Wandering and wondering

I spent what felt like forever wandering in the heat looking for a hotel that I thought I had good directions for. It didn't help that I was still mildly feeling the effects of the stomach virus or whatever had knocked me out the day before. (Can I just say, I'm really glad the water went out after I felt better and not during said stomach bug.)

So I gave up and took refuge in the air conditioned comfort of the National Museum, which among other things houses approximately one zillion pieces of gold jewelry dug up from the country's various BC burial grounds, including several that I have visited on this trip.

While the gold is beautifully (and, one hopes, securely) displayed in modern cases with fairly decent interpretation, some of the other signage leaves a bit to be desired, as seen below.

I couldn't help but wonder if the peeling letters were the result of curitorial incompetence, bored school kids on boring field trips, overzealous cleaning staff, or what. Whatever the case, it might be time for a revamp.

Portrait of the artist as an increasingly confident bus rider

As Elvis Costello once sang, "Every day I ride the bus." No wait, that was somebody else. Singing something else.

Since being encouraged by my Canadian friend Jeff to take my life aboveground since buses are both much faster and way more entertaining, I have been slowly building my confidence as a bus rider. It started with two routes suggested by Google maps and has now expanded to minibus route #72, as discovered by my host sister on last night's trip home from the movies. People, it stops right outside our corner market. This is huge, especially when you have accidentally picked a big angry scab on the side of your foot (ahem) or are wearing ridiculously uncomfortable fashion slave shoes (every Georgian woman).

Apparently riding the bus makes you appear more assimilated, because an old man on route #6 talked at me for about 5 minutes yesterday before realizing I don't speak Georgian. (Also I was stopped for directions on the street today. Maybe my sudden transportational confidence shows in regular life?)

Building relationships, one jerkey stick at a time

German dog treat: you know you want it.

It has taken me about a month and most of a bag of German dog jerkey, but I have finally convinced Gary the guard dog to let me pet him. He still looks a little worried about it.

I could use this as a way to segue into some wise words about how building relationships takes time blah blah, but honestly I have no wise words. It's tough. Being in another culture makes it more complicated. Trying to be open and friendly and honest takes you only so far. Apparently, smelling like beef sticks helps, in certain circumstances.

Anyway, it's cocktail hour. A really nice bottle of Saperavi is calling my name. (And can I just say, a mid-range bottle of red wine costs about $3.75 here? You see why I like this place so much.)  

The world's most nervous guard dog.

On not biking

According to Larissa, this sculpture has something to do with the fact that some famous bicycle used to be manufactured in Tbilisi, not the fact that a few people are brave/insane enough to ride here.

This is as close as I'm going to get to biking in Tbilisi. I'm nervous even getting into cars here. (But I had to take a picture, because c'mon! A giant bike!)

This sculpture, which is prominent enough in Old Town to be a meeting point landmark, is painfully ironic considering that there are so few bikers here. In fact, I can list every single time I saw someone biking here. And each time, I thought, that person is insane. Especially when I saw what appeared to be the national cycling team following a pace car on the highway.

Borjomi

The first stop on the epic religious pilgrammage was Borjomi, a town famous throughout Georgia for its distinctively strong-tasting (iron? salt?) mineral water. While the religious types caught up with their nun friends, we took a walk through town. 

Here we are, blocking your view of some really awesome murals.

And tasted some of the water right from the source. (Gross. Like, you just bit your tongue really hard and now it tastes like blood, only it's also warm and bubbly.)

I'm only smiling because I haven't actually tasted the water yet.

 Even if its water is kind of nasty (though it's supposed to have magical healing properties...), Borjomi itself is a sweet little town nestled in the mountains. And there were bicyclists!

Bicyclists! Are they insane, foreign, or both?

There will be mud

 When I told Larissa I would accompany her on her friend's church group trip, I didn't realize I was signing up for a pilgrammage to three ancient monastaries. I also didn't realize that nobody would actually know how to get to two of them, which would result in one of them remaining stubbornly unfound. The above photo is evidence of one of several failed paths. Some might consider this a disaster, but honestly I'd rather slog around in the woods than look at another church, anyway.

 We found the third church, mainly because our leaders asked the right random farmer, who walked us way, way up the side of the mountain to the ruins of a church they said was from the 5th century. (The monastary is the dark spot on the left up there.) I didn't take a picture of the skeleton we saw in one collapsed room, but if I had better internet I would post a video of the polyphonic chanting some of the men did in the other one, a haunting, ancient sound that captured perfectly the mood of the rain softly falling and the desolate, forgotten spot.

 On our way back down the hill, the farmer led us to his house, brought out the 5-liter jug of homemade wine and insisted that we drink a toast or three and bless his family. Of course, the American was called upon to say a few words but luckily they didn't expect me to drain my glass the way everybody else did.

It was way too many hours in a crowded, overheated minibus, but a glorious day.

Vegetarian?

As a vegetarian for more than 20 years now, I often receive concern from people who worry that I don't get enough to eat when I travel.

Honestly, all it takes is one look at me to know that I get plenty to eat wherever I go. But seriously, it's just one of those things that makes travel interesting. The phrase "I don't eat" is pretty much the first thing I learn in every language.

Happily, I find most cooks love the challenge of making me something special to eat. Larissa is no exception. Among her creations is the sushi-esque creation above, hollowed-out boiled carrots filled with Georgia's famous walnut-garlic-spice paste. Unfreaking believeable, but make sure to brush your teeth afterwards.

Of course, if you prefer to dine on nothing but fancy French pastry, Tbilisi has you covered on that front too.