Portrait of the Artists as a Pantomime

Keeping up with the long standing Herrmann tradition of being late, I eagerly leaned forward in the back seat of my taxi to see through the cracked windshield, counting how many blocks on Rustaveli Ave I had left till my destination. Finally, I saw the drama masks rising into view on my left and quickly called for the driver to stop. A few laris, underground tunnels, and ticket purchases later I hastily followed the line of the

woman’s arm as she pointed me toward the theatre. Left? I asked in Georgian as I cautiously craned my neck around the corner into what seemed like a construction zone of missing walls and dusty cement. 'Ki. Yes,' she assured me, her hand still raised in the air pointing towards the desolate opening. Taking my chances I jumped over a missing floor board and quickly opened one of two doors with indistinguishable signs in hopes that I could still make the opening scene of the performance. Quietly closing the door behind me, I soon realized that my Georgian stopped at understanding ‘left’ and ‘yes.’ For a moment, all was still as I stared blankly into the actors’ startled expressions, who were unquestionably surprised to find a girl dressed in a suit back stage minutes before the opening number. Though at a loss for words, all I kept thinking was how this picture, of me still clenching onto the door handle in fear, of the actors staring at me, half curious, half amused, would make a great snapshot for some Rockwell painting. Apologizing in a whisper, I bashfully turned around and exited their sacred space. Luckily as pantomime performers they couldn’t express their shock, or perhaps irritation, save for an angry face or an invisible cane to pull me away.

Hoping for better luck with the second door, I breathed a sigh of relief at

the scene of audience members sitting in a small auditorium of tattered

green seats listening to a passionate storyteller just below the stage.

Despite the lack of lip movement by the actors, the performance was one of

the best I have seen thus far here in Georgia. The story was, as all stories

are, about a man and a woman, about love. But it was so much more than that.

Each scene in the play was modeled after a Pirosmoni painting, the most

famous Georgian painter. It began with a scene of growing flowers flowing

into an autumn harvest. It lyrically swept into a picture of bull fighting and onto a lonesome traveler’s night train. The actors swirled into compositions of circus performers, dancers, lovers, enemies all with the flick of their wrists or the wrinkle of their nose. The entire cast was dressed in all black save for one colorful scarf. The differed colored pieces of fabric became their costumes and their scenery. They stretched to become the wings of a bird and the hats of drinking countrymen. They grew up as the stalks of wheat in a late October sky and shrank with the death of love on a cold December’s twilight. Everything from the concept of portraying artistic compositions through modern dance to the creativity of the production was inspirational.

And yet, all my adventures seem to hold some sort of wondrous inspiration, this weekend living up to that almost preconceived expectation. It began with chocolate fondue and a Jazz concert sponsored by a local bank. I was fortunate enough to be offered an invitation by a friend to accompany him to see the father of Georgian Jazz. Unexpected for most, Jazz has a large

presence in Tbilisi and the Caucuses in general.  At a time of musical and

artistic oppression and shortly after its defeat, the emergence of Jazz

symbolized liberty and the freedom of expression of the west. Even today as

one gets lost among the winding roads of Tbilisi you can hear jazz floating

on high from countless cafes. The show was, as always, brilliant. The

musicians came alive with their instruments, allowing each individual note

to paint a rich picture in the air above of what the music meant to them.

The love they had for the music and the passion they put into each stroke of

string or keys were the perfect ingredients to a flawless evening.

With the music still echoing in my ears, I awoke the next morning ready to

embrace the day with a two hour car ride out to the border of Azerbaijan to

visit the Davit Gareja monastery complex. The ride there was almost as

beautiful as the site itself. Though at first the landscape was seriously

polluted with plastic bags and piles of rubbish the city grit soon faded

away into hills of lushes farms ready to begin the planting season. Herds of

cow and sheep seemed endless as we continued on the dirt road, at times

having to stop to allow a herder and his flock to cross. Eventually the

fields turned to desolate lands and then a semi-desert terrain with sharp

mountains jutting up in the distance. Arriving at the monastery, our guide

led us through the opened area of the still-working complex, telling us the

legends of this hallowed land. Thousands of monks had lived here throughout

its history, some living in complete solitude in their caves, others facing massacre bravely in the face of invading Turks. We then began our two hour

hike up the mountain (for you Lehigh folks, imagine the death stairs between Rathbone and Richards for an hour straight), over the top, and then into the caves of the monastery. The rooms were magnificently carved out of the rock

with niches for candles and domed ceilings. Many of the compartments, particularly the refractory and the main church, still had Frescos (in painfully poor condition) covering their walls of ancient saints and

biblical scenes dating as early as the 6th Century. The surrounding nature paralleled the caves in its aesthetic might. Taking in the warmth of the sun’s light (and apparently a sunburn too), I stood in awe of the austere

beauty of the rocks of Georgia to my right and the fields of Azerbaijan to

my left. My eyes slowly moved from the blossoming wild almond trees with

their delicate pink flowers towards the stratified green and red rock

formations, up to the unfeasibly blue sky dotted with puffs of smoke from

farmers clearing their land for the new season. The trip, and those before

and those to come, continued to show me just how breathtaking the country of

Georgia is.

After the performance at the Pantomime Theatre, I ran into a co-worker whose

family was visiting from Israel. They graciously offered me a ride back to

my house and somewhere in between the lobby and the parking lot decided on

the necessity of dinner as well. Thus, the five of us packed into the car

and drove downtown to a local restaurant for beans, chicken, corn bread, and

plum sauce. We discussed dance therapy, shared travel stories, and

reminisced about the days of our childhoods. Though these posts may deceive,

my adventures, work, and constant worrying about graduate school and

fellowship applications are rather exhausting. For any who know me, my

personality type doesn’t lend well to the notion of relaxation or mediocrity

in any segment of my life. In spite of the rewards I reap from this mindset,

I must admit at times I forget to, simply, breathe, or laugh. As I sat there

with tears in my eyes from laughing at the violinist and pianist’s rendition

of Hava Nagela (with the rest of the restaurant surprisingly singing along),

serenading our table with the Georgian pronunciation of those familiar

Hebrew words, and gazing as the smiles of strangers turned friends, I forgot

about those pending Marshall interviews or override registration forms. For

a moment I remembered the importance of living in the present and enjoying

the simplicity of life. Wiping the tears from my cheeks and raising my wine

glass with a smile, I knew that the realization of how important pausing

from the chaos of life and, well, just breathing, wouldn’t escape me again.

In Search of Lost Art

Regardless of what city, state, or country I find myself in, I seem to inevitably be drawn to its cultural institutions for both comfort and adventure. My first weekend in Tbilisi, many posts ago, was spent sauntering the galleries and art museums of Old Town and immersing myself in the wonders of Caucasian oils and marble. Though the seascape paintings of the Black Sea or portraiture from Svaneti were far removed from the ballerinas and Socrates filled canvases I’ve grown accustomed to living a bus ride away from the Met, art institutions, whether in Bethlehem or Baku, always play the same role in my life’s script. Losing myself in the dynamically seductive swirls of a van Ruisdael sky or in the poetic play of light in a Degas gives me shelter from my trials and tribulations in a home that transcends national borders. And yet, simultaneously art grounds me to the place it's housed: a shoe hanging from the ceiling with a faded USSR stamp challenges my preconceived notions on Georgian society, the contour lines of a man assembled of bomb shells and metal bullets begs to bring me to the battlefields of his body parts, the serene abstractions of a watercolor sketch hanging crookedly on a gallery wall provides just as much exploration as my dog-led travels in Gori.  Art is, for me, so much more than a sheet of linen stained with pigments or a rock carved into a controposto form. Art is both a world onto itself and an opened door to explore the world of the hands that created it. Georgian art, needless to say, is no exception.

At Lehigh, I am an Eckardt Scholar, part of the university-wide honors program. As part of the curriculum, I am required to complete a senior honors project next year. For my project, I have decided to curate an exhibition on contemporary artwork from Georgia at Lehigh (as well as an exhibit website for those interested who can't make the trek) entitled “Will you be my Critic? Post-Soviet Contemporary Art of Georgia,” which will examine not only art from Tbilisi but also provide information and commentary on the absence of a contemporary art foundation (institution, funding, native themes) post independence here. Following the project, I hope to write an honors thesis on the causes of this lack of foundation compared with its Armenian and Azeri post-Soviet neighbors. Research for this project has afforded me an academic excuse for spending far too many hours in dimly lit exhibit halls and dusty studios of local artists.

The art community in Tbilisi, though small and relatively young, is filled with inspiring and vibrant individuals from backgrounds as vast as my travels in the months to come. My interviews of these artists, gallery owners, academics, and all else aesthetically in between, have seemed to take on a standard routine. It begins with a professional-sounding e-mail requesting a formal meeting to be interviewed on their thoughts on contemporary artwork in Georgia, followed by a response with a phone number. A few days later I find myself nervously pacing some side street in Tbilisi, squinting at the little piece of paper I had scribbled the address onto and cursing my crude handwriting. Eventually finding the abandoned electric factory/tenant house/fallout shelter turned art gallery, I am welcomed into a hidden back room with a cup of tea and table to set up my laptop. After a few certain technical mishaps, I hit the record button and listen.

Everything about these people is implausibly beautiful. Their stories of illegally studying abstractions from Gorskey and Pollock or Pop icons from Warhol in smuggled-in western magazines under the floorboards of their mother’s kitchen are worthy of a Nobel Prize.  They describe the censorship and artistic oppression under the Soviet regime and the orders to conform to the infamous Social Realism. They speak of their creation of underground art and untimely arrests as their oils were left to dry unfinished. They whisper what went on in those prisons, and how it only made them stronger. Together, their stories weave a magnificent tapestry of what life as an artist was like in Georgia for much of the 20^th Century, with each thread shinning with the personalities and delicate tales of a young boy discovering action painting, of a mother finding peace in color theory, of a son watching his father be beaten for creating beauty.   

Perhaps what is more impressive is their resilience to all this found in the bricks and wooden boards of the galleries and centers these interviews take place in. Despite the oppression, despite the censorship and arrests, despite everything, these people not only endured but thrived. They went abroad after the fall of the USSR to Berlin, Moscow, Paris, New York to study the art they had so longed to create years ago. They exhibited in the Venice Biennial, found sponsors in local banks, made connections with foreign art networks and founded centers, courses, and galleries of Contemporary Art in Tbilisi- hubs of innovation, inspiration, and individual expression. In the interviews they always speak of the lack of institutions, funding, art critics, and ‘true Georgian contemporary art,’ but what they emphasize with wide eyes and hopeful smiles is what they have accomplished. They beam as they invite me to gallery openings, and greet me with hearty handshakes and glasses of wine as I join the crowd of art-lovers opening night; they introduce me to their drawing students with blissful expressions and usher me into their studios of experimental sound architecture; they bid me to return to Tbilisi in a year or two to see how much progress will be made. The future of art in this city, to them, is filled with infinite possibilities.

On Saturday evening, I joined a co-worker and about ten others for a party at the Israeli Ambassador’s house for Purim. Though I missed the staples of Purim at Temple Shalom (the junior choir singing prayers to the melody of ‘take me out to the ballgame,’ megillah gorilla rummaging through the kitchen, the surprise of what the rabbi and cantor would dress up as), I had an amazing holiday. As a few children played tag dressed as princesses, Woody, and farm animals, the Ambassador and I had a stimulating conversation about the practicality of international relations theories over hamentashens and dates. Before long, the Chabad rabbi from Tbilisi took out a long scroll of parchment, tightened his sombrero hat, and began to chant the all too familiar story of Ester, Mordecai, and Haman.

For those of you who don’t know, Purim celebrates the story of Queen Esther and her cousin Mordecai saving the Jews of Shushan from the evil plans of Haman, the prime minister of ancient Persia. As I listened to the chanting through the ‘boos’ and stomping of the audience (don’t worry, though it may look like the same reaction to a Boston home run in the Bronx, it’s a tradition to drown out Haman’s name with noise), I thought of the interviews and gallery visits of this past weekend. The artists and art supporters that I have been working with for these past two months are truly the Esthers of our time. They alone stood up to the leaders of the Soviet Union who plotted the extinction of Modern Art behind the Iron Curtain, and, like my ancestors, found the courage to persevere and fight for what they believed in with brushes as swords and pallets as shields. Their bravery and resolve are the reasons why a Contemporary Art environment exists in Tbilisi for me to study today. Nevertheless, the smile of these thoughts slipped from my face as this week progressed, particularly after a conversation with my father about NPR’s budget cuts back in America. Although current budget cuts for the arts are not as dire as Stalin’s cultural policies or Haman’s plot to exterminate the Jews, this battle, like those of the Jews of Shushan and the artists of Georgia, threatens the essence of many American’s identities as painters, ballerinas, musicians, actors, and art historians. Though it may not be part of your life tapestry like it is in mine, I ask you to find the valor that empowered those heroes throughout humanity’s history, from Mordecai to my new friend Yuri, and help defend those whose existence as they know it is endangered. Below is a link to show your representatives in Congress your support for the National Endowment for the Arts. It doesn’t take a soviet arrest or a three day fast in this modern Purim story. A simple e-mail will suffice.

http://www.capwiz.com/artsusa/issues/alert/?alertid=13209311

War and Peace, and Ethnic Conflict

A country as unknown and as secluded from the average American mind as Georgia, it seems almost laughable to imagine having a rendez-vous with someone from back home, least the President of Lehigh. And yet, as Saturday afternoon painted the Tbilisi ski in a clear blue slipping into a grapefruit pink, I sat in the Tbilisi Marriot lobby patiently awaiting President Gast’s arrival. Despite the fact that I had only met her a few times previously, it was a wonderful gift to see a familiar face on the cobblestone streets of the Caucuses as she descended into the lobby. President Gast and I spend a surprisingly comfortable afternoon together walking the streets of Tbilisi discussing everything from our professional work in Georgia and Azerbaijan and our personal interests in the international community to amusing stories of past travels and even her daughter’s longing to go trekking in Tibet as a high schooler (Mom and Dad, remember when I tried that one on you?). We stopped for some black tea with mint at my favorite artsy café with the staff who knows me all too well as the girl with the pink laptop who ‘must be writing something good.’ Every so often President Gast would point to a building to inquire its use or history, and, at times surprising myself, I answered with far too long responses about religion in Georgia, the cultural mix of east and west, the jazz club I had visited the night before and Jazz’s importance in the country, and everything in between.

Sometime after, President Gast and I found a restaurant to eat at (luckily one of the few words I can recognize in Georgian is ‘bread’ and hoped that the second word in the name was ‘house’). We wasted the night away trying delicious Georgian Saparavi wine and traditional dishes, including a pumpkin spread, braised beef kinkhai, khatepuri (of course), porridge with mint and cheese, and a range of other tasty treats. Though the music was quite overpowering behind us, we managed to continue our previous discussion. And, at last, we came to the often hackneyed subject of the 2008 conflict here in Georgia and its prior wars. In this post I could poetically describe the jazz I heard Friday evening or the gallery opening I attended on Sunday by Georgian and American artists, but my time is coming to a close in Georgia within a month and I have eloquently skirted around the taboo topic that still lurks behind dark corners of this city.

In earnest, prior to coming to Georgia the only thing I knew about the country centered around what I had read in the Times just before shipping off to Lehigh freshman year, and later, what I had covered in my Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict course. I read countless books and reports on the conflict and the political battles with Abkhazia and South Ossetia since this republic’s independence in 1991. Exploring the richness of Georgian culture and customs, sans battles and bullets, has truly been and continues to be an unbelievably incredible experience that has changed me deeply. Nonetheless, nearly every experience, from my conversations with waiters to supra feats in the countryside, is sprinkled at least in part with memories of war. It, like the Soviet memory in my last posts, still hangs heavy in the air throughout the country. In places like Gori you can still see where the shelling mutilated walls and on my walks into old town I must pass a solemnly standing monument to all those who perished three years ago. Internally displaced persons still reside in these Levitt like communal centers years after the conflicts, still waiting with dwindling hope to return home.

But it is not only the physical that haunts citizens, and my visit, of the past. The waitress that I had talked about gay rights to spoke to me a few weekends ago of where she had been when ‘Russia invaded her country with tanks and bombs.’ Our tour guide at the Stalin museum related how she had hid in safety as troops invaded Gori. My taxi driver last night yelled back through tight turns and red lights about his family being displaced from Abkhazia almost a decade ago and still not being able to find a stable job to support his family. (After hearing his story through broken English and calls to his wife asking how to say things in English, I gave him 50 Lari for a 5 Lari ride; from a conference I had attended, I could guess that that 25 dollars would be more than what he had made this entire week to feed his family. With teary eyes, he thanked me and hoped that one day he could earn that much money for work). Even in my art research interviews, artists and curators alike reference war and trauma as a major influence in the contemporary art scene.

I look around me and I wonder how so much beauty and how so much pride has survived years of invasion and strain. Hearing their stories, at times the smiles they wear or the hospitality they show me seem unattainable. This past week, the body of Georgian Coporal Valeri Verskiani was repatriated back to Georgia from the war in Afghanistan, where he was fatally wounded in battle. I passed his memorial at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier midday yesterday on my way to a meeting at Tbilisi State University. Hundreds had turned out to crowd the streets with flowers and support for his bravery; the Minister of Defense attended, as did many foreign ambassadors. In America, we tend to remove ourselves from our own fighting around the world. If asked the question to name who, or how many, Americans have died this month in Afghanistan and Iraq I am sure that most of you could not answer. For most of us, war is the terrible images on our nightly news as we continue to eat our dinner and hurry off to class or baseball practice. We are proud to be Americans as we sing our patriotic songs on the fourth of July, but seem to forget, consciously or unconsciously, those brave men and women who give their lives to protect us. Living in Georgia has taught me an endless amount: I have learned how to do traditional Georgian folk dancing, and how to bake bread. I have learned the history of Tbilisi, and the proper way to visit public baths. But living in Georgia has also taught me the price of my freedom, and has afforded me the realization that having peace at home, though a blessing, is a double edge sword. Georgia has survived these past two decades not because of the aid the international community has flown in or the policies brokered by foreign diplomats. It has endured because the memorial of a corporal draws hundreds in support- because being Georgian is not just about knowing how to drink chacha or sing in four part harmonies. Being Georgian is about being strong for one another, to one another, and with one another.

I read the NY Times every day, and have for some years now. I spend most of my time reading articles on cyber revolutions in Egypt or nuclear meltdowns in Japan. For the years that I have read, I have never clicked on the ‘at war’ sections unless a new political or economic policy was being enacted. Since arriving in Tbilisi, I make a point of reading the articles, the names of the deceased, or the blogs about our troops. Perhaps after reading this, you too will spend a bit more time thinking about the headlines of your newspapers or tvs before taking your next sip of coffee.

Sixty-Nine Years of Solitude, circa 1922-1991

It is nearly impossible to venture anywhere in Georgia without being reminded of its Soviet history. Among the crumbling classical facades and in between the starkly modern glass spectacles (soon to be joined by two Trump Towers) stand the ominous facades of abandoned communist headquarters saturated in Soviet Realism; the Russian mutters of older men as you pass them on the streets tell of a time when the Georgian language was degraded; even the beauty of the countryside is tainted with aboveground gas pipes of the Soviet energy system lining dirt roads in rusted reds and blues. Though one may forget what this country was like twenty years ago while eating a burger at the Marriot or purchasing French imported wine at the local food store, reflections of the past inevitably lurk behind every city corner. This is perhaps most prominent in a small, infamous city an hour west of Tbilisi called Gori- the hometown of Josef Stalin. I escaped my Marshuka (a white minivan converted into a shared taxi) ride squished in between two countrymen Monday morning into the sleet of Stalin Ave. The town itself is like any of median size in Georgia: there is a main center filled with forgettable 1960s architecture and dangerously insane drivers, and then the residential area sprawls out into the countryside until it is swallowed by the distant mountains. At the end of Stalin Ave sits a massive building that both invites passerbyers to explore and repels them with its threatening facade. Bundling up a bit tighter, I descended the stairs and quickly approached the Stalin Museum.

(yes, that is me sitting at Stalin's desk)

The interior was just as dark and cold as the exterior, with a grandiose entrance hall adorned with both portraits of Stalin and an elegant marble statue that stood erect in the center looking down upon visitors as they entered. Our guide swept us up the grand staircase and into the exhibition rooms, quickly running through the personal history of the once leader of this country through photographs, replicas, and primary documents ranging from letters of his youth to correspondence with President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill. We learned of the humble beginnings of Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili (only later taking on his pen name Stalin, meaning steel) in this small Georgian village, born to an impoverished cobbler and his wife, his rise to power within Georgia, his family life, and his wondrous role in World War II in defeating Nazi Germany. We visited the one room home in which he was born and sat in his personal train compartment all while learning of a leader this town admired perchance a bit too much. Throughout our tour, there was no mention of murders, gulags, or forced resettlement as we winded through the halls and finished in an eerily lit room where his death mask was illuminated from above. In fact, the only negative images in this museum were a few pictures taken during the 2008 Russian invasion of Gori. Despite what the world thinks of the notorious Soviet dictator, within this city, or perhaps within these walls, he is hailed as a glorious ruler to what I can only assume are foreign crowds as uncomfortable as me and my companion. 

Leaving Stalin’s neatly pressed uniform and still set desk behind, we hailed a taxi to take us to Uplistsikhe, a cave city first constructed during the Early Iron Age. Though our guide’s English was considerably lacking and the wind nearly took me flying off the edge at several points, the site was breathtaking. The uniqueness of the ancient amphitheatre, wine storage rooms, sacrificial alter, and king’s palace combining both Turkish and Persian (and later Greek) influences was incredible. The side of the mountain was crisscrossed with streets and sewage trenches that once carried pipes of clean water to homes. There are still signs of the importance of Pagenism to this ancient civilization littered on the eroded walls and archways, and later Christian influences dating to the 4th Century CE. Climbing higher and higher into the darkening sky, we eventually reached the highest point and began our journey back down the rocky path. Unfortunately, our taxi had abandoned us in our travels and we soon found ourselves following a dog as our guide down the meandering roads of the Georgian countryside, where our only company was the occasional farmer and his cows or a Sheppard dog that our guide valiantly protected us from. After two hours, we eventually flagged down a bus dating from the 1960s that took us back into Gori for fifty cents. The walk, nonetheless, afforded us both magnificent views of lushes farmland and time to reflect on our previous weekend travels. 

On Saturday I had ventured into the outskirts of Tbilisi to find its botanical gardens. Though warmer weather in the weeks to come will undeniably paint the park with a vibrant, fresh pallet the hike was still filled with interesting plants, forgotten fortresses, scenic outlooks, and soothing waterfalls; after living in a city for these past few weeks, the quiet and beauty of disappearing into nature for a few hours of serenity was almost as relaxing as my pit stop on the way home. Tbilisi, founded in the 10th Century, was declared Georgia’s new capital by King Vakhtang Gorgasali when he stumbled upon the miraculous ‘hot waters that boiled without fire.’ Literally meaning warm water, Tbilisi has been famous for its hot springs and sulphur baths for centuries, from the writings of Marco Polo to President Bush’s visit to the republic only a few years ago. As I sat in the steaming water examining the oriental influences of the deep blue mosaics, I thought of how amazing it was that the importance and tradition of public baths had withstood the test of time like so many other rich traditions in this gem tucked away in the Caucuses.  


The following day I traveled down the Mtkvari River to the old capital of Georgia pre-dating Tbilisi, Mtskheta. The sun shining down on the wide boulevard and smiling faces of locals stood in severe contrast to my trip to Gori. Covering my head as I walked into the Svetitskhoveli Cathedral, I was taken by surprise (foolishly seeing as it was Sunday morning) to stumble upon mass. Taking my place among the standing congregation, I took in the brilliance of what surrounded me. The light tumbled in effortlessly from the narrow stone windows, falling in blades across the dusty air. The walls and large dome were covered with beautiful frescos and tapestries telling stories of saints and the local story of Christ’s coat, which laid somewhere beneath my feet. The choir, unseen behind a screen, sung angelically in five part harmonies that still make me smile at its memory, and many of the men and women stood piously with candles in their hands. Altogether, the scene resembled an inspiring renaissance painting displayed in some art history book back in my room. Coming back to reality over a lunch of beans and bread (their specialty), I then visited the archaeological museum and thereafter the burial site archaeologists had collected most of their findings from. The museum itself, like all others I have visited here, made me cringe at the condition its artifacts survived in, but the olden wine jugs and ancient caskets provided me with an interesting comparison to how people lived in Mtskheta versus Uplistsikhe. 


My long weekend came to a close with a phone interview with a human rights organization in Morocco for a research position this summer. As our conversation turned from migration in North Africa to Georgia’s transition to a democracy, my interviewer asked me what I thought of my new home’s political and economic reforms, and if the same reforms are possible for his country in areas like women’s rights. Living in a country like the United States that has been democratic from its birth, it is easy to overlook the difficulties of democratization. My work here focuses on researching indicators of how free Georgia is and charts its future potential. Here too, like the communist buildings that penetrate the new in Tbilisi, and like the atmosphere that still lingers in Stalin’s hometown, the country’s Soviet past can be spotted in between the lines of reports and evaluations. Thinking back to what Georgia embodied twenty years ago, the liberal reformations that it has undergone since the Rose Revolution are stunning, even if they are still traveling the road towards a true and lasting democracy. The differences between Georgia’s path towards freedom and that of countries like Tunisia and Egypt are vast, but the two share a common thread. Thinking of the civil society leaders I met with a few weeks ago and the similar faces of civilian leaders on the broadcasts of our generation’s cyber revolutions, I responded to my interview, a man who suddenly seemed more similar to Egyptians and Georgians that I had thought. Avec les hommes comme vous, bien sur. With people like you, of course.

Four Foreigners in Search of a Winery

I can count on one hand the number of times that I have cried from happiness. The first time I saw the Western Wall I was overwhelmed with an incredible emotion that cannot be penned into words. When I gazed upon Goya’s Third of May in Madrid years ago I was moved by the beauty of his painterly brushstrokes, and perhaps at the discovery of my love for aesthetics. At Suzanne’s wedding I shed a tear with the sight of how happy she was in that moment, and the thought of how happy she would be for the rest of her life. And, last Saturday night, I swelled with emotion as I added to a toast at a traditional Georgian feast in one of the most wonderful experiences in all of my travels.  


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.

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.

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!

A Prayer for Poppy

"Ara, Ara,” an old man yelled hoarsely as he merged from a small brick building. “We’re closed.” I had just closed the large metal gate behind me when I turned to meet my welcomer. “Inglisit Itsit? Do you speak English?” I breathed in desperation. I had already been through enough trouble with my last taxi driver’s inability to communicate and hardly wanted to play two games of charades in one day. “Yes, and German, The Synagogue is closed for the day.” “Um, I was actually wondering if I could attend Shabbat services tonight.” The elderly Georgian (or perhaps German) looked at me for several long seconds before nodding me towards the larger building. As he began to briskly walk back to his post he paused, and again stared. “Services start at five and thirty.” Pushing the enormous door and kissing the mezuzah I peaked inside. 


Though only the natural light cascading through the windows lit the room, the details of the synagogue were incredible. Chandeliers that once held candles hung from the high ceilings, while the walls were elaborately decorated in gold leafing and painted marble. The arc at the front stood solemnly among the pews with its rich velvety red curtain hiding what I’m sure were beautiful torahs. Taking my seat behind the women’s screen, I awaited the arrival of Shobbas. Soon, the door was opening and closing with merry old men in has and kippas wishing each other “Shabbat shaloms.” The greets and smiles of my fellow shobbas goers that lit up the room reminded me of those times I had accompanied poppy to shuel, saying hello to what seemed like thousands of congregants as if I was flanking a celebrity. Brushing a few tears away, I opened my sidur to welcome the Sabbath.  


Though the service seemed to last forever (the rabbi’s sermon was longer than ours at Yom Kippur!) and at times I thought my toes would fall off from the cold, I took the time to think of how many things I had to be thankful for this week alone. On Monday I had visited a contemporary art gallery and school with the woman I lived with in an old electric factory. It seemed so amazing that contemporary art continued o echo the same themes regardless of whether you were in Manhattan or Washington or Sabertallo. Tuesday had brought me out to dinner at a local restaurant with a coworker, where I tried some Ossetian cuisine and my first glass of Georgian wine (which was really great). Wednesday swept me into an adult puppet show, the first I had ever been to. The theatre was reminiscent of an off Broadway show and the atmosphere was drenched with creativity. The story, Autumn of my Springtime, about a bird laundering money to pay the mortgage of his non-bird grandmother’s house, was both clever and amusing, but the true gem of this puppet house was the design of the actors themselves. Their faces were meticulously sculpted and their costumes sewn with care. After the show, my companian and I headed across the way to the Hanger Bar where I ordered an Obama burger and she a Sarcozy. Though I already had perhaps too much to be thankful for, I knew that the weekend would hold even more adventures of my new city. 


As I ventured to the rugby stadium Saturday afternoon I knew that my weekend would live up to its promised adventure. Attempting to get a ticket was nearly impossible. Hundreds of fans attempting to push themselves past the nut ventures towards the crowed windows, waving Lari in hopes that some hand would reach out to exchange it for a ticket, was insanity. Though the lines are much better in the Bronx, perhaps the Yankees could learn a thing or two about pricing form the Georgians (it cost me 2 Lari, about $1.20 to get into the match, and another $1.20 for a beer). Excited to be using my vast knowledge of rugby, I sat down on the rather cold seat and waited for the national anthems to end. Evidently, Georgia is not only good at weight lifting in the Olympics; they beat the national Spanish team 61-0 to a roaring crowd. Although they did not play “Tbilisi Tbilisi” after winning the game, the crowd’s energy was eerily similar to the emotions one feels after walking out after a homerun in the ninth.  


Exploring the streets of Vake, we stumbled upon a cupcake shop that seemed as if it should have been in Georgetown rather than Georgia. Welcoming the warmth, we sat down to tiramisu and a cupcake and watched the passerbyers hurrying down the sidewalks. Eventually, we again parted ways and I headed home to venture to the supermarket in an attempt of finding something more than eggs to eat. Off to a lazy start on Sunday, I packed my camera around noon and headed down the street with no real direction in mind. My three-hour walk covered a good amount of the city. Some of the time was filled with walking on highways, not entirely sure how to get ot the other side. I passed the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, a grave that seems to surface in nearly every culture, and a newly erected monument to those who lost their lives in the 2008 war. I sauntered down the main avenues, peering into shops as I passed by, and through the crowds of a formula 1 race, which I stopped to watch (this racing, though still not my fortee, was much more thrilling than Nascar). Finally I reached the old city and wondered endlessly through Freedom Square and the winding roads that led across the river. I hiked up a mountain to an old church with awe-inspiring frescos, and after reaching a residential area began my descent.  

Eventually, I found a quaint, artsy café on a side street and took refuge from the wintery winds. The café was warm with oddities for furniture and cloth cut outs for curtains that depicted scenes from plays. I took my seat in the company of Hamlet and glaced at the menu before deciding on Moroccan tea and wine pudding, both of which were delicious.  As I sat silently sipping my tea, I could not help but to think back to those old men at Shabbos services and poppy. I though of how I wish I could share these stories with him, how I’m sure he would make a corny joke out of my experience, how a year had already gone by without him here, and how much I still miss him. On Wednesday, I helped out with an event for local civil society grassroot leaders. Among the things discussed were religious freedom and minority rights, two subjects that very much influenced not only my decision to take this internship, but my career in general. As I said, I have so much to give thanks for every Friday evening, from the historical sites I am visiting to the stately food I get to try. But, as I light a yarzhite candle, I know that the thing I’m most thankful for isn’t as tangible as fortresses or Khatupouri: it is the inspiration poppy gave me to get on a plane to a city I’ve never thought twice about and be just as passionate about protecting minority rights here as in America; the inspiration to make never again a reality not by being an American citizen, but by being a citizen of humanity.

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!