May 14^th 2012

Spring in Georgia is a brilliant succession of wild flowers. It arrived just over a month ago now, and gardens and fields, mountains and roadsides exploded into fragrant colour seemingly overnight.  First came the cherry and tremali blossoms –tremali is a distant relative of the cherry (I think) that grows wild, and whose little white blossoms I believe would take over the entire region if not kept in check. These have now ceded to the queen blossoms, which are beginning to wilt, and I am anxiously awaiting to see what follows. The daffodils gave way to the poppies and lilacs a few weeks ago. The tulips are out, and this past week I was given a bouquet of lily of the valley by a girl in my grade six class. There are countless other specimens growing wild all over, so much so that it seems with the passing of every few days there is a new site and smell to behold. The fields and hills around Khashuri have woken up from a long winter’s sleep, and it’s a beautiful thing. 

Lately when I go for my walks along the railroad tracks and through the fields, I am reminded of how important it is, a wholesome and necessary thing, to embrace the progression and turn of the seasons, to “breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each,” as Thoreau once put it. And surely enough, after suffering through the winter here, I feel that I am better able to appreciate just how much sweeter the air is now that it is laden with the scent of flowering things, and how even the smell that follows the rain has changed to tell of summer. The sun now sets three mountains over from where it did when I first arrived, and only the highest reaches of the small Trialeti range are left with any snow.  

As for the drink, well that’s always the same and in ample abundance in Georgia, but there is a steadily increasing supply of fresh produce about, and, thanks to Ruiza’s labours, we’ve been eating chives out of our own garden for weeks, and the string beans are already a good six inches out of the ground.  She ploughed and seeded the entire back yard (a small field) herself, by hand, over the course of two or three weeks. This is a typical undertaking in these parts, even for 78 year old women. My brother says it’s because Georgians like working the land by hand. They are a strong, proud people with a rich agricultural history, and, from what I’ve seen, they place great importance on their reciprocal relationship with the earth.  In the market one can easily see the difference between local produce, and that which is imported from Turkey or Greece.  The latter is plump and spotless, regal looking, like the fruit you’d set out in a fancy bowl on your kitchen table – full of pesticides.  The former is small, speckled and humble in appearance, like the wild apples that grow on the trees along the railroad tracks – delicious and natural. 

Also, now that the weather is nice, I have taken to spending many an evening playing in the street with the neighbourhood kids. At first, it felt a little strange that I was most comfortable associating with a bunch of 8 to 13 year olds, while the adults, every once in a while, watch and marve at my youthful vigour and acrobatics, and probably my childishness too.  Bear in mind that in this country I should, by rights, be married with kids by now, and spending my evenings having far less fun, and being way more ‘mature’, adhering to the guidelines of what we are taught to believe constitutes adulthood.

I have since come to terms with my preferred crowd however, and my current game of choice, although I cannot call it by name, is a sort of cross between freezedance and dodgeball.  Everyone stands in a circle and passes a ball around at high speed until someone drops or misses their pass, whereupon everyone freezes.  The first person to move is eliminated, and is then tasked with doing everything short off pushing to make the people left in game laugh or move.  The more people who get eliminated, the more fun/difficult the game becomes.

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I attended my first Georgian wedding a couple of weekends ago, and aside from the actual ceremony, it was very similar to a wedding celebration back home…only with a lot more culture, much better dancing, and the usual never ending supply of food and drink.  There were even Chinese lanterns, a few fireworks, and a special forces officer in attendance who decided it would be a good idea to empty a round on the roof of the restaurant, presumable to salute the happy new couple. We later had to search for and collect the empty casings via means of cell phone light.

This past Saturday we celebrated Mirika’s 14^th birthday.  I got him a watch and made him a card, both of which he proudly showed off to his cousins who visited that evening for a small celebration. He is now decidedly the younger sibling I never had, and I felt a sort of pride upon seeing this that I have never before experienced.  

Sunday was the feast day of Saint George. We attended a supra at one of Tamrico’s sister’s houses, and I saw, for the second time in a week, another police officer empty a round while drunk, in uniform, skipping his shift to stay on at the banquet.  I also had a man remove his wedding ring and tell me that he loved me upon our introduction.  

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The last weekend of April I tried out the Turkish baths in Tbilisi.  It’s funny how it’s not at all uncomfortable being naked in a room with a bunch of other naked people, until of course you look down, and your visual sense brings you back to reality again and again and again.  It’s almost infantile in a way, like if you can’t see it, it ceases to exist, and is therefore not an issue. But then it only takes witnessing a few saggy ladies lifting up their dimply, deflated spare tires to scrub under their roles, and in so doing bend over just enough to give you a full on view of some of the widest posteriors you’ve ever seen before you stop caring that you’re naked, and actually really start to relax and enjoy the experience.

The following day I visited Mtskheta with a friend. Mtskheta is the former capital of Georgia, about a 30 minute ride outside the current capital, Tbilisi. Situated at the confluence of the Mtkvari and Aragvi Rivers, and nearly surrounded by lush green mountains, Mtskheta is about as idyllic as towns come in Georgia, and so, naturally, it’s clean cobble stone streets lead past many an overpriced restaurant and tacky tourist souvenir shop. 

First we visited Samtavro Transfiguration Church of St. Nino, originally built in the 4th century, and reconstructed in the 11th century. We had the good fortune of getting to hear a polyphonic performance while there, a truly gorgeous art that brings something celestial to an already sacred atmosphere. We then visited Svetitskhoveli Cathedral which translated literally means "the Living Pillar Cathedral,” a name derived from the most prominent legend associated with the church, believed to be the burial place of Christ’s robe.  It is said that a giant pine grew from the place where the robe was buried. Saint Nino ordered the tree to be cut down and had seven pillars made from its wood. These were used to build the original 4^th century church, and the legend (in part) goes that a sacred liquid flowed from the seventh pillar that cured people of all illnesses, and so it was that Georgians began to flock to Svetitskhoveli, and still do today.   

The following day I climbed what must have been the equivalent of 50 flights of stairs to get to Mtatsminda park. Unable to find the proper path to the park, I opted to take what will eventually serve as the maintenance/emergency staircase of what will eventually be a gondola. At present however, it is merely a construction site, guarded be men who do not speak English, and must have thought it a huge joke when they eventually allowed me entry, for lack of being able to provide directions to the real path, because after suffering and sweating through the seemingly endless climb, I arrived at the top only to discover that I could not get into the park, because the building that will one day greet the gondola at the top of the small mountain is not only still under construction, it’s locked. These types of situations have become a recurring theme of my weekend adventures. 

Anyhow, if nothing else, I am stubborn (or determined, whichever way you want to look at it), and there was absolutely no way that I was climbing back down those stairs, nor was walking back out past those guards.  So after hiking through some thick underbrush, and of course a small dump site, along a steep ridge, then over a wall, I eventually made my way into the park to find out that it hadn’t yet opened for the season. My efforts were not entirely in vain however, for although none of the attractions or concession stands were operating, the park was still welcoming visitors while the maintenance and cleaning crews went about their preparations. It’s a peculiar feeling wandering around an empty amusement park, seeing a place that, atmospherically, is everything it isn’t meant to be, quiet, still, almost peaceful. After a couple of hours of wandering and appreciating some truly amazing views of the cityscape bellow I found the real path that leads to and from the park, and had a much more enjoyable walk back through the hills and nature that surround Tbilisi.