One Thought at a Time

Immediately after school ended on Friday, I dashed towards the main road to catch a marshutka into town, to withdraw much needed funds from our recently deposited paychecks. Along the way, I was intercepted by one of the 11^th grade male students at my school, who insisted on walking with me and flagging down my marshutka. If a Georgian insists, you must oblige. My destination was Liberty Bank, in the town of Lanchkhuti, although I had no idea where the bank was. I had been planning on roaming about aimlessly until I stumbled upon it, but, advantageously, one of my English co-teachers was on the same marshutka, and was also, coincidentally, going to Liberty Bank, or Banki as they say. My withdrawal interaction was relatively pain free and quick, much to my astonishment, but my co-teacher, Irena, seemed to be having a bit of a problem. She had a scowl on her face during her conversation with the teller, and was shouting about something or another. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to wait for her or just peace out. I didn’t want to seem impolite. She had, after all, led the way to the bank and paid for my transportation that afternoon, even though I did my best to refuse the offer, but resistance was futile. While I was standing awkwardly in the corner of the bank, internally debating whether or not I should interrupt her seemingly heated conversation with the bank teller, my phone rang.

“O.K. Ren, change of plans. Where are you? Let’s skip Batumi and go to Tbilisi and then do the Kakheti thing!” I received this call from an exasperated Caitlin. Two days previously, TLG had placed calls to hoards of English teachers, inviting them to come to Kakheti for a day of wine making. Because we only had been paid half of our usual 500 Lari, due to a previous overpayment, I had declined, hoping to save some money. Kakheti was far away, and it would be an expensive trip. We had decided instead to go to Batumi and then Kobuleti to visit Greg and his host family. Our recently acquired and conveniently located friend Nathan had accepted our invitation to join us in our outing. I had yet to visit Kakheti, and Caitlin’s offer was tempting. “Quick. You have to tell me now. I’m going to the train station to buy tickets. Are you in, or are you out?” I agreed, being in favor of rash decisions. “I’m in. Do it.” I placed a quick call to Nathan, expecting him to be a bit miffed with our sudden Batumi cancellation. Instead, he wasn’t the least bit agitated, and acquiesced to the unforeseen change of events, accepting our offer to journey to Kakheti. I hastily made my way out of the bank, fresh Lari in hand, and bounded towards my village to pack for the weekend. The unexpected plans came with a quickly approaching deadline, and I only had a few hours to make my way towards Ozurgeti, where I would meet Caitlin to catch the night train to Tbilisi.

The entire week had been characterized by cold temperatures and unforgiving downpours of rain, and I didn’t have any proper suitcases to bring with me for such a short, wet trip. In an attempt to pack lightly, I brought one change of clothes, which I placed in a plastic bag. I looked like a genuine Georgian, as this is their preferred manner in which to store belongings while traveling. With my plastic orange bag and purse, I set off to Gumati to meet Nathan. We caught a marshutka to Lanchkhuti and, as soon as we dislodged ourselves from the vehicle, we were treated to the ruthless return of the cold monsoon weather. Unable to find a marshutka to Ozurgeti due to the late hour of our search, we boarded a taxi to the big O, even though it was considerably more expensive, but did so out of necessity. The drive to Ozurgeti was unremarkable, and, shortly after our arrival, we were met by Caitlin’s host father, who took us to their house for supper. Caitlin explained how the train station attendant refused to sell her tickets to Tbilisi, because they were supposedly out. An experienced man in styles of transportation chicanery, Caitlin’s dad called bullshit, and proceeded to bribe the conductor. His persuasion skills, propensity to haggle, and superiority over our train ticket buying naivety accounted entirely for the amazingness that would soon become our weekend.

The train ride was a 6 or 7 hour overnight trip, and by a stroke of luck all three of us were placed in the same cabin, along with a complete stranger, an older woman who went to sleep on Caitlin’s bed as soon as she left to go use the bathroom (which are the most repulsive, nauseating, sickening things ever). When Caitlin returned, she was incensed to discover that this thief of a woman had seized her seat. A shit-fit ensued, lasting 2 minutes. Those are ballpark figures. Caitlin and I bonded over shared life experiences. Come to find out, we both had malicious and violently aggressive cats while growing up, which has left us permanently scarred. For a long time I thought I was the only one who had a cat who would hide in the corner of the stairs, where they turned, and spring out, attacking my leg whenever I would walk by in the middle of the night. What a peculiar oddity to share terrifying feline ownership stories. When we had run out of things to talk about, we dozed for a few hours until we reached Tbilisi, and, once off the train, headed to a hostel to drop our belongings off. At this juncture, it must have been around 7 a.m., and we were hungry. We had only snacked on grapes during our voyage, which Caitlin’s host mother sneaked into her chanta (bag). There was only one obvious choice for breakfast…the one place where Americans can feel, if just for a moment, like they’re right back home. I’m clearly referring to the omnipotent McDonalds, which, come to find out, doesn’t serve breakfast food. Ever. They also don’t have drive through windows-only walk up windows. We quickly scarfed down our grub, and began walking to the Radisson Hotel, where our TLG buses and buds would be waiting to venture off with us to Kakheti.

toilet on the train

While waiting to leave, we chit-chatted with other TlG’ers. This is when I met the infamous Kelly, a middle-aged man in his 50’s whose job repertoire is quite impressive, and who happened to be in Nathans training group. I introduced myself to him, and after the initial exchanging of names, Kelly introduced me to his ex-wife. This was exactly how he stated it. “I’m Kelly. This is my ex-wife.” I didn’t catch her name, because he referred to her as the “ex-wife” for the entire duration of our trip. I complimented Kelly on his coat, and instead of thanking me, he remarked, almost exuberantly, “this is my abortion coat!” You can imagine my reaction to this straight-forward and frank reply. Such a statement demands a story. “Really, an abortion coat. Go on.”  What the hell does that mean anyway? Kelly explained that he had a close friend in Russia. This man was an adulterer, and his mistress had become pregnant. She wanted an abortion but didn’t have the money for one. Although he had some misgivings about abortions, Kelly agreed to help out his friend, who was on board with the pregnancy termination. The adulterer lacked the cash to pay for the abortion, so Kelly lent him $300 dollars. He was later repaid $150. To make up for the other half, there was an exchanging of sorts. Kelly was given a long, black trench coat which he admired, and which belonged to the philanderer. Kelly acquired a new piece for his winter wardrobe, and thus the name ‘abortion coat.’

When we reached Kakheti, I learned that the president of Georgia would be gracing us with his presence. TLG had failed to mention this during our previous conversation. Our first activity consisted of picking grapes, which we had to do for hours. It felt like forced labor. After they (the vineyard owners I’m assuming) were pleased with all our hard work, we were allowed to mill about. This is where Misha, the president as he’s affectionately called, came swooping in from above on a sleek helicopter. After he landed, he began to mingle with us. I managed to both shake his hand AND nab a picture with him. 

Me and Misha

The following day, Caitlin, Nathan, and a recently acquired TLG friend (Adam, not the Aussie one) decided to go to Gori to attend an arts and music festival. The festival sounded nice, but I was much more enticed to actually catch a glimpse of Gori, where Stalin was born, and found it almost impossible to leave Mark, Jacob, and Rob so soon. I hadn’t been blessed with their presence for almost a month. To reach our destination, we crammed into a taxi. I mean ‘cram’ in the most literal sense. Somehow we fit all 6 of us-Nathan, Mark, Caitlin, Adam, Jacob and myself into this small vehicle. At the beginning of the trip, I sat in the front, half sitting on Jacobs lap. Was it uncomfortable? Absolutely. Was it hilarious? Yes, indeed. After 20 minutes or so in this discomfited position, our driver insisted that we put our seatbelt on. Apparently it’s safe to sit two people in the front a small car, but ONLY if they have their seatbelts on. Not too much longer after the seatbelt debacle, our driver became nervous that having two people in one seat in the front would get him in trouble with the police. He pulled over, and motioned for me to sit in the back, with Nathan, Caitlin, Adam, and Mark, who were already packed tight as sardines. No worries-I laid across them, because that’s sooo much safer than having two individuals in the front. The back was like a weird petting party, and Caitlin and Mark repeatedly groped my butt, arms, and legs. I’m not gonna lie, I kinda liked it. 

groping me in the car

We made it to Gori safe. We ate. Drank. Danced. Most importantly, we only caught about 3 minutes of the music festival. Three minutes max. But like I said earlier, my real intention was to spend as much time as possible with my Gori-ites. They’re precious to me, and time with them is always cherished. Somehow, the subject of Meth came up. Probably because I was informing Jacob of my problem with the ‘meth twins.’ According to Jacob, Crystal Meth is referred to as “P” in New Zealand, and meth heads are called P-addicts. He relayed about a story about a certain P-addict in New Zealand, who got hold of a samurai sword and chopped his girlfriends’ hands off. That would be a good anti-drug PA video: do meth, cut your partners hands off. The real gold in Gori was the fortress and the dismal animal enclosure they referred to as a zoo, which is open 24/7, with no admittance fee. Whoever built this animal entrapment must have hated bears, for these magnificent creatures were placed in the most depressing of cages I’ve ever seen. Only a bear bigot could create such horror. The cages smelled like urine, and scent, being the closest sense tied to memory, brought to my mind Turkish toilets, which smell like ripe urine. “Bears invented Turkish toilets Ren,” Rob said, after I ejaculated this thought aloud. It now all made sense-the bear bigot was getting his revenge-payback for the invention of Turkish toilets. I understand vengeance, but at some point, you just got to let some shit go. The cages were also far from safe. The bear bigot may also be a misanthrope. If I had so desired, I could have petted the bears. There was really nothing stopping me from doing so. It’s another one of those “only in Georgia” kind of deals. The zoo was set amidst a park, which also contained several rides and a Ferris wheel. Jacob and I climbed over the railing of one ride, he sat down, and I attempted to push him. We didn’t get very far, before we were shooed off by a security guard creeping around, who popped up out of nowhere. The park now offered only a heartbreaking exhibition of pent up animals, and so we embarked towards a fortress, climbed it, and once done, proceeded to the train station, to catch our overnight train back home.

very sad bear cage

crappy pic of the fortress

When I boarded the train, I was accosted by one of the workers. “Reni?” Wow, how did this guy know my name? He then showed me his I.D., and pointed to the last name. He was related to my host family. He invited me to his hideout, where he insisted that I drink some cha cha. He also placed a call to my host father to let him know I would be home soon. In contrast to our first train ride, we were all placed in separate cabins. These cabins were a bit nicer than their predecessors, with sliding doors for privacy and pillows. Caitlin went to bed early, but Nathan and I prattled on till 3 in the morning, all the while standing in the car connection junctures with periodic interruptions from passerby’s and train attendants. We talked about a little bit of this, and a little bit of that, and came up with solutions for Georgias trash problem. There’s so many abandoned buildings, we thought, why can’t they just put all the trash there? That way, they wouldn’t have to burn it, it would give people jobs, and it would make use out of the decaying structures. It’s genius. When I finally retired to my cabin for the night, to get my 1.5 hours of sleep, I found one of my cabin mates awake. This kind woman turned on the light, and made my bed for me. I quickly fell asleep, and was awoken at 4:30 a.m. by Nathan. “Ren, we’re at your stop.” “O.K. So I need to leave now?!” “Yes.” I grabbed my things as quickly as possible, said my goodbyes, and stepped off the train.

As soon as I disembarked, I was met, once again, with that damn cold monsoon weather. You know how sometimes it rains so hard when you’re driving, that, even with your windshields at full speed you still can’t see? That’s how this rain was, except I wasn’t driving, I was walking. The situation was only made worse by the darkness of the night. There are no street lights here, so I had to use my intimate knowledge of the village roads to walk back to my house, all the while traversing through a foot of flooded street water in winter temperatures. When I finally arrived home, I ran to the bathroom, and stood there shivering for a few minutes. My host mother found me, helped me disrobe, and placed a towel and blanket around me until I warmed up enough to return to my room. I didn’t make it to school that day, because I was tired and felt like shit. I received a thorough bitching out from my mom about this little mishap, but she failed to notice several important points. First of all, calling a taxi would have been out of the question. End of story. Secondly, I was already drenched as soon as I stepped out of the train, so I couldn’t find shelter and wait it out. Thirdly, an umbrella wouldn’t have helped because of the wind and severity of the rain. The weather conditions would have annihilated any average umbrella. None of this mattered anyway, because I didn’t get sick, and only consider myself a bit better for the ware.

The following weekend, Collette, James, Nathan, and myself took a day trip to Batumi, to visit the botanical gardens, which are the second largest in the world by the way. James ended up coming through the gates at the other end of the gardens, so we spent a good while searching for him. The gardens offered an opportunity to act like a kid again: I climbed tress, swung in vines, got dirty, walked across bridges. No one enjoyed themselves more than the entranced Nathan, who has a passion for botany. It was like he was a 5 year old in Disneyland. Collette, who is now referred to as the Oracle of Tskaltsminda (oracle because of her mystic like traits and Tskaltsminda because that’s the name of her village) made comments along the walking paths befitting of her nickname. “Look at this tree! See, this is where fairies would live, in these trees, because they have these knobbles in them, and that’s where they would have their fairy village.” Oh Collette, such a visionary.

We had insightful conversations as we traversed the gardens. Collette revealed part of her motivation for coming to Georgia, which partially consisted of escaping the middle age lack of spontaneity and adventure. She hungered for the new, which many of us TLG’ers crave, I think, as well. “I don’t want to go to Applebees. I don’t want to spend my weekends sitting around with people my age while they talk about their ouchies.” “Is that what your age demographic is into these days?” Nathan asked. James, a TLG’er I met at the Batumi opera, told stories of his previous teaching experience in South Korea, and parleyed information about his host family. It seems that South Korea consisted of a few strange situations involving lecherous women. As for the host family, James got the hook up-he has air conditioner, internet, his own bathroom, a washing machine, and a maid. It’s the most luxurious living arrangements I’ve ever heard of from a TLG’er. Even with all these modern comforts, his host family still showers only once a week. They also don’t use their dishwasher, which James found to be a repository for rice and granola. WTF Georgia- a dishwasher is not a place to store food! The host brother is a bit of a character. This guy frequents Ukrainian hookers, and sometimes, he boasts, he doesn’t even have to pay, due to his regular customer status. This, despite the fact that he has a girlfriend. It’s vile and revolting, not only on a moral level but on a Public Health one as well. After the gardens, we walked down to the Black Sea, and found a scenic spot in which to lie out. We explored caves and climbed rocks as well. The picturesque day ended with a meal at a Ukrainian restaurant, just to honor James’ host brother. 

climbing at botanical gardens

The night ended in Ureki, a town which Simon thinks is weird. Nathan and I bought a bottle of cha cha, and decided we would start a bonfire on the beach. We began walking towards the coast, but the path was abruptly switched. Two Georgians were standing outside an establishment with blaring music and the type of noise that could only come from a large group of people. We figured it was a party. The Georgians spotted us (they can spot an American from a mile away), and asked us to come inside for a drink. The presumed party turned out to be a wedding. Only in Georgia would two complete strangers, dressed in street clothes, be invited to come in for a wedding celebration. The revelers insisted we drink and eat. And so we did. Nathan was made to down wine out of horns, yes, horns, and I was obliged to drink multiple shots of cognac and cha cha, of course, in addition to wine. They don’t sip wine here, they chug it. In between the drinking, there was dancing, and the Georgians would argue over who got to dance with me. At one point, I must have had 5 people tugging on my appendages, and it felt like they were going to tear my arms off. Still cognizant of our desire to have a bonfire on the beach, we managed to slip away as politely as we could, but not before one of the guests insisted that we take home a bottle of cha cha. Now we had two bottles of this liquid poison. Once at the beach, we gathered sticks and set about constructing our fire. I find it pleasing that you can start fires on beaches here. You try that shit in the states and you’re looking at some serious fines.

When I returned home, I found the house rearranged, and the fridge had disappeared. No idea where it went or where they are now storing food. That’s another mystery to be solved. I went up to my room to read, until Nana bust through my door screaming “Skeni (horse)!!!” Naturally, whenever I hear the word horse, I go where told. At the bottom of my stairs, there was indeed a horse, who was strapped to a cart hauling some lumber. Nana just wanted me to see the animal, not ride it. They take my love for horses way too seriously. We ate a carb filled dinner that night, a techno dinner, which was a nice change from the techno that usually plays during sauzme (breakfast). The carbicide included bread (this is eaten at EVERY meal), fried potatoes, and rice. I’m going to start exercising using my instructional videos I brought with me. There’s only one problem-I have to do it outside, because my room is too small. They’re going to see me, ask what I’m doing, and once I explain they still won’t understand, and then I’ll look like a raging lunatic while dashing about the porch doing squat thrusts and jumping jacks.