Thursday, 12 October 2017

 

Start: Tbilisi 12:00

Arrival: Gori 17:00

Total: 100 km

 

On which I learned:

 

all about the workings of a cargo centre

to appreciate all sorts of Georgian fluids, viz. their water, green lemonade and beer

and, most importantly, how to eat khinkali

 

 

I woke up at nine o'clock the next morning, refreshed and ready to face the challenges of a new day. I opened the door to the balcony. It was chilly outside, at least compared to balmy Baku. But I liked the view over backyards and hills. Tbilisi has an undeniable rakish charm. Today, I would pick up my rental car and visit Mtskheta, Ananuri and Gori. The trip was only 180 kilometers, and I was confident that the tourist attractions would be easy enough to find. But first I had to eat and drink. I was dying for some water, but there was no minibar in the room and I didn't want to drink from the tap. Luxembourg tap water is excellent, but in some European cities the water is so chlorinated as to not be drinkable. Who knew what they did to their water in Tbilisi. In any case, lots of people online advised against it.

 

The breakfast room was a small place with four tables and a counter. A motherly lady appeared and asked: "Coffee?" Oh, yes, please. She placed toast, jam, yoghurt, cheese, ham, eggs and a cup of coffee in front of me. Food. How wonderful. "Thank you! Oh, and could I have some water, please?" She smiled at me, but there was no comprehension in her face. She probably had exhausted her English vocabulary with the first question. "Vodu, pojalusta?" I ventured, adding "mineralnuyu". Her eyes lit up. Of course, she would get me some mineral water. She opened a fridge and rummaged through it. Not finding what she was looking for, she closed it again and disappeared into the kitchen. More rummaging. A moment later she reappeared with an empty glass, which she put behind the counter. She looked at me. Not wanting to be caught spying, I busied myself with my toast. The tap was turned on. I looked up. The woman appeared to be arranging some jars behind the counter. Hm. A minute later, she came to my table and offered me a glass of water. I eyed the glass suspiciously. I could have had this half an hour earlier, from the tap in my room. Ah well, beggars are no choosers. I took a sip. It tasted delicious, cold and crisp like a mountain spring. I drank the whole glass. Who needs plastic bottles of Evian, if the local deal is so much better!

 

Back at my room, I devised a travel plan. Main objective: how to avoid driving through the inner city. I looked up the car rental agency. It was located in the heart of the old town. Not so good. But they also had an office at the airport. Much better. I would ask them to bring the car there and thus avoid the capital altogether. Perfect plan.

 

Next: how to get to the airport with two suitcases, a toiletry bag, a handbag and a guitar. Last night, the receptionist had offered to drive me, so that seemed like the easiest solution. We quickly agreed on a price. I was running low on cash, so he offered to stop at a bank on the way. At the large roundabout called Freedom Square, I hopped out of the car, praying that this cash dispenser, unlike the one at the airport, was living up to its name. Everything went smoothly and soon we were on our way to the airport, my driver pointing out sights as we went. Narikala Fortress, the Bridge of Peace, the impressive building of the Ministry of Internal Affairs and a shopping centre near the highway. We talked international politics in a mishmash of basic English and Russian for beginners. So now I know that Polish politician Lech Kaczynski had been a good friend of the Georgian president, and therefore a street is named in his honour.

 

 

 

At the airport, I handed him the money for my hotel stay and the ride. He started to protest, saying that he felt really bad taking my money, as I had been his guest. With this mindset, the hotel would soon have to file for bankruptcy. This seems to be a real conundrum for many Georgian people: they are so proud of their celebrated Caucasian hospitality and would prefer to perpetuate it, but this is not how the service industry works. In the end, he accepted the money, but insisted to carry my luggage and deliver me safely to the rental car office. He even called the agency to ask where exactly they were located.

 

So here I was, back at the arrivals gate. This place began to feel like an old acquaintance - someone you know really well, but if you bump into each other too often, it becomes slightly annoying. So, back in the hall, a man approached us, asking if I was Sandra. Of all the people in the building - how had he figured that out? He introduced himself as the car rental representative, and, saying he would bring me to the car right away, he shouldered most of my luggage as a matter of course. Georgian men are such gentlemen!

 

The car turned out to be a small, but perfectly functional Suzuki. The representative handed me the keys, I signed a piece of paper, we loaded my stuff into the trunk and I was good to go. "Do you know where the cargo centre is?" I asked. Cargo centre? He didn't seem to understand the word. How do you say cargo in Russian? Kargo? Probably not. "An airport for things", I explained. Now I sounded like a moron. "I want to send these things to my friend in India. He was not allowed into the country." The tetri seemed to drop, or at least he nodded. "Direction Tbilisi." That was rather vague. Many things lay in the direction of Tbilisi, hell, if I drove long enough, I'd end up back home in Luxembourg. I wished I had wifi in the car, or better yet, taken the time to buy a Georgian SIM card. "Far?" I asked doubtfully. He hesitated. "I think not." This was fast turning into a Baku affair. What was it with Caucasian addresses that they seemed so very hard to locate? I willed myself into action. It was already noon and I had three tourist spots to visit before nightfall. Get behind the wheel and drive!

 

I waved goodbye to him and carefully manoeuvered the car unto the street. Tbilisi was on my left, but this was a one-way street going right. What a harebrained idea, I would never find that cargo centre, let alone a ruined fortress on a lake or my hotel tonight in an unfamiliar town. Shoving all negative thoughts to the side, I focused on the road. The airport seemed to be a dead-end, with the road going around the parking lot and leading back towards the capital. Made perfect sense. Still, it might be better to ask for proper directions before I got onto the highway.

 

Steering the car to the kerb, I tried to make eyecontact with one of the taxi drivers. A man waved at me and came over. He looked familiar. "You have a problem?" he asked, leaning into the passenger side window. I remembered him! He was the car rental representative I had been talking to three minutes ago! What a coincidence! "The cargo centre is this way?" I asked lamely. He nodded. "I will show you." He was coming along? Yay! I could have hugged him. "You don't need to get back to work?" I asked, faux-concerned, and could have kicked myself the moment I said it. Don't give him ideas! He shook his head. "But I left my phone at the office," he mused, then waved the thought aside. "Go. Drive."

 

Never had Kakheti Highway seen a happier driver. Now that I didn't have to worry about directions, I was confidently weaving in and out of traffic, changing lanes and making a Vin-Diesel worthy last-minute U-turn when he instructed me to. This was fun.

 

 

 

To our mutual amazement, we found Lasare Cargo Centre almost straight away. I parked the car and we hauled Aarat's suitcase and the guitar towards a group of houses. It didn't look like they were expecting too many customers. We had to ask twice before someone waved us down a gravelled lane to a large building. "What is your name?" I asked, while we walked towards it. "Irakli," he said. "I'm Sandra," I smiled. "I know," he smiled back.

 

"Irakli is like Hercules, right? That's a great name for a man." I wanted to add that I had always loved Greek mythology and the Hercules and Xena series, but I wasn't sure if he would understand me. And in any case, we had arrived at our destination.

 

I've never tried to send a large package long-distance. But I know that ships and planes transport millions of huge containers all over the world on a daily basis. Honestly, I don't know how they do it. First we asked at the reception. Then Irakli went upstairs to talk to some people he knew who worked here. One of his friends came down to help. Then a friend of the friend joined us. Then some more people. Finally, they seemed to have figured it out and took Aarat's things to an adjoining hangar. I waited. After a while, Irakli reappeared. They needed to know what was in the suitcase. And there was a problem with the guitar too. Unprotected as it was in its soft gig bag, it wouldn't survive the transport. But one of the workers had offered to build a makeshift shell for it, if that was okay with me. In the meantime, we should fill out the necessary forms.

 

Finally they arranged to put Aarat's things on an Aeroflot flight. Back at the storage hall, the guitar had been lovingly stowed into a custom-made carton package. First-class service. These people were taking their job seriously! Luckily, they didn't seem to have any other customers this afternoon. At least none that were hanging about in the hangar. In the end, the whole experience had taken us almost three hours and now we had to take the papers to another hall to pay for the shipment. This involved more waiting. Meanwhile, Irakli sent some work messages from my phone, as he had left his behind at the airport. When people started sending him messages back, I felt very proud. My phone was doing business in the Caucasus, communicating in Georgian. Not many tourists can claim as much.

 

Before the very last paper had been signed, Irakli had agreed to accompany me on my day trip. "Maybe you want to drive?" I asked when we walked back to the car, half hoping, half fearing he would say yes. He shook his head. "You are a good driver," he said, "and you want to drive." He had me all figured out.

 

And so we were on our way to the west. But between us and Western Georgia lay - yes - Tbilisi. There is no bypass to avoid the congested roads of this city of 1.5 million people. You have to go straight through the centre. Which didn't even matter, because in any case, Irakli wanted to drop by at their headquarters. So I manoeuvered the car through the narrow lanes of the old town and with every minute I was enjoying the crazy traffic more. It wasn't actually that crazy. It was about finding the most efficient way from here to there, but try and tell that to your average law-obsessed, uber-cautious angry Western European.

 

 

 

Finally we left the highrises of Western Tbilisi behind us and sped along the highway toward Mtskheta. Founded almost 2500 years ago, this picturesque town with the tongue-twisting name had been the capital of the kingdom of Georgia for many centuries.

 

Here, Christianity was proclaimed the official state religion in 337 AD. And until the 19th century, the kings of Georgia were coronated and buried in Mtskheta. A few years ago, the Georgian Orthodox Church had even declared Mtskheta a Holy City. All in all, a mighty important town, so I'd better learn to pronounce its name.

 

High up on a rocky mountaintop above the city lies the monastery of Jvari, our first destination. Luckily, you can drive all the way to the top, so for once, no hour-long hikes necessary. I parked the car and we walked up the grassy lane to the little church. I don't think there are any monks living up there, because it doesn't actually look like a full-fledged monastery. More like a church with the remnants of some fortifications around it. But I loved the architecture and the location! The view down into the valley was simply awe-inspiring, with the river and town deep below and large dales and hills spreading all around. Irakli motioned for me to get closer to the railing. He wanted to take a picture of me against this backdrop. "I'm afraid of heights," I laughed. "Just turn around and look at me," he smiled. So I turned my back to the void and leaned against the railing. It wasn't all that bad - almost.

 

As this was a functioning Orthodox church, I had to cover my hair with my scarf and drape a makeshift dress over my jeans. I'm very comfortable covering my hair, but I felt like a child dressing up for carnival with a bulky piece of cloth around my hips. Kind people might say I looked like a nun. Others might come up with a less flattering comparison.

 

The interior of the church was kept very simple, with bare stone walls, some colourful icons of saints and several huge crosses. Irakli explained that the name of the church, Jvari, actually means cross in Georgian. I walked around the hall, feeling peaceful and introspective after a stressful, busy day. But then, had the day really been that stressful? Or was it just me who had been stressed out?

 

 

 

It was getting dark when we walked back to the car. And I was getting really hungry. I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast. I let Irakli decide on a restaurant, with the sole proviso that it had to be close enough to provide me with food within the next half hour. Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of Salobie, a large, vine-covered building on the main road just outside the town. Outside stairs were leading up into a huge wood-panelled dining room full of merry guests. A party of about twenty elderly Georgian ladies occupied the tables in the centre. When we entered, they launched into an old folk song. Not because of us, of course, but it felt cool nonetheless. The singers put a vast amount of heart, soul and temperament into it, which more than made up for the quite notable lack of talent. Or maybe they'd already had a few.

 

We sat down at one of the rustic oak tables and Irakli went to order food. I had given clear instructions for the meal: a) make it something typically Georgian b) no alcohol, we still have to drive and c) no big portions, please. In hindsight, two out of three ain't bad.

 

While he was gone, I eyed the other guests. Most of them seemed to be locals, or at least Georgians, judging by their incomprehensible conversations. Some of the waiters were dressed in historical garments. What a unique eating place!

 

Our drinks arrived: a bottle of green lemonade. Curious, I inspected the label. It contained local mineral water and tarragon. What on Earth was tarragon? Judging from the picture and the taste, some herb, a bit like estragon. Back home in Luxembourg, I found out that tarragon actually is the correct English word for French estragon. Thus I had to travel to Georgia to learn a new English word. And the lemonade tasted delicious. It instantly became my new favourite.

 

Then there was the food. I looked down at my plate. Several dim-sum-like dumplings, only larger and with a longish stalk. This looked like fun food. Irakli introduced me to the art of eating the Georgian way. First you grab the dumpling by the stalk. Not with your fork, no, with your fingers. Which is not easy, as it is really hot and quite wobbly. Then you somehow balance it towards your mouth. Next you carefully take a small bite out of the soft part. This provides an opening from which you can suck the hot, meaty juice. Then, and only then, you bite off larger chunks until you reach the meat ball inside. When you have nibbled the item down to the stalk, you discard the hard leftovers. Voilà, you have eaten your first khinkali. They are so yum.

 

Next, I had to try a shawarma-like meat wrap. Very tasty. Then the shashlik. Very good, though each one of these three dishes would have passed as a full meal for me. And finally, just when I thought my stomach couldn't handle any more, the waitress brought a thick, flat bread with cheese in it, which goes by the name of khachapuri. A bit fatty maybe, but very tasty. Perfect, when you are hungry. Not so perfect when you are already close to bursting.

 

 

 

It was almost nine o'clock when we stepped out into the pleasantly fresh night air. I don't like to drive at night, so I handed the car keys to Irakli. "You drive." This time, he didn't object. We arrived in Gori in no time at all. I had booked a hotel in the centre of town and it turned out a perfect choice. Called Royal House, it was more a welcoming family-run boutique hotel then a grand regal affair. Everything was so new you could still smell a faint whiff of paint in the hallway. The room was large and comfortable with light, modern furniture, and the walk-in shower was a godsend.

 

Now I wanted to experience nightlife in Gori. Irakli was doubtful. He didn't think there were any places to go out in this town. I refused to believe that, so we set out to explore the area. The receptionist at our hotel seemed to share Irakli's assessment. He suggested a restaurant down the street, where we could have a beer.

 

I popped into the place, and quickly popped out again. It was noisy and smelled of food. No. We walked on. The night air was refreshing, and apart from the occasional car driving by, the town of Gori lay quiet and deserted. Even if we didn't find a bar, I loved our late-evening stroll.

 

Talking about the lack of places catering to single fortysomethings in Georgia, we arrived on the main boulevard. There were streetlights, but they barely illuminated the sidewalk. I love to be out in a city after nightfall. It has a very special charm.

 

We happened on a small group of teenagers hanging out in front of a bus stop. If my friend and fellow writer Georges Hausemer had been here, he would have taken a picture of the bus stop shelter. Instead, we asked for directions to the nearest watering hole. The youths were in the know. Yes, there was a bar, not far from here, just down the road. So we walked on. And that is how we found the Champs Elysées, right there on Stalin Avenue. A quiet and classy cocktail bar with large, cosy couches on the glasscovered veranda. I loved it. Now let's try some Georgian beer. We each had different brands, so that I could sample both. Unfortunately I don't remember the names, but it tasted very good. Maybe not as good as Belgian dark beer, but still highly recommendable.

 

"See, Gori does have a good nightlife," I laughed, when we walked back to our hotel. It is as ever: you have to see a place through the eyes of a tourist (or a child, which has more or less the same effect) to truly appreciate it anew. One of the many reasons I love to be a couchsurfing host. But right now I was not couchsurfing. I was happily falling asleep in a bed, barely half a kilometer from Joseph Stalin's birthplace.