Supra

I'm sure I would have found this funny if I could have understood it.

 To celebrate the start of camp, there was a supra. This is a formal event featuring ridiculous amounts of both food and alcohol, where numerous toasts are offered, in a structure passed down through generations, by the event's tamada, or toastmaster.

 I have mixed feelings about the supra tradition. On one hand, it's a nice way to build warm feelings by saying lots of nice things about each other, fueled by truly amazing amounts of wine. And the food is great. Even a vegetarian can find plenty to eat, at least until they bring out the barbeque skewers and pile them on top of the rest of the food.

Conversely, the formalized structure means that actual conversation is actively discouraged. Even if you spend 3 or 4 hours with someone (as at this particular supra), you don't actually get to know them at all.

 It is also the only social event I can think of, aside from the American fraternity party, where guests are heckled for not going "bottoms up" on their drinks when called upon. And we are not talking about dainty little wine glasses, but substantial tumblers full.

Unfortunately, as you may have noticed from the top picture, it is also an event where the men are seated at the table and the women do all of the preparation and cooking and serving. (In this case, the ladies dined on cold leftovers after the honored guests took off.)

It is also not the first time I have been considered enough of an honored guest to become, at least for an evening, seated at the table as an honorary man. This is probably in equal part due to my (uearned) American-ness and the fact that I would be useless in terms of preparing and serving a Georgian meal, so best to keep me far from the kitchen.

Perhaps it is no wonder that I left the event with a giant headache.

Diabetic camp

This week I got to visit a diabetic summer camp that was started and is run by ACTS International, an NGO from my hometown. Over the past 19 summers, more than 1,000 Georgian kids have learned how to manage their type-1 diabetes, which is no small task here, given the limitations in terms of medical supplies, knowledge and support.

 According to Trish Blair, the American physician who started the camp and works her buns off keeping it going, Georgian diabetic kids used to live only about 10 years. Now, she has counselors helping out who have attended camp their entire lives. Some former campers are married with kids of their own. Many have gone on to university, including medical school. Trish encourages them to study endocrinology, of course.

Counselors collect up their mobile phones and keep the kids busy with hikes, dance parties, arts & crafts, trivia contests, and regular blood checks and insulin injections. The kids also get individual medical counseling to learn how to regulate their diet and activity levels.

From all the giggling and hugging I heard & saw, and from the kids I talked to, it seems like the biggest benefit they perceive is great friendships. Ultimately, that's what summer camp is all about, right?

Monday evening walkabout

I peeked into the locked gates, thinking this was a castle. Instead: football fields. 

I spent a couple of days in Kvareli. Still practicing the art of the self-portrait.

Another roadside attraction

Georgian roadside rest areas are a little different from their American counterparts. For one thing, you generally have to pay anywhere from 10 to 30 tetri (5-15 cents) to use the toilet, even if it is, shall we say, rustic. Like, nothing but marks for where to put your feet and an odor that will burn the hairs right out of your nose.

 A more glorious smell, however, comes from the bread oven, where you can spend another 50 tetri to buy the most delicious and fresh loaf you will find anywhere.

As fast-food chains pop up all over Georgia, I fear for the future of these wonderful little spots where ladies slap dough onto the brick walls of coal-filled ovens. Sure, the bathrooms aren't as clean as McDonald's and you can't count on the reassuring sameness. It's not a generic Big Mac, but a culinary and cultural tradition that has been passed down for hundreds of years. 

All because we stopped by the side of the road for a drink and a bathroom.

Saturday evening walkabout

Pretty much my favorite thing to do in any city is set out on a big unplanned walk. Given a balmy summer evening, a charged up MP3 player full of tunes and podcasts, and an interesting neighborhood, I am in heaven. I headed in the general direction of my former work commute and enjoyed the tree-line boulevard.

I couldn't resist a detour through Vake Park, especially since the fountain actually has water right now. (Still getting the hang of the whole self-portrait thing. Me with a non-crazy face plus the scenery might still be too much to ask. Clearly my hair did not want to cooperate.)

Then dinner at a fancy little ice cream place at another park by the UN office. (Banana and almond/caramel: amazing.) Just as my feet started to complain, I managed to find a bus going in the general direction of home. An excellent evening.

Friday night visit

Larissa took me to see her friend Tamunia so I could buy some of her little felted thingies for gifts. Of course, the visit was A Visit, so it had to begin with trying to cram the guest full of enough snacks to put me into a coma.

 Tamunia lives with her family in one of Tbilisi's many sad-looking Soviet-era apartment blocks, way up on the 15th floor, accessible by a dark, clattering elevator that costs 10 tetri (but only to go up; down is free). Inside, you find (slightly cracked) 10-foot ceilings, a chandelier dripping with crystals hanging from what looks like bare wires, and dozens of paintings by artists who were friends of Tamunia's grandfather; he painted the scene below, the view out the apartment window, soon after moving in nearly 40 years ago.

Aside from some new hotels, a Ferris wheel up on the hill, and no more identical Soviet cars on the bridge, it looks remarkably the same.

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.