My trip to Batumi was the first time I was allowed to venture off by myself, as my host family is genuinely concerned for me: they don’t want to lose the American. I began my marshutka ride accompanied by my neighbor and a man who I assumed was her husband. Actually, I didn’t assume- I asked Nino (my host sister) if this was the case and she responded with “Ho, ho, ho (yes, yes, yes).” Never make an assumption in Georgia, and never accept an answer from someone who doesn’t speak fluent English. Lesson learned. The marshutka was packed, but this was to be expected. The “husband” of my neighbor was particularly nice and chatty with me, and I soon learned why. Upon near arrival of my destination-Batumi- he asked for my number, and I naively gave it to him, thinking he would help me out in case I needed anything. Wrong. It turned out this man was not my neighbor’s husband, but a former pupil, I think, and he had the hots for me. He began to call my phone almost immediately; this lasted for several days. He may still call my phone, but I wouldn’t know, as I lost it a few days ago.
Once in Batumi, and off the marshutka, I was met by my host uncle, who showed me where our hostel was. Almost immediately upon entering the hostel, I received a negative vibe. So did my uncle, who threw his hands up and began uttering incoherent phrases in Georgian. I was the first to arrive, so I waited until Greg appeared to discuss what to do, and where we should stay next, as the hostel was unacceptable. We decided to wait for Caitlin, Rad Rob, Jacob, and Simon the BAMF to discuss our next plan of action. At this moment, my stomach decided to start conducting flips and turns, which didn’t help our million hour journey to search for a new accommodation. Fortuitously, we found a shagtastic pad right on the main avenue in Batumi (Rustaveli), within walking distance to the Black Sea. The apartment was owned by a family, who were willing and excited to make a few bucks off a few tourists who needed a place to crash…as soon as we walked in, they began packing and left their home to relocate to God knows where. Ah, the hospitality and kindness of Georgians. The shagtastic pad had a balcony, which Simon accidentally locked, and an unfathomable, unworkable toilet (at least to our Western sensibilities). Luckily for us, we stumbled upon a café across the street, which served not only delicious food, but had a beautiful, grandiose western style toilet. Our mornings consisted of going to the café, eating, and using the toilet to do our business. Nice.
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| Our shagtastic pad. Trust me, it was pretty rad on the inside...and had a baller balcony |
I’d like to take a moment to complain. The restaurants in Batumi, or Georgia in general, are known for epically slow service. Slow -as in 30 minutes to an hour- for the simplest of delicacies. Furthermore, they rarely have items listed on the menu, and if they don’t, they offer you khatchapuri. No, I don’t want the damn cheese bread, I want that thing I pointed to; make it happen people. If you want pizza here, you’d be wise to think again, unless of course you love mayo, because they slather it on everything, including pizza; this is a major no no for a pizza aficionado like myself. Lastly, they bring out your food separately, so that one member of your party may be done well before you finish. I don’t get it. One more point of contempt: the amount of gypsies in the major cities here. These people are ballsy, and will simply come up to you and demand money by saying, “lari, lari; money, money.” C’mon, can’t you at least do a trick or something?
Onto the wonderful points of Batumi…my fellow TLG’ers. As usual, Simon was a BAMF. How’s this for a BAMF: I’m strolling along Rustaveli Avenue, side by side with Simon, chatting away, until Simon suddenly interjects: “hold on real quick, let me push this car.” He then proceeded to help push a car, in the same fashion as my family does to start our Little Miss Sunshine van. His general acts of badassery never cease to amaze me. All of us have interesting toilet experiences. Some of us have normal western style toilets, but some are not so lucky and have holes in the ground (literally) or toilets that are tricky to flush. Simon is one of those who, and I say with all seriousness, has a trickster toilet. He explained that he has broken the toilet several times, and he feels awful for repeatedly making his host family fix it. In an attempt to resolve this issue, he describes how he may just leave floaters from now on and blame it on someone else. Do you see how badass he is? Here’s some additional badassery: comedies are not for Simon, because he doesn’t, in his own words, find them funny.
A quite interesting moment in this city was provided by none other than the owner of our shagtastic pad. As I was standing on the balcony one day, enjoying the cool afternoon breeze, I noticed said owner standing below, near his car, flailing his arms about like a mad man. This was quite perplexing to me. Jacob, seemingly excellent at interpreting non-verbal language, immediately understood what was requested of us, and ordered us to run down to meet him, to go for a drive. Aussie Adam and I responded quickly, racing down the stairs, filled with curiosity as to what this possibility would offer. Once in the car, our temporary landlord took us on an impromptu tour of the city. The drive wasn’t so much a tour, but was more akin to a theme park ride, if said theme park ride tempted fate. The driver of this voyage had the windows rolled down, and he drove at least 70 M.P.H.; all the while Billy Joel was blasting from the stereo, and beer was drunk (yes, he bought us beers to drink as well, and condoned drinking and driving). While giving us this “tour”, he constantly, and intermittently screamed “fuck the police” and “BATUMIIIIII.” In other words, this guy is my idol. He’s mad, and that’s just how I like them.
The end of my trip provided me with a glimpse of hell, and hell, my dear friends, is a marshutka station. Envisage this: it’s hot (but that’s a given), filled with gypsies begging for money, acrid smelling, and blaring with DMX and other 90’s rap tunes. It’s miserable. Other than the ending, the Batumi trip was pleasant, filled with good company, laughs, adventures, and interesting experiences. All was well, despite Rad Rob spreading the plague with his consistent coughing (he’s better now, if you’re concerned). I will leave you with some words of advice from my peers, courtesy of Jacob and Greg, who are as wise as Plato himself. Enjoy.
Greg: “Never tell a woman she wasn’t the best you ever had.”
Jake, in response: “Unless of course she’s a hooker, then it’s just constructive criticism.”
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