Tuesday, March 27th

I learned a few things this past weekend. 

Firstly, never make plans with a Georgian, because when plans change they probably won’t bother telling you until it’s too late, and even then, the only explanation you are most likely to be given is, “I don’t know how to explain it English.”  Then, chances are you’ll find out that ‘it’ is something unforeseeably random like, ‘My grandmother’s sister’s husband died a year ago today, so we are all going to the graveyard to relive that sorrowful time in our lives.  We will begin the supra there (this is why every Georgian cemetery has picnic tables all throughout).  The men will eat and drink and pour alcohol on the grave, while the women, as always, stand aside.  Then we will go back to the house and trap you in the back of the table against a wall, in the very middle of about 30 people you don’t know, force feed you until you are on the verge of bursting, and my mom will sit next to you and talk with all the other women for approximately thirty minutes about how you lie about being allergic to wheat because you don’t want to eat bread because you’re afraid of getting fat, until you get up the nerve to excuse yourself, crawl out under the table, and walk home.'  So yeah, if you want to do something in this country, just do it, don’t wait for the accompaniment of a Georgian.  

I also learned that one should not leave their favourite pair of hand knit woollen socks hanging over the stove longer than is necessary, because eventually accidents will happen and they will fall and burn.  

The following day I learned that I could do without visiting Gori, ever again.  There’s almost as little going on there as there is in Khashuri.  All they’ve really got that we haven’t is a Stalin Museum, and forgive me if I’m wrong, but don’t think that being the birth place of Stalin is much to brag about. But then I suppose he had to be born somewhere. 

It’s about a 30 minute marshrutka ride from Khashuri, provided your marshrutka doesn’t blow out two tires on the side of the highway half way there.  Then it takes about an hour and a half, give or take. And you really want to check to make sure that that the bus you took into town wasn’t the last bus of the day, because that’s important to know. You should also make sure that your phone battery isn’t dying, just in case you have to call your host brother to have him speak to a taxi driver in the otherwise empty marshrutka station parking lot, to figure out that you have to get a cab to the highway from where you will have to wave down a westward bound marshrutka to get home (all possibly while fighting off an episode of the shits because of some, surprise, super oily borsh you were silly enough to order for dinner). This shouldn’t be too much of a problem, provided there is still some daylight remaining. 

The very last thing you want to make sure you don’t do is place your mobile phone in your shallow jacket pocket while on the marshrutka without checking to see if perhaps it fell out before you get off and the driver hastily speeds away 40 minutes further down the highway to his final destination.  That cell phone is your only connection to the English speaking population of Georgia, a rather vital lifeline, and you should treat it as such.  It’s very true what they say, you never realize how precious something is, until you don’t have it anymore. Luckily my host father Giorgi, is tight with the marshrutka driving community, and my mobile was recovered the next day…long after my little defeated session of lying face down on the living room floor (in front of both Mirian and Ruiza) mumbling curses into the carpet.  A person has got to vent every once in a while.    

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I came home from school this afternoon, and walked through the front gate to find Ruiza tending a homemade cha cha distiller, right there in our front yard, and I learned that cha cha tastes slightly less terrible when it’s still warm.