On a bus to Zugdidi

Being on a bus is a funny thing. Sitting inside a rectangular aluminum body on wheels, careening down the road in the company of complete strangers, the riders become part of a collective whole acting together, while at the same time, remaining inwardly individual.

The feeling on a bus is different from a plane or a train. When I board a plane or train, I feel like I am on the brink of an epic journey that I am powerless to stop. There is a permanence to boarding either of those modes of transportation -- once I'm on, that's it -- there's no getting off until the end of the line. But a bus is more down-to-earth -- literally (in regards to the plane) and figuratively. It's cheap. It's relatively quick (key word: relatively). It's practical. It's easy. 

When I jump onto a bus I feel like a vagabond thumbing a ride someplace -- anyone can take the bus. In contrast, when I buy a ticket for a plane or train, the process is ceremoniously limited to those who can afford it. Tense anticipation pervades the moments spent checking in and loading onto those transports. Nothing about my psyche has to change to prepare for a bus ride. 

On a bus, I can ask the driver to let me off wherever I need to stop (at least, here in Georgia the stops are that flexible). There's no asking the pilot or conductor to let me off mid-trip. Oh, disastrous....

On the bus, most of the passengers travel with their coats on -- perhaps another way the ride feels less permanent…. more transitory. At any moment, the bus could stop, so everyone is ready to disembark. Or perhaps it's just drafty in these Georgian buses. The air-tight cabins of planes and modern, high-speed trains lend themselves to retaining heat, so coats are stowed for the duration of the trip in the overhead compartments....."and please use caution when opening the overhead compartments as contents may have shifted during the flight...."

Back to the bus --

While traveling back to Western Georgia today after spending a long weekend in the eastern end of the country, I watched my fellow-vagabonds sit and ride. I was sitting on the aisle, so I had a good view of everyone ahead of me. True to Georgian-style, most people were wearing black leather jackets (the men, especially), jeans, boots, and a scarf of some sort. So uniformed, the passengers looked like they all belonged to the same club …. or all shopped at the same store. I would say that they all looked a part of a Brit-rock band en route to their next gig, but there were too many old people in the group. The repetition of images up the aisle drew my pattern-seeking, artist's eye. A few of the men wore "qudi" (caps) on their heads (it was another cold, rainy day), but aside from those extra accessories, everyone looked the same. Everyone sat, facing the front of the bus, a few gazed out the windows partially covered by mustard-yellow curtains. The only thing facing the passengers was the clock, silently announcing the hour and minutes in bold, red readout.

There is one thing that I like most about watching bus-riders: the unison, bobble-head movement that affects everyone and everything on the bus. With every bump and turn, each rider's head and upper body sways, rocks, bobs, and nods in perfect time. Even the ratty curtains follow the flow of the movement. No one is exempt -- not me, not the driver, not the guy sitting ahead of me across the aisle who keeps turning around to look in my direction, not the girl sitting next to me sharing her tinny phone-music with the group. Everyone has to follow the rhythm dictated by the bus. If I let my eyes go out of focus, I can take in everything in front of me at once -- the unison movement becomes visually musical. 

Every now and then, someone stands up and tries to move of their own accord -- out of sync with the bus-flow, they stumble as if drunk, fighting to be the one in control of their motions. The bus always wins.

So here we all are, on the bus. Dressed alike. Moving in unison. Headed the same direction. Hemmed in by the same yellow-ness. Watching the same scenery go by. Yet, for all the similarity spread across the space in front of me, each person is a unique individual. Each one is thinking unique thoughts. Each one has unique dreams. Each one is going to a different place. Each person has his own story to tell. Each one wrestles with different, unseen stresses. Lost in thought, mindlessly bobbing to the rhythm of the bus, each person exists as a part of the whole, yet completely individual at the same time. 

I am stating the obvious. But I am reminding myself of this individuality more than drawing any earth-shattering conclusions. Being surrounded by a culture and language that are not mine can often cause me to generalize more than I should. I have to remember that although many Georgians look the same to me, they are not all the same person. They do have a strong, unifying tradition of being Georgian, yet each one is a whole individual with thoughts and feelings as unique and relevant as mine. 

Funny things, buses -- and philosophically compelling, too.

Open a door

Oil lamp and icon

"Should I open it?"

James, Katherine, and I had been exploring the outdoor spaces at Bodbe Monastery for a couple of hours. We had walked around the bell tower, the church, and the graveyard, and I had hiked down to the holy spring where St. Nino (who converted Georgia to Christianity a long time ago) had drunk. We had pretty well exhausted the area around all the buildings whose doors were shut against the cold and snow. We were hungry but satisfied with the beautiful setting we had enjoyed investigating and photographing.

As we walked back by the church, I looked at the closed door and said, "Too bad we can't go in -- I'd like to see the inside." Then I noticed that the door was not padlocked like most of the others on the Bodbe buildings. That's when I asked the question.

"Should I open it?" Without waiting for an answer from my companions (who were all for my trying the door), I turned the handle and pushed the door open. It turned heavily but silently on its hinges, revealing a dark, mysterious interior. We stepped over the threshold into the candlelit space. There were two large chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but neither was lit. The only illumination came from small oil lamps hanging in front of the icons and prayer candles that were set into the dishes of sand at intervals around the room. A small amount of light streamed in through narrow, high windows around the upper level of the church. But even in the low light (and as my eyes adjusted to the dimness) I could see the frescoes on the walls and ceiling, the dark carved-wood chairs, the icons, the rugs on the stone floor, and the prayer stations set at intervals around the interior. We spent some time quietly wandering around, looking at the paintings and icons. Katherine and I lit some candles. I shot a few photos. We all absorbed the solemn, reverent air of the church.

Once outside, we continued on our way toward the exit. When we passed the door to the bell tower, I looked at the door, then at James and Katherine and raised my eyebrows in question, "Should I open it?" Of course.

I opened the door and was surprised to see a new marble stairway that led to a small landing in a light, airy, empty space. From the landing, a set of rail-less steps circled the room, growing out of the wall -- it looked like a creation of M. C. Escher. We looked at each other with questioning looks -- and then advanced toward the odd staircase.

No one was around to stop us and there were no signs telling us that we couldn't go up....so up we went. The stairs wound up through that lower level and emptied out onto another landing. This landing was covered with tools and materials that made it obvious that the bell tower was under renovation..... as did the condition of the stairs from that landing to the top -- narrow circular steps cobbled together out of plywood continued up through two more levels. The higher we went, the worse the steps became, not only in construction, but also in the amount of pigeon crap covering the steps, adding a layer of loose grit that made footing even more uncertain. I was reminded of Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo, and went slowly to keep my balance.

Top of the stairs -- and lots of bird crap

At the top of the stairs, we crowded into tower's bell room and took in the view that rewarded us for the precarious climb. It was well-worth the heart-pounding ascent.

And what would we have missed if I hadn't asked the question? We would have missed the best parts of the monastery.

Isn't that just like Life? Many times in life, metaphorical doors stand waiting to be opened by those curious enough to want to know what is on the other side. Doors that may or may not lead to something wonderful -- but if the door is never opened, what lies behind will never be discovered. Maybe there will be a wonderful view -- maybe there will be a lot of crap. But the door has to be opened for the revelation to become reality. One can stand on the outside of the door dreaming about what may lie on the other side, but inaction won't get the dreamer any closer to realizing the dream. Only by reaching out, turning the handle, and pushing the door open will the next steps be revealed.

"Should I open it?"

The answer is always, "Yes."

Veneer or facade?

I'm a nerd. When it comes to my most-used web sites, dictionary.com is one of the top-five web sites that I use on a regular basis (partly because ever since I learned Spanish, I can't spell English....). Today I looked up the definitions of the words, "veneer" and "facade." Of course I know what they mean, but I wanted to see what they mean, technically. "Veneer" (the way I want to use it) means "a superficially valuable or pleasing appearance." "Facade" (again, the way I want to use it) means "a superficial appearance or illusion of something."

Hmmmmm -- "superficial" is a common theme here..... Hold that thought.

I am spending the weekend in the town that Georgian advertising has dubbed "Love City." Maybe I shouldn't pass judgement since I am here in off-peak season and sans-Love, but from what I have seen, it is not all it's cracked-up to be.  The two words I looked up today are much more applicable than "romantic" or "love" commonly used to describe this town.

I am here with my two favorite travel-companions, James and Katherine (who are in love with each other, yeah!!!), and this morning at breakfast we talked about the "veneer" that seems to be applied to the edifices as well as the attitude that is running this town.

But first, a little background -- within the last year, this town has undergone major refurbishing and renovation. The town of Sighnaghi is a medieval walled town that has been in existence since at least 3,000 BC. In the last year, the World Bank has invested lots and lots of money to make this town a desirable tourist destination because of its natural beauty and historical importance -- and the wine that is produced here. They put lots of money into cobble-stone streets, paint jobs for the buildings, and hotel renovations. But they forgot to include one thing in all their expenditure: actual hospitality...... or at least hospitality training. College degrees are awarded after four years of studying hotel management or hospitality studies in the U.S. I am quite sure that no such degrees have been given to anyone running any of the establishments that we have experienced here in Sighnaghi. Where I live in Western Georgia, hospitality is something that is inherent in the character of every Georgian there, but that doesn't seem to be the case here.

A few examples....

The hotel we are staying in is beautiful....superficially. The exterior is lovely -- painted a bright, buttery yellow with dark brown, wooden accents that look lovely in the sunlight. The interior, too, is very nice -- the rooms are comfortable and warm with wood floors, nice brick accent-walls, modern bathrooms, and firm beds. But the people running the hotel are less than hospitable. Despite what the hotel's web site says, there is no internet service; there is no complimentary tea or coffee throughout the day -- even breakfast is meager with only one cup of coffee provided in the cost of the room. What??? One cup of coffee?? That's not right. I have traveled far and wide (except for Asia....), and even in hostels, free wifi and tea/coffee are available all day and all night. What is up with Sighnaghi?

James, Katherine, and I have eaten in a few restaurants in town, and we have been only mildly satisfied with our experience. True, restaurant service is not what it is in the U.S. We know that, and we don't expect the same timing, fastidious attention, or level of service that we would get at any decent establishment in the States. But, waiting a half-hour for our drinks? That's a bit much even for Georgian standards. Good thing we aren't in a hurry....and we abide by our favorite saying, "We aren't on a schedule." We can wait. And we do. But sometimes a two-hour dinner experience of salads, bread, and wine is just a bit much. The mere veneer of hospitality becomes evident....

We went to the Art Museum in town today. The entrance fee was roughly the equivalent of $2 -- not bad for any art museum. We saw an entire room of Niko Pirosmani paintings (the most renowned Georgian painter of all time), so the entrance fee was well-worth what we saw, but the other art that was on display was such an odd assortment of mis-matched works by amateur artists, I wondered for several minutes just what I was supposed to be looking at. One painting especially made me wrinkle my brow in bewilderment -- it was a typical Flemish still life -- a beautiful assortment of fruit and flowers......with a giant red lobster tacked onto the lower left corner of the setting. Wrong. A facade of a fine art collection.

There are many, many storefronts and houses for sale here -- more than I have seen anywhere else in the whole country of Georgia. It seems that this town wants to be a thriving something for tourists, but they can't quite figure out what that "something" should be. Should they be a collection of wineries and shops and restaurants? Should they be art galleries and antique shops? Should they be casinos and markets? Yes. But the only ones that seem to be thriving are the casinos and markets..... and those exist in every other sizable Georgian town and city. The art-, antique-, and shop-scene needs to be developed a bit more. So does the restaurant-scene..... We had been the only patrons in every restaurant we went into until tonight -- one other party came in for dinner. I'll blame it on the winter. But maybe it is merely a veneer.....

The natural beauty of Sighnaghi is extraordinary. However, the human-controlled establishments are severely lacking in the hospitality and generosity for which the Georgians are known. Instead, the "illusion of some pleasing appearance" is much more the reality. I have gotten some really lovely photographs here.....but if I deal with an actual person.....the facade falls away to reveal the lack of hospitality rampant in this tourist-town.

Tea should come here and give a master-course in how to treat a guest. She's the best.

The golden hour

It's my favorite time of day. I think it has been ever since I can remember -- and not just because I am in no way a morning person. The "golden hour" -- that hour before the sun goes down when everything glows with a luminescent, pinkish-gold light -- is my favorite time of day. There is a magical quality to the air and the light that is like nothing else. Everything is beautiful and anything seems possible during the golden hour. Dreams come true and I could fly if I wanted....

St. Stephen's Church spire with the High Caucasus Mountains behind

I am in a beautiful place right now -- even when it's not the golden hour, it's beautiful. The town of Sighnaghi in Eastern Georgia is a place that is fast-becoming a tourist hot-spot, and for a very good reason. The natural beauty of the setting rivals any Tuscan villa -- the cobblestone streets, the quaint churches, the walled-in properties, the vineyards and wineries, even cyprus trees growing up on the hillside -- I've been in Tuscany, and Sighnaghi is just about as beautiful (but there's no Italian food.... that's a minus).

It is still winter, and the town is still beautiful -- that takes a really lovely place to retain its visual quality amid the snow and slush and icicles and general bleakness of the late winter season. Painting the buildings in warm shades of yellow and gold helps -- especially when the low sunlight hits the facades, lighting them up as if the paint were infused with actual gold flecks causing it to glow from the inside-out. The contrast of the blue shadows in the snow highlights the golden hues to an even more fiery radiance. Everywhere I look is picturesque. The next two days are going to be inspiring and visually stimulating.

Now if only my hands weren't so cold, I could take more pictures.....

Sighnaghi, Kakheti, Georgia

A new friend

Today began my weekend adventures to Sighnaghi, a beautiful town in the Kakheti region of Georgia. I was planning to take the 2 o'clock bus to Tbilisi to meet James and Katherine, but the noon bus was running a little late getting on the road, so I made that one. (To get the 2 o'clock bus, I have to catch the 11:20 marshutka from Shamgona.... it usually gets to Zugdidi a little after 12, and the next marshutka run is not until 2:30.) I was anticipating having to kill over an hour before my bus, but I was lucky enough to catch the noon run on its way out of town. The driver and other men who hang out at the bus station with the driver before the run begins were the same guys that took me to Bakuriani (or Khashuri, actually) last weekend. They smiled and waved as I walked up and asked if I was going to Bakuriani again. I told them no, I was headed to Sighnaghi this weekend. They asked if I had a ticket already, and when I said no, they motioned  me onto the bus and showed me to an open seat, anyway. I stowed my backpack and made myself comfortable for the 5-1/2-or-so-hour ride to the capital.

Inga and me on the bus to Tbilisi

I had just pulled out my trusty Bradt guide to Georgia to read up on Kakheti and Sighnaghi, when a woman stepped up to me to say hello. She introduced herself to me in very good English and asked me if she might be able to practice her English with me while we rode to our destinations. I smiled and said, of course, I would be happy to speak with her. She was headed to Bakuriani to spend two weeks there with her kids, her sister, and nephew, so she was only going as far as Khashuri -- where I had gotten off the bus last weekend. She sat down beside me, and we talked the entire four hours to Khashuri.

Meeting new people is something that seems to happen to me without my trying -- people just introduce themselves to me and start talking. I must exude some kind of "come talk to me" aura. Most of the time, I am happy for the conversation, and Inga was certainly one of the more positive people I have met here in Georgia. She is a typical Megruli woman -- assertive, ambitious, positive, and friendly. After talking about our basic backgrounds -- hometown, family, job, education -- we started talking about Georgia. She is one of the new, modern women with forward-thinking ambitions and progressive ideas that I have been privileged to live around in living with Tea. She was very frank (one of the Megrelian's favorite words in English) about what she does and doesn't like about Georgian traditions and customs. As with Tea, Inga completely dislikes that girls get married so young -- it is not uncommon for Georgian girls to marry when they are only 16 or 17. Back in the days when family and house-keeping were the only things in a woman's future, that may have been fine; but times are changing. The women in Western Georgia seem to be riding the crest of that wave of change, voicing their pioneering opinions loudly for all to hear. Now higher education and careers are taking precedence over young marriage -- at least the women like this new way of living -- from what Inga and Tea have told me, the men still want to hold to the old ways. Many men are not in favor of some of the changes that are happening -- the "Westernization" of their country.

Isn't this the plot of "Fiddler on the Roof"? Or maybe a living-out of the lyrics of Bob Dylan's song...."the times, they are a'changin'..."

Change. It is something that is happening in a strangely radical way here. The present, fledgling government is spear-heading the changes in education and the economy -- they want to join the European Union -- they want to boost tourism to one of the main industries in Georgia -- they want the country to speak English (my reason for being here) -- they want to be Western in thought and action, philosophy and practice. But at the same time, they need to remain Georgian. That is going to be a delicate balance to strike -- and I think that the combination of the ambitious women's acceptance of these changes with the men's  dig-their-heels-in resistance, one of two things will happen: either the balance will be struck, or the women are going to take over and run everything leaving the men in the dust of abandoned, Soviet-era backwardness.

In my limited observations, I foresee the women taking over.
Feminism has come to Georgia.

Puddles

One of my favorite memories from childhood explains a lot about why I love to read so much now: both of my parents read to my brother, sister, and me from before I can remember. Even when we grew to middle school-age, they still read to us. One of the many series that my dad read to us was C.S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia. I remember liking The Magician's Nephew the best. I don't remember exactly why, but I know that I loved the part about the magic puddles -- being able to jump into one and suddenly be transported to some other place intrigued me. (Maybe that's the source of my Wanderlust..... that fascination with travel....) If I remember correctly, the characters did not know where each puddle would take them -- they jumped into a complete surprise. I remember listening while my dad read the story, letting my mental-theater play out the meadow of puddles stretching away in all directions, each the "door" to some other place. I wanted to be transported by a magic puddle to wherever the adventure was taking the book-characters -- to be a part of the story instead of merely listening to it.

Now the story that is my life is full of puddles -- literally. It has been raining so much here in Shamgona the last couple of weeks, there are more puddles than road in the road. (Did that make sense?) Walking or running down the road is a constant exercise in coordination and depth-perception, dodging the animal droppings, skirting the edges of the puddles to catch the dry ground, at the same time taking the straightest route through the myriad puddles dotting the road surface. Otherwise my path would look like "Billy's route through the yard" in the "Family Circus" comic from the Sunday paper -- circumnavigating every possible obstacle. It is not possible to go in a straight line. That would land me smack-dab in a puddle......

I was thinking about this a couple of days ago while out for a run, and skirting all the puddles reminded me of The Magician's Nephew and the magic-transport puddles. I thought about trying out the nearest one.....maybe the moment I broke its surface I really would emerge into a surprise....but I didn't want that surprise to end up being wet feet, so I didn't jump. I did, however, think about the correlation between Lewis's magic puddles and my constant freedom to travel and how the two are pretty much equal to many of the Georgian villagers that I live around. The probability of one of those puddles in the road taking me someplace is as close to nil as my colleagues and neighbors going......pretty much anyplace.

Tomorrow I will get on a bus to Tbilisi, spend the night there, and on Saturday, continue on with my friends to Sighnaghi in the region of Kakheti.....someplace that Tea has never been....nor Lika.....nor Sopo -- three of the most highly-educated women in the village. The idea of never going anyplace is so foreign to me, yet I am sure that the idea of going anyplace one wants is just as foreign to these ladies that I work with. They probably watch me get on the marshutka out of town, backpack in hand, and to them, it's like I have jumped into a magic puddle that will transport me to some exotic place to which they have no access. The amount of money that I make here is negligible, but it is more than twice what the national teachers make. My small salary allows me to travel where and when I like. My colleagues do not have the means to do what I am able to do. Traveling within Georgia is so inexpensive, I could afford to go someplace every weekend if I wanted to. But I know that if I did that, the life-style-chasm between the Georgians and me would widen drastically. I don't want that to happen. I would prefer to take them all with me on my adventures -- to hold their hands and have them jump into the magic puddle with me. Maybe I will take them with me.....

The region north of Samegrelo (where I live) is one of the most beautiful, wild places in all of Georgia -- Svaneti. It is the one place that I must see before I leave the country. And again, neither Tea, Lika, nor Sopo have ever been there. I am still astounded by this fact -- to have lived less than 50 kilometers from one of the most beautiful places in the country for one's entire life and to have never gone there..... I cannot fathom that. Tea said that we will go in the spring once the road over the mountain pass is open and the spring flowers are in bloom. I would love for all of us ladies to be able to go together. Sharing the newness of a beautiful place with these ladies would be a highlight of my experience here. I can imagine how happy they would all be to be able to go someplace new and exciting -- to stand together and drink in the picturesque view.....

Yes, let's hold hands and jump into the "Svaneti" puddle.

Surprise break

A few days ago, I found out that there are two Georgian holidays at the beginning of March -- Mother's Day and Women's Day. They are actual holidays -- banks, government buildings, and schools are closed. Mother's Day is tomorrow (Thursday the 3rd), and Women's Day is Tuesday (the 8th).

At school yesterday and last Friday, my colleagues carried on very loud, animated discussions surrounding the calendar, trying to decide which days to take off. Each school has flexibility in the schedule and can take the prescribed days off when the administration decides to. I thought that we might have Friday and Monday off instead of Thursday and Tuesday -- or maybe Thursday and Friday or Monday and Tuesday. Those options made sense to me.....

This morning when I arrived at school, the heated discussion at the calendar had begun afresh -- although a decision had already been made -- we would take off Thursday through Tuesday -- yes, almost a week off -- but, since only two of those days are holidays, we have to make up the other two. To do that, we will have school the next two Saturdays. What a horrible, horrible idea!!! And I said so! Lika agreed with me -- that is what the ladies were discussing so loudly -- those for the idea were defending it to those against it. School on Saturdays -- what a way to make March worse than it already is! This month always feels brutally long.

So today was the last day of classes until next Wednesday. This morning when I didn't want to get out of bed, I wished for the weekend so I could sleep in ....well, these days off are going to be great until the next two Saturdays when I won't be able to sleep late. No one will like those days when they are here -- not even those who were in favor of this terrible schedule.

Lack of planning -- as spontaneous as I can be, lack of planning drives me nuts. Most Georgians don't care about knowing what is coming up. I cannot imagine deciding to have a week off the day before it begins. That would never happen in any school I have ever taught in before -- and to make up days of school on Saturdays?? HA! Never! One part of me doesn't like this slip-shod way of running school -- but another part of me doesn't care. On one hand, I like the surprise of having unexpected days off, but on the other hand, I wish I had known so I could have made plans to use the time to my greatest advantage (like flying someplace warm....). My organized, teacher-self wants to make a list of things to accomplish in these next free days, but my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, renegade-self will be fine with sleeping in and taking each unplanned moment as it comes, enjoying whatever presents itself to me in the way of entertainment.

When I was told of our days off, I immediately took out my phone and texted my two favorite travel companions, James and Katherine to see if they might have the same crazy schedule. They have some of the same days off, so we are going to travel to Eastern Georgia to see what there is to see in a town called Sighnaghi. It is an artsy town in wine-country. Sounds good to me!

So I will not set my alarm clock tonight, and I will enjoy sleeping in tomorrow morning. And when those school-Saturdays come around, I will work hard at not being angry.....