The Road Less Traveled

The night I arrived in Tbilisi I at once observed that my new home was at the crossroads of both time and culture. On the ride from the airport I sat in awe of the magnificent stone fortress among the hills, easily hundreds of years old, and yet only a short measure away stood the city’s TV tower scintillating in the night sky as if it were the Eifel Tower of the East; I sauntered the cobblestone streets my first few days taking in the sulphuric steams of the bath houses before dining in the company of Edith Piaf in a petit French café. Tbilisi, and all of Georgia, has masterfully retained both its old world feel and the wonders of Eastern influences while striving towards modernization and Europeanization under their current political administration. Most of the younger generation in the capitol has some command of English, and nearly everyone has a cell phone (and Facebook page); they too embrace the westward looking cries of their president through their education and their consumerism. Yet, despite their yearning for modernity, dozens of young and adolescent Georgians stood hours in line to buy tickets and piled into the Art Gallery Theatre last Friday night for a “spectacular that shouldn’t be missed,” as my co-worker described it to me. Unlike most of the theatre’s patrons, my companion and I had managed to purchase two seats before the show had sold out; a lack of seats, however, did not stop the audience from growing. Spectators lined the walls, took seats on the aisle stairs, even sat on their friends’ laps up until the lights dimmed in eager anticipation of the night’s entertainment. Georgian dancing is, in a word, incredible. The two hour performance was perhaps my most enjoyable experience yet this side of the Atlantic. All the dancers performed in traditional dress from several regions around the country, making impossibly quick costume changes in between songs. 


The men were poetically strong, forcefully hitting each position with perfection. They leaped lyrically, almost suspended in the air by some force of aesthetic might, before violently thrusting themselves downward. Some dances were quiet and illuminated only by torches, highlighting their skill of dancing point without point shoes on, while others were thunderous with the noise of swords being thrown and shields being struck. Their female counterparts always appeared with elegance unattainable even in the prestigious NYC Ballet. Their long gowns covered their feet, creating an illusion of the dancers gilding on the wooden floor. Their elongated arms twisted and turned seductively, paying tribute to their Ottoman conquers. Together, they created a spectacular that shouldn’t be missed. As the night drew to a close, the troop filed on stage to a standing ovation and the theatre goers dispersed with smiles on their faces and laugher echoing through the halls.  


Traveling away from ancient traditions, Sunday brought me to another performance- the opera Mitridate by the fourteen year old Mozart at the Rustaveli Theatre. The theatre itself was a masterpiece of old world European influence: the high baroque ceilings dotted with cherubic angels and chandeliers, the red velvet seats, the special boxes for those frequent opera goers. Though the subtitled were in Georgian, and the librettos in Italian, the power and beauty of the actors’ voices transcended any human language. The main actor, a Chinese opera singer who was in residence in Tbilisi, was particularly impressive in both his emotional portrayal of his character and his arias. The interpretation was interesting: most of the actors did not sing. Instead, they had singer counterparts in golden robes who acted like puppeteers, moving and speaking, or singing, for the characters. Though not as captivating as the dance, the show and atmosphere are something I will never forget.  


Unfortunately, my computer’s charger died on Monday, and thus foiled my prospective plans of adventure. Accepting that it would be a more lackluster day than anticipated, I embraced the cold once again and walked two hours into town for lunch. I happened upon a restaurant among the crowded streets without a name, but instead a welcoming ‘open’ sign in Georgian. Descending the stairs into the basement of a building, I choose a rustic wooden table close to the open fireplace and set up my computer (prior to my series of unfortunate events) to continue writing a story I have been working on. Seeing as I was the only diner, the waitress paid close attention to me, and, after trying to persuade me to order a pork dish, took the seat to the left of me. Her and I talked for nearly three hours about everything from gay rights in Georgia to how “the Armenians were Christian before Christ was.” The conversation in company of crackling flames and hot clay-pot mushrooms was both enlightening and captivating, giving me insight into a society I still know so little about despite spending nearly a month here. Soon thereafter, I dodged the raindrops descending onto Tbilisi and joined the woman I live with to visit her friend and his family. Meeting in his newly opened gallery, the painter invited us in to explore his works with opened arms (and to a wonderful spread of pastries, tea, and Turkish coffee). Among the bright lights and minimalist canvases the intellectual conversation continued to flourish. We spoke of what the role of an artist is in modernity, what role family plays in Georgia, the contemporary art scene in Tbilisi, and countless other topics that begged me to one day return to his workshop to hear more of his gracefully articulated prose.  


Tbilisi, as I said, it at a crossroads of both time and culture- you can read that line verbatim out of Lonely Planet’s travel guide, or any other tourist book detailing an efficient schedule of sites for one’s visit to this gem of the Caucasus. Of course one must see the magnificent monasteries pictured on page 37, and without question the historic old city wall that snakes its way around colorful 19th Century balconies written about a few pages later. Nonetheless, more and more I find that in order to truly understand Georgia, to fully comprehend what it means to be ‘at a crossroads,’ one must take the road less traveled. You have to pack yourself into a local theatre to watch traditional dances, or go to the opera despite it not being in English. You must take refuge in an underground restaurant, and perhaps talk with a waitress about the Russian language’s role among the youth, or even watch the dynamics of a local artist’s family as they bicker about what pastries to order. Getting lost off the pages of books and guides, and more importantly discovering what diamonds lay beyond the map’s edge, truly does, as Frost penned years ago, make all the difference.