I awoke on my last morning in Akhaltsikhe to snow on the ground and a bitterly cold wind. Nonetheless, I packed my things and headed down to the bus station, where I caught a marshrutka to Gori. I arrived to yet another hilltop fortress towering over the town. The freezing wind still hadn’t abated, and I walked around a bit before finally finding a taxi to get me to a hotel. The first one I found that was in my budget ($15 or so) was a deceptively grandiose-looking structure several stories tall and occupying most of a city block–the hotel Intourist, a holdover from the days when Georgia was part of the Soviet Union and a major destination for Russian tourists. I was shown to my room, and stepped into a cavernous space nearly with nearly the square footage of my entire apartment back in Virginia, fifteen foot ceilings, and peeling wallpaper that spoke of far better days. The room had obviously been luxurious once, and I could envision it richly furnaced and full of Russian voices. Now, though, the wide space was occupied by an old table, a tiny gas heater, and a few small pallet beds that seemed lost in a room far too large for them. I quickly discovered that these weren’t the only things that had gone south in the last twenty years. Only one light bulb worked, casting shadows from a rusting chandelier, and most of the power outlets had been ripped out. There was no hot water, but the shower didn’t work anyway, and the sink ran barely a trickle of something closer to ice than any normal liquid. Nonetheless, it was cheap, and somewhat interesting, so I dropped my bags and headed out to look around before it got dark.
Gori was the birthplace of Stalin, the only event which Gori can make as a claim to fame (or, in most of the world, infamy). Despite Russia’s rather bad reputation in the rest of the country, Stalin is rather revered here. One of the grandest, well-kept buildings in town is the Stalin Museum, which contains many of Stalin’s personal effects, his carriage, a number of letters, and a golden death-mask, displayed alone in the center of an eerily shrine-like room surrounded by pillars. On the main street (Stalin Avenue, of course) stands a towering statue of the man, one of the few (perhaps the only one) that remains in good repair in Georgia. During the invasion of 2008-2009, many Russian soldiers made a pilgrimage to Gori and could be seen taking pictures of themselves in front of the statue, acts which no doubt rankled with the surrounding Georgians.
Other than these two sights, there was little to see in Gori other than a few shops and cafes, and, two days later, I continued on to Tbilisi. As my marshrutka entered the Georgian capital, we passed a high statue of King David the Builder, one of the most important figures of Georgian history and a Georgian Orthodox saint. Responsible for repelling the Selcuk Turks from Georgian territory and uniting the various pagan feudal chieftans of the Caucausus under a single Christian empire in the early fourth century A.D., David IV was for all appearances quite a cunning, wise, and even benevolent ruler; attributes rarely combined, if seen at all, in most of history’s political figures. He believed himself to be a descendent (and spiritual reincarnation of) the King David of the Old Testament, and styled himself accordingly, from military victory to devotion to his faith to even the writing of several Georgian hymns which are still praised for their beauty, rhythm and style today. He was buried beneath the gateway of the Gelati Monastery near Kutaisi, with the wish that forever afterwards pilgrims would walk over him in their path towards God; an impressive gesture, at the very least.
Tbilisi was a thriving modern city, and quite a beautiful one, with the usual hilltop castles and churches around the city, rocky cliffs leading down to the river, and a wide main thoroughfare (Rustaveli Ave.) to match any of those in Europe. Unfortunately for me, the hotel prices also matched the European standard; the first one I checked was over a hundred euro a night, and, as far as I could tell, the hostel culture hadn’t yet reached it. Fortunately, however, while I was in Aspindze Razha had recommended that I meet his sister, Nino, when I reached the city; she recommended me to a cheaper district of the city, where I was able to get a hotel room for a reasonable price. And, with a heater, hot water, and clean beds, it was a welcome relief from the cavernous cold of Gori’s Intourist.
On my first day in Tbilisi, I met with Nino and she brought me to the Sameba Cathedral, the largest church in the south Caucausus and an impressive sight, looming over the city from it’s perch at Tbilisi’s highest point. In contrast to most other Georgian churches, it’s also very new, completed only a few years ago in celebration of two thousand years of Christianity. It is, however, constructed in the classic Georgian style, and even now artists are designing a full range of frescoes to decorate the cathedral’s currently plain interior.
We then met up with two of Nino’s cousins, Marine and Nino (St. Nino was credited to bringing Christianity to Georgia; as such, it’s quite a popular girl’s name) for coffee, food, and talk. Both girls were majoring in English at the university and all three of them speak it very well, much to my advantage. We traded stories, opinions, and language; I picked up some new Georgian grammar rules as well as some valuable slang vocabulary. Then we parted ways and Nino and I took some more time to explore the dinner and get a bite to eat. This was the first day of Lent for followers of the Orthodox faith, so none of my hosts could eat meat, dairy products, or a few other things. Georgian cuisine, always quick to supply an alternative, furnished us with Lobiani–a bread stuffed with a spiced bean filling that was, as usual, quite good.
The next day Nino and I met up with her cousins again and we headed out to the town Mtsketa after visiting Nino’s university. Mtsketa houses a few old churches, convents, and monasteries, and I was fortunate to have three English-speaking guides who knew not only the histories behind each place but also the meaning and stories behind various Orthodox icons. I learned of St. Nino, who was given a vision of bringing Christ to the Caucausus and fulfilled the task, armed with a grapevine cross bound with strands of her own hair; St. George, a relative of hers, of dragon-slaying fame, for whom Georgia is named; Queen Tamar, defender against both the Mongols from the north and the Islamic Turks from the south; Vakhtang “Gorgasali” (wolf’s head), defender against the Persians and traditionally believed to be the founder of Tbilisi; even an unnamed monk who, as the story goes, was given great physical beauty by God and who, to avoid giving temptation to women, asked God to replace his own head with that of a wolf’s. According to tradition, God complied, and an icon of him stands in Svetitskhoveli church in Mtsketa. We also visited the Samtavro church, where St. Nino once meditated upon scripture, and received leaves from the grove she once sat in.
Then back to Tbilisi to have dinner before parting ways. We talked about the differences between Georgian and western culture, especially as regards to the family. In the Georgian language there is a separate word for a number of relationships; one’s father’s father, one’s mother’s father, one’s father’s sister’s daughter, etc., all have a different term used to refer to them. This linguistic focus on the family is also mirrored in the culture; Georgian families are generally very close-knit and widespread. A grown Georgian daughter such as either Nino or Marine thinks nothing of dropping in on a parent or other relative for a few days, and is surprised at our western accounts of giving advance notice and making sure our relative has time to see us; in Georgia, family is before all.
We did finally part ways, though, and I wandered around the city a bit before heading back to my hotel for my last night in Georgia. Tomorrow evening I’ll board a bus back to Trabzon, from there to continue on to Kars, Erzurum, and finally Istanbul and home. I’ve enjoyed my first visit to Georgia. Already I know that it won’t be my last.
