First, the disclaimers - I'm no good at recording and communicating my thoughts on sensory experiences, and even worse at capturing my favourite moments in pithy, reader-friendly ways (which is probably why social media is a casual acquaintance at best). In other words, I've rarely attempted writing
about my life
for other people. However, with this post, I intend to make an honest attempt to start gauging whether what I write is being read and liked, in both content and form. I hope that the hit-and-miss humour finds a few marks, and that the posts themselves, in part at least, provide some food for the mind and soul. I'm sure that more than a little patience and optimism will be called for (more from you than me) - that being said, there, but for the grace of you, O esteemed reader, go I.
Unlike my many previous attempts to write about the adventures born of the wanderlust I share with my spirit-guide of a spouse, the transition from scribbled vacation notes to actual word processor has finally be made with our two-week trip to Georgia (the country) this year. So here I am, celebrating this momentous occasion with a new blog and the hope that more writing follows - on travel, culture and anything else that catches the fancy of my restless soul.
I could categorize the countries that the husband and I have explored together somewhat like this -
Coffee at Work - Hong Kong
Quick Bites - Belgium, Estonia, Finland and regrettably, India
Chatty Brunches - France, Switzerland, Netherlands, United Kingdom, Slovenia and Sweden
Candle-Lit Dinners - Scotland, Italy, Norway, Southwestern United States, South Africa and Georgia (the latter three over the last three years)
Our inclination towards immersive travel has been steadily increasing over the years. Georgia though, has been special. This was the first time we were planning a trip to a country that we knew little about to begin with, as well as one that had never been on our combined travel bucket list. Of course, the customary devouring of historical accounts, travelogues, documentaries and a pile of online material prior to the trip rectified the former, but experiencing the country was still a revelation. Georgia, or 'Sakartvelo' as it is natively known (a name derived from the core central Georgian region of Kartli) rewarded us with a markedly different identity from anywhere else we've traveled to before - ancient and highly complex - and a distinctive, exuberant culture that belies a history fraught with invasions, occupation and war.
Besides the novelty of traveling to a territory hitherto unexplored by most people that we know, this vacation has been unconventional for other reasons - it was the first time we stayed almost exclusively at people's homes (not cute boutique hotels masquerading as B&Bs, but actual homes of local residents which double up as inns for tourists), the first time in a region where the knowledge of English seemed to be extremely limited, and the first time that we elicited so many unabashed stares of curiosity almost at every turn.
Thanks to our borderline obsessive pre-travel research, we invariably took the locals by surprise by what we already knew about their history and culture (which was not much, but they were gratified that we had cared enough to want to learn about them). Our questions were met with great enthusiasm, and our
Gamarjobats ('hello') and
Madlobas ('thank you') with quiet appreciation. One incident stands out - at our first stop, a little village called Mestia in the Svaneti region of the Greater Caucasian mountains, we were staying at an inn being run by a Georgian lady whose family had been living there for generations. The first morning, we were served what would become the template for our breakfast menu in Georgia - Salad (diced cucumbers and tomatoes), Georgian cheese and yogurt, and the ubiquitous all day local staple - Khachapuri. While we were still marveling at the copious quantities of food being served to us, the landlady brought us some garnish in a small plate, which she introduced as a Georgian spice. I instantly asked - 'Svan salt?' Her eyes widened and a smile which we had only seen glimpses of until then widened enough to earn its name. She said - 'Yes Svan salt - our special secret spice. You know?' 'Yes, we read about it and can't wait to try it!' After sprinkling a little on the salad, I munched into a slice of tomato, indicating my whole-hearted approval to our hostess and once she had excused herself, grinned at the husband - 'Some chat masala with your salad, love?'
***
Georgia is a little slice of country at the crossroads of Europe and Asia and sharing borders with extremely diverse neighbours - Russia flanking the long east-west upper border, Azerbaijan to the south-east, Armenia and Turkey to the south and an extensive Black Sea coastline to the west. A former Soviet republic from 1921 to 1991, it seems to be still working through such dilemmas as the first generation to have gained freedom often does. Some people we met would share broken thoughts on the Soviet occupation, reflective, as though they were not yet quite used to forming strong opinions about the past. In Signagi, a pretty little town in the ancient wine-growing region Kakheti, we met a well-read and urbane Georgian vintner who co-owns and manages the small but well-respected Pheasant's Tears Winery. Over some fabulous food and wine, he mused about the end of Soviet occupation in his country with a faraway look in his eyes - 'Some say Soviet times better, some say now better... but... freedom is good... yes, freedom is good.'
The Soviet connection was obviously a sensitive topic, never more apparent than when we visited the national museum - there was one entire floor called the Museum of Soviet Occupation dedicated to the history of the Red Army's invasion, the memory of the victims of political repressions and the subsequent movement for national liberation. It seemed like an expression of a strong nationalist sentiment, and yet, so far as we could tell, not one that is uniformly felt across the country.
On the other hand, the remnants of Soviet times did give us some amusing moments. We saw quite a few old Ladas and converted ZiLs tramping around, and were hugely diverted by the the overground gas piping all over the country - I half expected a Pac-Man to jump out at us! And then there were the references to Hindi cinema. A case in point - Nana, our hostess at our Signagi guesthouse, was a small, ebullient lady with a big, happy face. She was a joy to to see in the morning at breakfast and come back to in the evening after wandering about town. Her quaint, lovingly restored 18th C. brick house had a big balcony covered in grape vine with a lovely view of the hills. One morning at breakfast, she made me try her special home-made 'basil alcohol', all the time chanting reassuringly, 'So-so alcohol ok, yes? It ees organic, na-tyu-raal, I make at home! So-so ok! You try!' I was all for it, more so because we'd been making the most of the famed Kakhetian wine region the previous night. I was feeling the hint of a hangover, and I thought - 'Some organic hair of the dog? Why not!'. It was this lovely looking pink liquid, not too strong, quite tasty and definitely alcoholic. I downed the shot and despite the sweetness felt a touch queasy, but it did help my hangover - I was hale and sunny within the hour. She'd serve us a simple but hearty breakfast of eggs, bread, fruit, cheese, something like 'dalia', the mandatory diced-cucumber-and-tomatoes salad, one other vegetable savoury dish like eggplant or carrots in chees-ey sauce (no khachapuri, thankfully - we'd had as much as we could of it by then), all the food na-tyu-raal and organic from her parents farm in the village. While we ate and sipped her delicious mint tea (also a good hangover cure, as I realized), she'd sit on the sofa nearby and talk, like that marginally related 'maasi' whom your parents urge you to go and meet when you visit them, who greets you with a big wide smile, lots of small talk, then serves her 'ghar-waale khachori-samose and mint chutney' and watches you eat while she chatters away. Her family, including her daughter and granddaughter, were staying with her too at the time, though they kept to their side of the house. When we said to her that she looked too young to be a grandmother, she made a 'pfff' sound and made yet another apologetic reference to her little grandaughter which had, by then, become a regular feature- 'my crazy baby, she run about and make noise, she crazy!'. Nana then reminisced about when she had been a schoolgirl herself in Signagi during Soviet times, when Hindi movies had been popular in the local cinemas. 'My favourite ees Elephant My Friend!'. Bemusement happened, followed by comprehension. 'End also, Sita-Gita!'
Nana's taste in Hindi movies was positively refined when compared to that other ever-present reference which came at us from at least six different people in different places - the utterly baffling 'Jimmy Jimmy Aaja Aaja' from the gem of a artistic creation that was 'Disco Dancer'. It happened for the first time on our very first day, on one of the village roads in Mestia - a tiny, remote place in the lap of the mountains. As we strolled towards the 'center' - a small, well manicured area with a very nice resto-pub - a man stopped us in our tracks and said 'Hi! You from where? Iran? No? Indeeya! Oh I love Indeeya! Jimmy Jimmy Aaja Aaja?'
Our utterly flabbergasted expressions must've urged him to explain to us that it was a song from a Hindi movie that starred Mithun Chakraborty. We recovered enough to vigorously nod our heads and say that we knew of the song. That happened, and then it happened again, here, there and everywhere. The love that our most asinine songs got showered with was simply marvelous. In Kutaisi, the legislative capital, as we walked into as classy looking restaurant for an early breakfast, we were greeted by giggles from the three youngsters at the counter, and the few other sedate patrons sipping their coffees were suddenly serenaded with the sublime 'Naach meri bulbul ke paisa milega...'. 'For our benefit?' More giggles. 'Yes please! I will take your order?'.
When we met the aforementioned vintner in Signagi, a pleasant, knowledgeable man, we asked him - 'What's the deal with Jimmy Jimmy, man?' He guffawed for at least a few minutes before apologizing for his countrymen - 'That one is... like... banal, I think. Like... low, no? Raj Kapoor was good, I think. And now, Amitabh Bacchhan? He is good, yes?' He went on to mention that a Hindi movie had been filmed in the country three years ago. 'You know Anushki Sharma? Anushki and full movie team come to my restaurant - we all drink wine, cook together. I cook Indian food for them. You see this movie? It is some... mystical... mystery... something...'. I honestly had had very little to say that evening - it had been far too entertaining to just listen. The combination of generous tastings of good wine and the far-reaching thoughts of a balding, pink-faced Georgian man had made for a rather surreal evening, but I tried to sober up and think of what this movie could be. For the tenth time this trip I realized - I'm really not very interested in my own country, in its contemporary garb, at least. I've always known that, but this trip gave me a fresh perspective - these people love the idea of India, not for its yoga or spirituality, but for its continuity through the ages and its living, mixed-up identity. I still don't know the name of the movie starring Anushki that Mr. Pheasant's Tears Winery had referred to - if you do, let me know.
Edit: With much investigation, we've figured out that the movie being referred to was Irandaam Ulagam, a Tamil movie starring a Ms. Anushka Shetty that was shot extensively in Georgia in 2013.
***
Given that this was the longest we had spent in any one country (except our own), we were able to partake of the incredible variety Georgia offered us. We drove around in a rented car for the most part and attempted some ill-advised off-road adventures while at it. The scenery was breathtaking everywhere we went, and the heritage riveting. The mountains and glaciers of Svaneti and Kazbegi, the steppes of Kaktheti, the semi-arid and almost lunar landscape of Davit Gareja, the forests of Borjomi-Kharagauli, the rocky hills enroute to Vardzia, bucolic riverside stretches on the banks of the Mtkvari and Aragvi rivers, lakes and waterfalls, gorges and valleys, villages and cities - we rode or walked with them all.
Svaneti and Kazbegi, the two spectacular valleys of the Greater Caucasian mountains on either side of South Ossetia, a Russia-backed independent province, were the highlights - incredibly beautiful, utterly pristine and just beginning to see the effects of growing tourist interest. Velvety carpets of green everywhere we looked, waterfalls and silver streams of meltwater, roaring glacial rivers - photo stops soon became pointless. As always in the mountains, the weather was fickle - when we hiked alongside the the powerful Mestia-chala river in Svaneti to its source in the Chaaladi glacier, across rocks and boulders towards the end, I must've alternately taken off and put back on warm clothing and rain gear at least five times. In the more visited mountain region of Kazbegi, the highlight was the 14th C. Gergeti Trinity church (Tsminda Sameba) perched high on the hilltop at an elevation of 2170 meters, with the stunning Mt. Kazbegi towering above it - as remarkable a setting as it can possibly get. Its isolated location on top of a mountain (it can only be reached by a steep 3 hour climb up the mountain, or around 30 minutes by jeep up an extremely rough trail) surrounded by the dazzling beauty and vastness of nature has made it the perfect symbol for Georgia.
****
The Wine Region gave us some interesting wines, but its history as possibly the oldest wine-making region and tradition in the world was far more fascinating than the qualities of the wines themselves. The traditional Georgian way of making wine (by fermenting, storing and ageing the grape juice along with skin, stalks and seeds in 'kvevris' - large, egg-shaped earthenware vessels - which are buried underground for uniformity of conditions for around 5-6 months) has been in existence since the 6th Millenium B.C. according to archaeological evidence, making it the oldest wine making tradition in the world. We tried both dry and semi-sweet 'kvevri' wines, mostly reds. Some were beautifully smooth and almost creamy, and made for easy drinking. Others, especially the dry reds, were quite unpleasantly tannic. They all had great body and colour. The whites were a beautiful amber in colour because of the juice being stored along with the grape skins, stems and seeds. They were all very efficient and very successful in getting me pleasantly buzzed.
Time and again we saw the country's storied past reflected in its architecture - an eclectic mix of Medieval, Neoclassical, Middle Eastern, Art Nouveau, Stalinist and Modernist structures. The cathedrals and monasteries (at least the latest avatars) were Byzantine-inspired with Georgian and Russian touches, while other structures very overlaid with Islamic architecture, mostly by the Ottoman Turks).
Our route was dotted with a multitude of early and late medieval monuments and structures - churches, monasteries, fortresses and watchtowers, not to mention sprawling cave cities and monastic complexes (Vardzia and Davit Gareja, with surviving frescoes dated to the 11th and 12th C., the actual structure of Davit Gareja dating all the way back to the 6th C.). Thanks to having been destroyed repeatedly by various invaders - the Seljuk Turks, the Mongols, the Iranians, and finally by Soviet Russia, most of these structures have been much renovated, and the surviving ones have been irrevocably defaced. Hardly any original frescoes and reliefs remain, and among those that do, every single face has been defaced. I suppose we should be glad that not all of these have been razed to the ground by empire after conquering empire. Partisan as it may sound, I felt glad, as I have before, that I do not owe my ancestry to any of those who were responsible.
Still, except in the capital Tbilisi (where the ancient cathedrals and churches, not to mention a mosque and a synagogue all are living religious centres, part of the lives of a very pious people, renovated regularly and often lavishly), that which has survived has changed very little over the centuries, except for being renovated just enough to remind us of what it used to be.
***
Tbilisi, the quirky capital, has earned its place among the most charming places I have ever visited. The narrow, mazelike, cobblestone lanes of the old city punctuated by beautiful arches of grape vine at every other turn, old brick homes with wooden decks, some all spruced up recently with pastel paints, some with their plaster peeling, stolid local women drying their clothes in the large courtyards, a few dogs and innumerable cats sauntering along their spotlessly clean streets - it was like meeting the scruffy, striking love-child that Europe and India might have made.
Tbilisi, or Tiflis as it was earlier called, was historically an object of competition among almost all the major empires due to its proximity to lucrative east-west trade routes. The numerous medieval cathedrals alongside the long rows of Soviet bloc-style apartments seemed like the ironic rejoinders of a ancient religious people to the non-religious state that had marched into their nation. There were moments when the present-day interpretations of this chequered history made unexpected appearances. We were lazily sipping our wine at a live music bar one evening when two gentlemen at the table next to us said hello and introduced themselves. They were musicians from Iran, one a singer and the other a composer. The singer was a raging Indophile, who broke into a sonnet about how he served Satya Sai Baba at Puttaparthi and how India was his spiritual and emotional home, waxing eloquent until words suddenly failed him and with a glint of tears in his eyes, he just clapped his hand on his heart. Touched but also rather taken aback by this show of emotion, we resorted to a few friendly platitudes and empathetic smiles. Hoping to bring the conversation onto more relaxed ground and also include the other gentleman, we asked them what had brought them to Georgia. The composer explained that they were exploring 'event partnerships' in the performance arts, and then added slyly, 'Also, Georgia was once a part of where we come from...". It took us a minute to realize that he was referencing 15th C. history when the Iranian Safavids joined the fray for control over the Eastern Caucasus, and the Georgians spent over 150 years as Persian subjects. It was an awkward reminder of Georgia's fragile sovereignty that was been dribbled about about the old Islamic world for centuries - throw the still-tense relations with Russia into the mix, and there's no wonder about the undercurrent of insecurity and the manifestations of nationalism that we sensed so often during our travel. It was really not surprising, then, to learn that the Georgian words for 'hello'
('
Gamarjobat') and 'cheers' ('
Gaumarjos') literally mean 'victory to you'. That their everyday greetings are derived from a battle cry is a testament to all there is to say about their history until not so very long ago.
One day, walking up the winding lanes to the hilltop crowned by the Narikala fortress, with the city - its spires, its domes, its bridges and its river - glowing in the late light, I looked up at the truly imposing statue of Mother Georgia crowned by the setting sun - her sword in one hand and a wine goblet in the other - and realized that she really was a wonderful representation of her people. Fight the enemy, celebrate the friend.
On paper, Tbilisi seemed similar to the old towns of other European cities - but this one actually made us feel like like we were walking an old land - a territory churned by the ages, but steeped in its own unique culture and religion, very little of which has changed to this day. Georgia made us feel like we were traveling through a country which had been aged in one of its own 'kvevris' of history. The wine produced today, while impressive, was not particularly complex - but the tradition that created it was most certainly was.
***
Our trip was filled with so many funny, interesting moments that we owe to the people that we met. In Mestia, on our way to the base for our Chalaadi glacier hike, our driver Pidroni found language inadequate to warn us that the forests around us harboured bears. So he resorted to something simpler - taking his hands off the wheel, he put his hands up, made mock-claws with his fists and growled, 'Roaaaahh!'. Another time, noting that his face glowed when he told us about his two children, the husband, ever-thoughtful, offered him a a couple of chocolate bars that we had been carrying around for our hikes. The hope had been that his children would like them - unfortunately, they disappeared within the next five minutes into Pidroni. After chomping into his last bite, he said with much satisfaction, 'Dis very nice chocolate. I like dis chocolate.'
We encountered many aspiring Formula One drivers, who thought driving and overtaking other cars at a 100 kmph was a walk in the park. One of them, Toma, who drove us from Mestia to Kutaisi, was just starting to hit what felt like the sonic barrier when he glanced to the side and asked curiously, 'Why seatbelt?' While he was scaring the living daylights out of us with his daredevilry, Toma was also doing business on the phone incessantly. He was a real multitasker - at one point, steering wheel in one hand, phone in the other, he decided it would be nice to take videos of the beautiful lower Svaneti valley while we hurtled down along its steep, winding roads. 'Wow! So beautiful, no? You want to stop? Take photoo? No? Ok I continue to take videoo.' At least, that's what we think he said.
In Kutaisi, we had decided to cut our stay short by a day because of a change in the plan ahead. Our matronly, red-headed landlady remonstrated with us mournfully, over and over again, 'Why you go? You pay money for one more day no, you stay! You see Vardzia, and you come back! I have many guests coming today, I make dinner tonight. You leave luggage here, and come back, ok?' We had to appease her like we would an insistent old relative, and promise to try and come back if that worked. She then gave me a mini-hug and said 'Your husband, very good boy' and to the husband she said, 'You have very good wife, very beautiful'. The warmth was so genuine and so droll that it compelled me to do what I've never done before on a trip - take a photo with her. Unsurprisingly, there were many other happy photographs taken with hosts and people we met about town. Nana, our landlady at Signagi with the home-based basil-alcohol-manufacturing facility, beamed widely when I asked for a photo with her, then came and put her plump arm around me. She made a wry face and said, 'I so big...' and sighed a dramatic sigh. After a smiling photo, she waved us goodbye, all the while reciting, 'Good stay? Yes? Good good. All smiling, all happy happy...'. I'm not sure whether she was talking about us being happy, or herself being happy that our stay had been happy - either way, it was one of the sweetest moments of the trip.
Another hostess, at the guesthouse at Akhaltsikhe, was younger - she too was thrilled when I asked for a photo with her, and after a regular one was taken she declared, 'Now self!' and promptly proceeded to take an expert 'selfie' of us. At our guesthouse in Kazbegi, a lovely wooden house called 'Alpenhaus' (we may for all the world have been in a small village in Switzerland), we had some trouble with sleeping one night thanks to the resident Caucasian mountain dog howling and barking through the night. The next morning, I approached the landlady who was with one of the housekeepers and asked her if the dog may have been cold in the night, and whether he could be allowed to sleep somewhere warmer. When that hint fell flat, I explained our problem and suggested that he be taken to a different part of the property. The housekeeper, who seem to have understood the conversation, suddenly erupted into protestations in Georgian, which our pixie-like German landlady translated for us - 'She says the dog was howling because there are wolves in the forest. He is chained to that side because wolves come from that side in the night - cannot move him as our other guests will be in danger. This is village my dear - you must get used to it.' Annoyed as we were with this implausible story and the proprietress' indifference, we couldn't help being amused by these esoteric idiosyncrasies.
***
We met as many engaging canine, feline, bovine and and equine characters as human ones on this trip. They were on the roads and the trails, in guesthouses and restaurants, in meadows high up in the mountains and even in the churches and monasteries. In Svaneti, while we were hiking to the alpine Koruldi Lakes, two mountain dogs came bounding towards us. We'd read that they could be quite bellicose, so we slowed down but continued to walk ahead. We soon realized that they were just offering their services as trail guides - they ambled and galloped in turn alongside us for almost an hour before losing their interest. Contrary to the warnings, we were treated very hospitably by all the other mountain and village dogs that we met (I'm leaving out the city dogs because they're usually bootlickers or wiseguys). The cats - now that was a whole different story. Some of them would lazily hop on to my lap and ask to be petted, some begged for attention and food brazenly and others were shy and would need to be wooed. One presumptuous tawny fellow, Garfield, insisted on sharing our breakfast table (not the food) at Akhaltsikhe. He'd sit straight-backed on the bench, staring unabashedly at us while we ate. He had a companion, Panda, a more reticent and dignified calico cat. Between Garfield's audacity and Panda's solemn appeals, they all but had us in the bag.
***
The food was a fortnight-long gastronomic adventure in and of itself. Breakfast - we've never seen so many vegetables at the breakfast table, and very lunch-dinnery vegetables at that. Cucumbers and tomatoes were there every single day, and others like the aforementioned eggplant (who eats 'baingan' curry in the morning!) and carrots (carrot-mayo 'subji'-style) occasionally made an appearance. Once, there was even tomato rice (the kind that a South Indian mom packs for a school lunch), but with chicken. Lunch and dinner almost always had one order of 'lobio' in a clay pot - it was not a variant of 'rajma', it
was 'rajma'. It was served along with bread, and sometimes mint yogurt (matsoni) - I ate it every single day. At Mkskheta, one of the oldest cities of Georgia and its spiritual centre (the entire city is a UNESCO World Heritage Site), after visiting the fabulous 11th C. Svetitskhoveli Cathedral and the 6th C. Jvari Monastery in the truly alarming summer heat, we settled down at one of the little restaurants that lined the cobbled streets and did, in Georgia, as Georgians do - we ate delicious 'Lobio' with assorted sour pickles and 'Mchadi' (fried corn bread). Savouring 'rajma' at one of the oldest sites of Orthodox Christianity in a country that was until recently part of an atheist state - surreal, to say the least.
The various avatars of the 'khachapuri' were mind-boggling - 'Imereti', 'Megruli', 'Acharuli' etc. depending on the regions from which they came. The only one that I liked was a version of stuffed with a mixture of cheese and potatoes and baked in a clay oven. I found this far more palatable than the ones stuffed with their signature cheese 'sulguni' - extremely sour, kind of stinky, and very I-don't-like-it. The Svanetian kind baked with meat inside did not go down very well with me either, probably because it was served to me at 7.30 A.M. in the morning. The husband, however, heartily approved of all the local fare, enthusiastically sampling dish after unpronounceable dish. No local appetizer, entree or dessert was left untried, no beverage untested. Even the tourist-focused Borjomi water from the 'naturally carbonated springs of the Lesser Caucasian highlands' was sampled. One morning, the husband had an another version of the khachapuri which was an extremely sinful pizza-like creation with loads of cheese stuffed inside, with more melted cheese and a big runny egg (or were there two?) on top. It could easily feed a small village in India.
Meat was ever-present - in the form of sausages, roasted local trout or quail, in the 'khinkali' (a large momo-modak like thing, steamed with minced-meat and flavourful juices filled inside it - 4 of these could easily be called lunch), inside baked bread ('kubdari', the 'national dish' of the Svaneti region as declared by our landlady in Mestia), as lamb or beef 'chakapuli', a goulash-like stew with greens, spices and lots of flavour, or as 'shkmeruli' (chicken in milk and garlic sauce) that tasted positively 'mughalai'. These were simple and hearty country preparations for the most part, but we also tried modern interpretations of the local favourites, delicately prepared and plated with finesse in a few fine-dining kitchens.
There was much wine-drinking, as could be expected, but that was not the only form in which we consumed grape juice - it was everywhere! In their sauces or jus, in a strange-looking Georgian candy called 'churchkela' (a string of walnuts or hazelnuts threaded onto a string, dipped in grape juice thickened with flour and dried in the shape of a sausage), in their tasty grape-oil used as an alternative to olive oil, in a tart topped with a gel-mousse made from grape juice, and of course, in the 'cha-cha' - a terrifyingly strong grape vodka / brandy made from the residue left after making wine. With a kick that makes one scrunch up one's eyes for a full ten seconds after the first sip, it may well be used for eco-friendly weaponization. The next few sips are marginally easier with a nice, grape-y aftertaste, but I'm ashamed to say that our fragile systems were not capable of ever downing their double-patiala pegs of this Kakhetian cannonball.
Needless to say, the carbs, the cheese, the rich meat, the sugar and the alcohol have all done their jobs magnificently and now, the weighing scale has been put away.
***
The warmth and regard we received from the people in most places truly floored us - ever so often it was simply in the form of the questioning 'In-dee-ya?' accompanied with immense enthusiasm and big, genuine smiles. Sometimes it was in the way the hosts would be inordinately pleased because they'd never had Indians stay with them before. An old man whom we asked for directions put his arm around us and walked us to the intended spot, signing off with the now familiar 'Indeeya... yes yes...' and a weary but limpid smile. One time, a waiter in a cafe in Kazbegi politely asked us after taking our order, 'May I ask, you are from India?'. Upon such confirmation, he seemed to be seized with strong emotion, and with visible fervour said, 'India is country I love most after Georgia. I am saving up money so that I can visit someday'.
Surprisingly, even though there did seem to be quite a few other brown-skinned visitors, especially in the cities, we were always identified, without exception, as Indians. They clearly had quite a strong radar for 'In-doo-stan'. Of course, most assumed that we were Indians living and working in Dubai, and their eyes invariably popped when we let them know that were from 'India-India'. Toma even made us rack our brains to estimate how many kilometers away from Georgia Mumbai was. 'Oh so far!' I'm guessing more than one of them thought that we'd been conned into it. For our part, it was unusual for us to have explored many significant places in one country without running into any fellow Indian tourists.
I've allowed this account of our trip to become longer than I'd hoped it would be, but that's leeway I want to give myself this time because after so many wonderful vacations with my partner-in-crime, this is the first time that my intention of writing about a trip has fructified. Previous attempts had usually been abandoned when I realized that despite writing six pages, I had not come close to actually conveying what I had felt. We were greedy in our travels - experiencing much beauty, variety and novelty in various forms, and it was difficult to know how best to record the the plethora of memories and mental images gathered across countries and cultures. Georgia gave us all that and more, but importantly, it made our travel immensely richer through its identity and its people. The vintage and strength of that identity wove a unifying thread through the many different places we visited, allowing me to experience the country in a way that made me want to pay tribute to it in all its remembered glory and present-day uniqueness.
I've always found it difficult to experience rich travel in mellow ways, mostly because I take in more than I can process. This time, while we often lost ourselves admiring the magnificent panoramas as we usually do, we also took the time to mosey in the meadows and smell the blossoms - literally and otherwise. Georgia urged me to feel in my bones everything that I saw and experienced, and I'm much the wiser for it.
