlanding. All I wanted was a bed.

 

 

 

Little did I know then that my bed was still a long way off. First, the passport control. There were six or seven desks open and so a very short line formed behind each counter. There were just five people in front of us. Perfect. Ten minutes tops. ... Except for the fact, of course, that the counters were still cordoned off and not yet ready to accept customers. So we waited. Patiently. As did the airport officials in their little cabinets. Nothing moved. No one complained. No one explained. Time came to a standstill.

 

After about half an hour, passengers from another, larger plane joined us in the queue. Now the small waiting area got decidedly cramped. People started pushing and sneakily forming parallel queues. If I closed my eyes, the world span and pulsated around me. I was dead tired.

 

There seemed to be a problem with their computer system. At least that was the prevailing theory among the passengers. When the problem was finally resolved and the cordons lifted, it took us barely 5 minutes to pass the control. Azerbaijani immigration policy is very efficient. You order an e-visa online, the application gets accepted within 24 hours, you print out the document, show it to the official together with your passport, and off you go. Piece of cake.

 

"Shall we look for the bus?" Aarat asked. I slumped into a chair in the entrance hall. "No. We get money. We get a taxi. We go to our hotel and sleep." I was starting to be decidedly grumpy. Whose harebrained idea had it been to go a day without sleeping? Ah yes: mine. Never mind.

 

Outside, the weather was picturebook perfect. The sun was shining, it was warm but not too hot, and a gentle breeze was playing in the palmtrees. Our cab sped along the highway, taking us south into the heart of the old town. Aarat excitedly pointed out the window: "See these buildings? They were designed by this famous Iraqi-British architect, Zaha Hadid. She was the first woman to receive the Prizker Architecture Prize, in 2004." Was she? Neat. I looked out the window. The Heydar Aliyev Centre looked indeed impressive, a softly swooping composition of white stone and glass fronts, not unlike our Philharmonie in Lux.

 

The city flew by. Baku is much larger than Tbilisi, and, as far as first impressions go, it had more of a cosmopolitan feel. Think East Coast America, rather than Tbilisi's more European vibe. You could virtually feel the petrodollars that had been poured into the large boulevards and shiny highrises.

 

Now we were cruising through the narrow streets of the old town. The cab driver hard a hard time finding our hotel. Old Street Boutique Hotel, not far from Shirvanshah Palace and Maiden Tower. We had given him the address too. What was the problem? No problem, it seemed. He stopped the car and pointed up a cobbled street. "The hotel is right there." Are you sure, mate? A guard from the embassy at the corner confirmed that, yes, Old Street Hotel was just around the corner. So we took our leave from the cabbie and headed up the alley. There was indeed a hotel at the end of it, but it turned out to be called Old Town Hotel, or some such. Not at all the place I had booked. But the receptionist was very helpful. He looked at my online reservation and nodded. It was not far off. Just back down the street and to the left. Ok, easy then. Back, left ... no hotel. We walked on. Maybe another left turn?

 

Soon we were lost in a maze of narrow cobbled ways and elegant yellow sandstone houses. All equally beautiful and enchanting and devoid of our hotel. Little did we know - and care! - that we were standing right at the back of the mighty Shirvanshah Palace. "Let's ask this bloke." Aarat approached a young man with a guitar over his shoulder and a girlfriend in tow. The young Azerbaijani was more than eager to help and practice his English. He located our hotel on his phone and set off. Through alleys and backstreets, narrow gates and tiny passages. He asked for the way twice, and it seemed like we were onto something when he entered a hotel: Old Street Guesthouse. Oh, not Old Street HOTEL. Different place, I see. Back on the street and back into the maze of 1001 Night. Because that's what this town looked like to a pale-faced European like me. At one point, we emerged onto a larger street, lined with crenellated fortifications of the same yellow stone than the houses and pavements. This was not a city, this was a Hollywood filmset! The wall looked like you would find a director's chair and a camera team around the corner, if only you cared to peep behind the façade. Enchanting, but unreal in its hyperclean beauty.

 

We need to make a right, our guide announced. "We are going in circles," I stated the obvious. But our musician-cum-streetfinder was not to be deterred. He would find this hotel for us. Several more turns and a red herring later (Street Hotel, without the epithet OLD, it was, I believe), I gave a little squeak and pointed to an unassuming sign: Old Street Boutique Hotel. We had found it, at last! We thanked the young couple for joining us in our quest, but unfortunately forgot to ask for his phone number. Pity. It would have been neat to hear him play live.

 

Our hotel was well worth the search. The room was clean and quiet, the bed comfy and the bathroom equipped with a clean and modern shower. What more could you ask for? Now that I did have the opportunity to fall into bed and sleep, I wasn't feeling all that tired anymore. We were in Baku! This time yesterday I had been in Munich. Unbelievable.

 

We decided to freshen up and explore the city. Stepping out of the shower, I suddenly realized that I had brought neither fresh clothes nor even a hairbrush into this country. Aarat lent me his comb, but as for my garments: Baku nightlife would just have to make do with me in sneakers. The receptionist recommended a traditional Azerbaijani restaurant, Dolma, apparently not far from the hotel, though by now we took such assertions with a grain of salt. And so, with our cellphones fully charged, we stepped out into the Baku evening sun to recharge our bodies with some food as well.

 

 

 

According to the receptionist, this Dolma restaurant was just around the corner. Down the street, through the old city gate and make a left. Piece of cake. We loved the feel of this city. It did look like a theatre backdrop for exoticism-starved Europeans, but who cared. Even though we were still to the West of the Caspian Sea (but barely half a kilometre away from it!), I felt in Central Asia. At least this is what I imagined Samarkand to be like.

 

Of course we didn't find the restaurant straight away. Not that it would have been a problem, with so many inviting places to choose from. But first, we simply enjoyed the night air and fell in step with the young crowd on the sidewalk. "I could live here," I stated with a sigh. Amazing, how quickly I fall in love with a place. Skopje, Kiev, Berlin, Rome - four urban love affairs in about as many years.

 

In the end and to our great amazement, we found Dolma restaurant without really looking for it. A bit apprehensive, we stepped down the steep staircase through an unassuming cellar door, only to find the most delightfully discreet gem of an eating place. The waiters spoke English and guided us in our search for a traditional vegetarian Azeri meal. And it was so good. Way too much food, and frankly a bit too oily to be perfect, but let's not by picky: it was delicious.

 

Afterwards, I wanted to see the Caspian Sea. We walked through a large pedestrian street - full of upmarket cafés and restaurants, with people sitting outside enjoying a drink, live music or shisha - which led straight onto the promenade and, beyond, the Caspian Sea. Though it was getting close to midnight, the weather was still inviting enough to sit on the stone steps and watch the waves lapping at the waterfront. "We have to come back here by daylight," I said.

 

But night time had its merits too. To the south of us, the three tall Flame Towers, a Baku signature landmark, put on a phantastic show, lighting up in changing colours, now displaying the flag of Azerbaijan, now moving men or just abstract cascading forms.

 

In the end, we decided against a drink in the shisha bar. As much as I loved this place, I really needed some shut eye. We made our way home to the hotel and, for the first time in my life, I fell asleep in the Caucasus.