142 - Scenes From Tiflis (Tbilisi, Georgia)
"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it."
- W.C. Fields
WITH MY ONE-MONTH VISA EXPIRING, I bid my Peace Corps hostess (Löki) and Azerbaijan a most fond farewell, arriving at the Georgian border with a day to spare… I thought. The visa clearly stated May 14th, but Immigration Soldier Guy disagreed, saying it had expired on the 13th. Um, ‘kay. Not sure how I was supposed to know that. After relaying this tidbit, he chucked my passport to the side and went on processing other folks.
I was dazed and confused, wondering how large a “late fee” I’d have to fork over. I called Löki in Zaqatala, telling her something might be rotten in Denmark and to stay on alert. Immigration Soldier Guy made calls and typed things on his computer for another twenty minutes before deigning to engage. I’d drafted a text reading “I’m in trouble” in case I needed to send a quick distress message. This was all for naught. Permission granted. I breathed a sigh of relief and sauntered across the bridge to Georgia. I guess fucking with an American was a great way to break up the morning. Fair enough.
After a seamless entry into Georgia, things became a little less seamless. My taxi negotiations appeared to have precipitated a brawl, though I’m not certain I was the proximate cause. I sensed prior animosity between combatants. My initial summit talks included three different drivers, but soon a fourth joined the fray. Taxi Driver Two took particular umbrage with Taxi Driver Four. Four pulled over and escalated the tension by exiting his cab. Two and Four came to blows. It wasn’t pretty. I hopped into One’s cab and beat a hasty retreat. I love it when men fight over me… shucks.
I spent the next nine days exploring Georgia’s capital, Tbilisi, a street photographer’s wet dream. I clocked a good fifty miles on foot, met a hostel owner named Dodo, ate a shit ton of pork and cheese pie (Khachapuri), had a few alcoholic dalliances, was denied casino entry for wearing “sporting clothes and slippers,” instigated another heated altercation, and was mesmerized by the Georgian National Ballet.
Georgia likes tourists. A lot. U.S. and E.U. citizens don’t require a visa to reside, work, or study for 365 days. And they smile when you cross the border. I like smiling. That might not seem like much, but after leaving Azerbaijan where capricious grinning appears to be outlawed or interpreted as mental retardation, I found this simple act of graciousness refreshing.
Tbilisi has a rich history, is visually alluring, and retains a smidge of post-Soviet intrigue. The name literally means “warm spring.” Several dot the region. A few legends surround the city's origin. Sometime in the fifth century AD, the founder, Vakhtang Gorgasali, killed a pheasant, which fell into a hot sulfur spring and spontaneously cooked itself for a savory meal. Or it was a deer that was shot, fell inside, and was miraculously healed, not cooked. Or, instead of the deer, it was the pheasant that became a miracle bird. Or Gorgas was hunting with a falcon which killed the pheasant, but in doing so, set a trajectory straight for the scalding waters, killing both prey and predator. Or the deer, the pheasant, and the falcon teamed up, kicked Gorgas's ass, threw him into the hot springs, and had a delicious Stew a la Homo Sapiens. They then asked a wizard named Balakan to morph them into humans so they could build their own city and ingratiate themselves into the realm of bipeds. (I may have taken artistic license for this last one, if by “artistic license,” I mean “created out of thin air.”) Whatever happened, Gorgas decided this would be a hell of a place to build a city, so he went for it. Or none of this is true, as there’s evidence of settlement dating to the fourth century AD.
I meandered about the city, snapping photos and formulating a plan to maximize my Georgian exploration. I met a fellow American, Pete, doing volunteer work in Azerbaijan at my hostel, Dodo's Homestay, named after the seventy-year-old female owner. He and I explored Tbilisi, engaging in activities that could be construed as, well, gay. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) One evening we had a nice meal and drank white wine together. It was lovely. On another night, we enjoyed the Georgian National Ballet. It, too, was lovely, a must-see if you please.
(Courtesy of Drone Snap.)
We toyed with a visit to a bathhouse to experience the healing qualities of the sulfur baths but deemed it a bridge too far for unacquainted heterosexual males. Inside, you congregate in the communal area where other naked men are chilling or get a private room where you can chill with some dude you met two days prior. At some point, another scantily dressed mature Georgian man enters and commences massaging, scrubbing, walking on your back, and pouring warm water over your body. Although highly recommended, we concluded this might be pushing our quasi “Big Gay Weekend” over the top.
So, my “partner” and I hiked to the Turtle Lake area… which was also lovely. After sipping a few beers while waiting for rain to abate, we decided to make our way back to the city center. In light of the sporadic rainfall, we agreed on a taxi. Amid negotiations, a local man walked by and told us we should only pay half the asking price. He then offered to take us for free. This appealed to us, but as we approached his car, we noticed other passengers, indicating a tight squeeze. We reassessed and returned to the taxi. He pulled his car up and beckoned us. We reassessed our reassessment and complied. Inside was a woman I presumed to be his wife and a rather morose man in the backseat. We squeezed in. By now, the taxi driver and a few colleagues were none too pleased. Our good Samaritan had “cheated” them out of a potential fare. They made their grievances known. The situation spiraled out of control.
Our driver was screaming at the cabby, as were his wife and passenger. The cab driver lunged toward the driver-side door with a look of pure hatred, only to be restrained by a comrade. The man next to me exited the car to “facilitate.” The yelling escalated, and we could sense a boiling point fast approaching. This took a turn for the surreal when our driver’s wife started yelling at him. He responded with a forceful shove. Was she angry because he refused to get out and kick ass, or because she wanted him to let it go and drive on? I’d like to believe it was the latter, but my instincts point to the former.
The look on Pete's face said it all. He suggested we get the hell out. I agreed but was troubled by how our departure would be received. Except for a halfhearted plea by our driver, no one noticed us slipping away into the forest whence we came. They'd forgotten why they were fighting. Had we not been at the center of the controversy, we’d have lingered to see the finale. Twice in two weeks hailing a cab turned into an acrimonious shitshow. Was this par for the course, or was it something about me that inspired such conflict? Dunno.