My weekend started out as all of my weekends in Georgia begin, with the promise of yet another unforgettable three days. Friday night I took part in Embassy Trivia, a riveting game of First Lady’s dresses and famous Georgian movie clips, the former of which I have my Smithsonian internship to thank for my knowledge and the latter of which I (along with the rest of my American teammates) had absolutely no idea what was going on. Luckily, I redeemed myself from my faulty familiarity of foreign films with supplying my team with the six wives of King Henry VIII. The night was filled with laughter and the first American food I’ve had since my arrival in Tbilisi over a month ago. In the end, my team triumphed with a silver metal and my co-winners, and new friends, gathered for a celebratory drink downtown.
Saturday morning I woke up early to meet my ride, a man named Jacques, at the Tbilisi Marroit to drive into the countryside for a vineyard tour. Fearing that the roads were too icy from the snow, the vineyard owner sent his driver to the capital to pick us and two other woman up. Awaiting the others’ arrivals, Jacques and I sat down for tea; whereupon he learned that I spoke French and rapidly began discussing his business with me (Jaques is the equivalent of the Poland Spring CEO if Poland Spring was the only water one could purchase in America). Before long, our companions, an American businesswoman and an English environmentalist, joined us and we four embarked on perhaps the most terrifying car ride of my life. We sped for two hours mostly on dirt road through the snow, passing breathtaking mountain views and small villages wherein butchers had set up shop along the streets with chops of meat and pig heads swaying beside them. Around noon we arrived in Signagi and huddled around the fireplace of our host’s winery. The building, situated in a main cross-section of the village, was beautiful; an ancient home that had been newly restored, it only had a few rooms of olden stone and intricate woodwork that glowed richly in the fire’s flames. We took a tour of the building through the owner’s art studio, gallery, and remarkable Georgian carpet room while hearing both his personal history of his studies in Russia and travels in Georgia and of the Georgian culture that saturated the air we breathed. Ending in a small room with a newly built bar, we got to taste the fruits of his labor. We compared both whites and red from the 2010 stock that was yet to be bottled to the same grape of the years before, tasting the stark difference between the still lively fruity accents and the more settled, interwoven components. We feasted on cheese, fresh pomegranates, and walnuts before trying our hands at making Georgian bread. After kneading the dough, we pushed it against an open cylindrical fire pit outside, creating long, oddly shaped loaves that tasted delicious when we dipped our still warm masterpieces in their homemade sunflower seed oil. Having our fill of bread, we drove down to the vineyard itself and learned how they made their wine, a very different method than that of the west. We were taught how their harvest season was run, their wine making season, and finally their distilling season for the infamous chacha (a fiery grappa-like substance that I was finished with after half a shot). We watched as a worker roasted pork over an open fire of grape vines and other flavorful plants and introduced ourselves. As I chewed on my churchkhela, a dessert of grape juice and flower dripped onto a string, I soon learned that my companions were from around the world and drawn to Georgia for a variety of reasons. There was a Dutch man aiding the military, an Italian teaching Italian in a local school, a German woman working on micro finance loans to small companies, and several others from different backgrounds all standing together in a small wooden shack enjoying each other’s company. We returned to our hotel rooms to get settled in and well rested for the long evening of song, dance, and far too much food.
Our host invited us into his home with welcomed arms and led us down into his three hundred year old wine cellar to a candle lit table already filled with various dishes. There were local cheeses ranging from a salty mozzarella like cheese to a thick yogurt cheese only made in the village. The bread piled up to the ceiling, and we filled our plates with shredded beats mixed with chopped walnuts and other cold vegetable dishes. Supras, a traditional Georgian feast, are the essence of their culture. They are present throughout the country, regardless of what ethnicity, religion, or region you are from. The word itself mean’s “table cloth” in Georgian, and though the food itself may vary with location, the event itself holds staples of tradition from village to village. The supra is always led by a Tamada, or toastmaster, who introduces each toast during the celebration. Our eloquent Tamada cheered to love, our homelands, friendship, our soldiers, our culture, our faith, our wine (and by the end of the night as our wine bowls drained “to our cultures not turning to oatmeal in our over industrialized world,” which was responded with frantic “what’s oatmeal?!” by the non-Americans). To each toast, we drank from our wooden wine bowls and clinked bowls with our neighbor, making sure to hit at the lowest point of the bowl out of respect. Although the Tamada had to announce each toast, anyone was able to add onto the speech by standing and saying a few words. Each toast was followed by another dish being brought out by the cook, his mother-in-law; we ate cheese stuffed dumplings, a flavorsome mushroom strew, and countless other local delicacies ending with a large, baked pumpkin stuffed with sweet dried fruits. As the plates were put before us, a few Georgian feasters would start to quietly sing folk songs from around Georgia. They were beautiful harmonies that had once led their soldiers off to war or were the laments of a widowed Svan woman. We were all encouraged to partake in the singing and dancing, learning the customs of a rich culture. All of the food, wine, toasts, and entertainment made for an evening that I will never forget. 
The following morning we ate a quick breakfast of cheese, bread, eggs, and what we assumed to be jellied berries and drove off to a nearby monastery. We were told the tale of St. Nino, the woman who brought Christianity to Georgia and whose remains were kept in that church, before entering the sacred building. The outside was magnificent, standing against the snowy trees and hilltops, but the inside was even more spectacular adorned with medieval frescos and shimmering icons. Our group was shown the newly restored refractory and private prayer chamber for the nuns residing there, and then descended into a thirty minute hike down the snowy mountainside to a holy spring. Though I am not Christian, the piety of the nuns that led us there and the Georgians who accompanied us was inspiring. As I sat Monday in Georgia’s Supreme Court, listening to one of its Chief Supreme Justices relate the country’s recent court reforms, I let my mind wonder back to Saturday night’s feast. After the tamada toasted to those loved ones who were no longer with us, I stood up to add to his speech. I spoke of Poppy and how if it wasn’t for his inspiration I would not be here enjoying this experience with them; as I looked around the table at the Americans, Brits, Georgians, Danes, Germans, French, and Italians that accompanied me, I could not help but swell with emotion. Nonetheless, I was not crying of sorrow for missing my grandfather. I cried at the realization that in a world still filled with so much war and hate, in a small village in the Georgian countryside I was surrounded by people from around the world who cared just as much as me about making a difference. That site, I said as I again took my seat, was the most beautiful in all the world.
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