Around the World in 120 Days: The Beginning

Though, as always, we were racing the clock to make it to the airport in time, the car was eerily calm as we made our way across the city to JFK; perhaps the lull before the storm, perhaps a good omen for the months to come. My father was frantically speeding through lights and around busses, still murmuring about a faster way to have gotten here. My sister was silent, for once, in the back seat, and I in the front anxiously awaiting my journey to a country that nearly all of my friends and family thought was in Africa.Nervous about how late we were running, I looked out the window to see how much more steel jungle we had to trek through before making it to the yellow brick road of terminals and flight attendants: Flushings. Almost there.

“Not much tennis going on today is there?” My dad had noticed my gaze at the old World’s Fair grounds as we passed the looming carcasses of humanity’s history. When I was younger, my trips to the US Open were littered with stories of when my grandmother took my father to the World’s Fair in 1964. It was over there that they had Belgium Waffles, and behind that monument was the Soviet Union exhibition, and right there in the middle, that’s their tribute to the Herrmann family and the majestic castle of Trylon Wire (well, sort of). In an age where McDonalds are found on every continent and booking a flight to Paris is as easy as booking one to Florida, my generation can only fathom the impact of strolling this park fifty years ago; for us, there is simply no notion of the unfeasibility of exploring cultures from around the world when you can get Chinese food delivered to your door within thirty minutes.

I think somewhere in between that first tearful goodbye at the airport five years ago and the excited hugs and somber glances back at my sister and father Friday evening, I forgot how lucky I am to live in an age and country where I don’t have to wait for a kiosk with food from the Caucuses to set up shop in the city, but can board a plane and try it myself in Tbilisi. My last few expeditions out of the country undeniably left me feeling grateful for things. Shabat at the Western Wall and Halvdallah on the shores of the Kinerret made me thankful for the opportunity to visit my homeland and truly experience my heritage. The huts made from scrap metal and barely (if any) working latrines in Honduras made me grateful for the comforts I am afforded living in America. Nonetheless, one gratitude seems to have escaped me in my travels: the simple luxury of being able to board a plane and experience the wonder of a culture entirely different than our own. Thinking of those long abandoned steel giants in Queens as the wheels hit hard against the rainy concrete of an old runway halfway around the world, I knew I would not make the same mistake again.

Tbilisi is an odd city: there are quite a few ancient castles and churches in the valley, their massive stones bathed in orange as the sun sets behind the distant mountains, and a few very modern constructions, like the George W. Bush Highway (accompanied by an endearing picture of Mr. Bush waving to oncoming traffic) and a new Interior Ministry made entirely out of glass (a good choice for an office who’s duties include earthquake emergencies). The rest of the crowded streets are filled with either worn-down buildings from the 1970s and 80s, stripped of their Soviet realist architectures or the skeletons of construction projects abandoned by their investors during the last war. Tbilisi is truly at the crossroads of both time and cultures. Walk down one alley and imagine yourself in the Medieval fortresses of the Caucuses Mountains, venture down another and find yourself in the westward-looking capital of a country on the cusp of modern time. But Tbilisi is not only a crossroads of traditions and eras; it is a crossroads of my past travels. The stray dogs and stench of burning [insert whatever one can find to keep their fire going here] are borrowed from Honduras, the tasty bread made on the corner from France, the swiftness (but surely not the insanity) of the traffic from Germany, the kettles and rugs in my house from Israel.
My house for the next few months, which is quite large, is a bit up the valley.

 Though most foreigners all speak of how wonderful a city this is and how lovely a place it is to work, if you stick around long enough and don’t speak too often the criticisms begin to leak out as if mortared back for an eternity: one day there will be avocados in the grocers, but then they’ll disappear for months, one day Georgian’s will do something really spectacular, and then they’ll go and ruin it by punching some woman in the face, supras are a lot of fun, but the aftermath of drunkards on the roads is a mess (if you’re a faithful Veronica Sherman reader, look out for Stop Talking II). Of course it is difficult not to find faults after living in countries like Darfur or Turkestan for so long, but perhaps before their next move these adventurers can take the time to visit the old World’s Fair grounds and remember just how lucky they are to board that next plane. Unfortunately, I do not have internet or phone where I live, but I’ll be updating this blog, sans pictures, every few days about travel, attempting to speak Georgian, and all else in between (so worried members of my family don’t fret). Till next time, nakhvamdis!