Great Expectations

The term ‘going native’ is defined as when a non-local takes on, fully or in part, the characteristics of their current environment in terms of attitude, dress, accent, or other cultural traits. One would think, or at least I did as I left my father and sister at the airport three months ago, that such a short time in a foreign country couldn’t possibly merit the attainment of that phrase. In earnest, I have lived in Bethlehem for the past three years and have certainly not taken on a Pennsylvanian drawl (although Sara and Kate you both have accomplished infiltrating my perfected Jersey accent with hints of Chicago and Long Island) nor did I take on the DC attitude when I called our capital home for three months last summer. I landed in Tbilisi in January with an opened mind and a sincere yearning to immerse myself in all that Georgia had to offer, but I was realistic in that three months could only afford me so much of a cultural experience.

As Friday night descended on Tbilisi with rain clouds and a chilled wind from the distant mountains, I sat impatiently in the back seat of my taxi, eyeing the surrounding traffic with irritation; I questioned why my driver wasn’t cutting off the car in front of us, or crossing into the opposite lane as a car continued to drive at us head-on, to get around this build up and get me to my destination quicker. Leaving my frustration in the holes of the frayed backseat, I briskly found the closest underground tunnel to cross the street. Though entirely black save for a dim light at the other end and despite the sounds of indistinguishable figures eerily reverberating against the graffiti walls, I walked with ease and without fear down this now familiar path. This time choosing the right door at the Pantomime Theatre (though I was tempted to go back stage again just to see if they remembered me), I took my seat to a silent performance that proved to be just as awe-inspiring as the last.

The play told the story of a Christian and Muslim hunter who befriend each other in the mountainous region of Svaneti in a time as old as the hills of its backdrop. The actors leaped into action as animals of the hunt and men swayed rhythmically to the sound of beating drums as the rocks of cliffs or the walls of a hut. The Muslim invited the Christian back to his home village, where the neighbors soon ascended upon his hearth and brutally beat the guest for his Christian community’s actions towards theirs. Their arms struck with such elegance that only the gruesome expressions of their victim reminded me I was watching torture rather than a performance at the NYC Ballet. I watched as the guest was hung on an invisible rope and left to be picked at by bird-like men; the host too fell victim to the prejudice of his elders, as did his wife after a compassionate plea for tolerance, in a moment of sheer theatrical ecstasy. As I began my walk home, I thought of how the aesthetically striking themes of religious strife and territorial integrity seemed far too relevant in the wake of my travel plans to Israel.

Despite the rain’s crusade on the city throughout the weekend, I hiked up a close-by hill to Tbilisi’s Ethnographic Museum to explore the cultures of regions my adventures failed to take me to. Each house I visited was an authentic building brought from that specific region and furnished accordingly with a guide to help visitors along. I marveled at the architecture of each home, intricately carved from wood to form ornate patterns and religious icons, and learned from the various objects inside what life was like according to specific regional traditions. I explored an ancient basilica and the catacombs underneath to discover elaborate tombs of stone horses and forever solemn knights. Each guide told us stories from that village, but also about their own history. We were told stories of the Soviet black market, of attitudes on President Saakashvili, on their trips to America, and even an anecdotal tragedy of a cat, a restaurant owner, and a shotgun. I was able to supplement the tour points that didn’t translate into English to my companion with information that had become second hand in the months that I’ve lived here. I related how this region is famous for this type of cheese and how that region is primarily Islam and its history of Turkish invasion.

The rest of my weekend was filled with wondering the streets of Tbilisi for the last time. I visited my favorite bakery down below an abandoned building where I no longer need to tell my order. I strolled along the Dry Bridge where vendors of everything from Soviet gas masks to fine china sets are carefully sprawled out on blankets. I went to my last performance at Rustaveli Theatre, a monologue play by Camus entitled Le Premier Homme (perhaps fitting as I look forward to spending my summer in the Maghreb). I visited my newly made friends at art galleries, contemporary art centers, and the Academy of Arts for one last cup of tea and emotional goodbye with promises of keeping in touch and, perhaps, one day meeting each other again (which, surprisingly, one friend is spending two months in Bethlehem this summer!). I ordered my last Khatepuri at my now local eats with those friends I have made during my stay, and for the last time met the familiar faces of the wait staff at my favorite café who know me as the girl with the pink laptop who they hope will return.

It seems strange that the next time I sit down to write my next post I won’t be sitting at my desk looking out over the city scintillating with orange lights under the guard of distant mountains, with the sweet smell of burning garbage and the symphony of stray dogs and fruit sellers floating through my opened window. I remember my first time driving down to Old Town, frightfully clenching the fabric as I watched the taxi swerve in terror, or struggling to remember the word ‘stop’ in Georgian. The first time I stumbled upon a dark underground passageway with uncanny old women with veiled faces I practically sprinted to the other side as if I was still running suicides in tennis practice. My time spent here in Tbilisi has been too inspiring and incredible for these mere words to do it justice. The memories I have made toasting to strangers in a three hundred year old wine cellar in the countryside and looking out over a cave monastery after a two hour desert hike will be cherished forever as some of the most extraordinary, and surprising, experiences of my life. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed Georgian food, and how much I will miss Khachepuri as I eat at the UC next fall. I was surprised at how much I have learned about not only Georgian politics and economics, but art, attitudes, culture, and all else in between, and how I undoubtedly will question why my taxi driver in New York won’t be driving up on the sidewalk to get around traffic.

But perhaps the least expected surprise came last Friday as I visited a small village to show an American film and give a speech in a deteriorating school building. As they stared at the first American they had met with wide eyes, I began to speak about America. Without realizing, I began to make more and more references to Georgian culture; with each mention of something they could connect to, their timid expressions soon faded away into smiles, and even laughter. Taking my seat next to a fifteen year old boy to watch the movie, he suddenly turned to me and said in English ‘I like you talk with funny Georgian Telavi (a movie reference). Thank you.’ Three months may not be enough to pick up an accent or to suddenly change my wardrobe to include traditional dresses, but then again maybe that all elusive phrase that I dismissed at the onset of my journey doesn’t necessarily require me to say ‘Geeorgeeiaah’ or be adorned in a tall sheep herder’s hat. As I watched Night at the Museum surrounded by an audience more interested in me than the screen, I realized that three months has been enough for me to, in my own way, ‘go native.’