A Tale of Two Tbilisis

Whenever I find myself in a new city, I always seem to lose myself in what life might have been like there centuries ago. I imagine the ports of Boston as wooden cargo crates are hoisted high into the forebodingly dark sky, or perhaps what gossip was whispered in the marketplaces of Freiburg as the May Day music vivaciously filled the warm night air. Tbilisi is an incredibly spectacular playground for my sort of imagination. Hurrying behind my colleague Saturday afternoon, my gaze at the deteriorating buildings erased the city soot and graffiti from their magnificent facades. Though most of the buildings in this part of the Old City had fallen into such disarray they seemed beyond repair, treasures of the past glimmered through the dust of modernity: an old golden door with bas relief, an ornate wooden balcony in faded pastels, a mysterious stone archway leading into a once flourishing Babylon-like garden. Once upon a time this neighborhood may have been bustling with merchants traveling the Silk Road, or perchance the famous Georgian poet Shota Rustaveli once strolled these lanes for inspiration, taking in the aroma of the spice market or the soft melody from the sagalobeli nearby. The night before I had dined in Vake (Tbilisi’s SoHo) with a co-workers in a petite French restaurant complete with Edith Piaf and escargot. There the wide boulevards lined with colorful 20th century verandas had been overtaken by contemporary boutiques and youthful cafes. But here in the narrow passageways of my midday walk our modern time had passed over the doors and balconies and mysterious archways. Here the decaying streets were empty save for the lonesome traveler and the ghosts of what might have been.  


Escaping from the harsh winds of February, we entered a small folk museum. Despite the cold (hardly any building is heated), the rich colors of the tapestries and rugs that filled the walls seemed to warm the rooms. The Georgian’s, like their neighbors in Persia, were known for their lavish geometric rugs as travelers visited their lively marketplaces. Even today you can find many rug stores on side streets of the city. Beneath the rugs stood small replicas of different occupations: the shoemaker, the basket weaver, the hands of the vineyard, the blacksmith. Upstairs stood testaments of these miniatures’ hard work. The shelves were lined with goat horns for drinking, metal daggers, and traditional dress for both everyday life and special occasions. Our next stop was the National Fine Arts Museum, the equivalent to our Smithsonians. As a past intern at the Smithsonian, I was needless to say eager to explore Georgia’s collection of national artwork. Unfortunately, Georgia was not privileged enough to have a wealthy British patron donate his fortune to their parliament for the arts and sciences. Instead, Georgia’s national masterpieces hang crookedly on putrefying wallpaper guarded by men who are consumed by the Jungle Book cartoon. After looking past the conservator’s nightmare of environment, the museum’s three exhibitions were fascinating. The first was 19th and 20th Century Georgian landscape painting somewhere in between Impressionism and German Expressionism (Alex you would have really enjoyed the sunsets); the second was an incredible collection of religious artwork dating from the 4th Century until the 19th Century that told not only Georgia’s spiritual history, but its royal and literary chronicle as well; the final rooms were filled with an odd assortment of Syrian paintings and furniture acquired by the director, who we had run into earlier, some years ago.  


Before traveling onto our final two visits, the woman I live with and I stopped in the Marriot for coffee (or in my case, a rather thick hot chocolate). One visited the Marriot, my companion informed me, not to eat but to see who else was eating. Moments later as I found myself conversing with the French Ambassador about how Paris far transcended DC as a city, I knew exactly what she meant. Shortly thereafter we again voyaged on through the icy air into an unimpressive representational gallery and then onto a far more impressive conceptual gallery. The latter, Gallery 9 tucked away behind the construction of the Opera House, seemed both too modern and too minimalist for its surroundings. The art on the stark black walls, including a massive painting of sumo wrestlers, and on the ceilings, a hanging shoe titled The Soviet’s Ass, was an interesting array of Georgian’s self-perception. Speaking to the gallery owner about the man made of nails sitting next to us, it seemed that Georgians had progressed a long way from the dim alleyways I had sauntered only hours ago.  

The following morning I arrived in Freedom Square to meet for a guided walking tour of Tbilisi with two English teachers (link). Our guide, an old Georgian woman who spoke impeccable English, pointed out monuments and old buildings as she briskly walked the streets and underground passageways (traffic lights are nonexistent in Tbilisi and thus underground tunnels spread across the city like spider webs). Over there is the old city way from the 5th Century, and down this path is Gorgasali Square, once a major trading post of the Silk Road. We did manage to make a few stops in the old city: the Doll Museum, with mechanical dolls that were captivating but reminded you a bit of Talking Tina, an art exhibition of a contemporary Abkhaz woman artist, and Anchiskhati Church, the oldest surviving church in Tbilisi. Inside the air was musky with incents and through the darkness one could make out devoted city-goers crossing themselves with melodic Latin prayer echoing from a Priest nearby. We then hiked up a mountain to Narikhala Fortress, the main fort of Tbilisi from the 4th Century onward, and finally back down to the Arabian Sulfur Baths (both of which I plan to return to so won’t spend time detailing now). After the tour, the two teachers and I sat down for lunch at KBG Café (their slogan was still watching you) where we had traditional Georgian khinkali. The two shortly departed for their stationed villages, but I stuck around to take advantage of the WiFi connection. As I shut my dead computer after a call to my family I found a drink in front of me with a note, “on the house.” I looked up to thank my waiter but instead was called over by a group of older men and women next to me. Motioning to pick up my drink the men yelled, “gaumarjos!” “They’re teaching you the proper way to drink in Georgia,” my waiter whispered. From the young woman at the Folk Museum to these old men, it was clear that the Georgians were truly proud of their culture. The ethnic conflict or subpar education standards that I was kept busy with at work were only hazy problems in the midst of our cheers. For them, Georgia was not defined by the conflict of 2008 but instead by the rich traditions and colorful personality of their homeland. As I stepped out onto the cobblestone street to hail a taxi, I could not help to imagine those men and women who created the culture these Georgians are so proud of today.  


Still no internet or phone at home, but the visiting Fulbright in the room next door should make for good company these next few nights and intriguing meetings during the day should keep any dullness at bay. Till next time, nakvamdis!