Georgian diaries

As we enter the plane, the environment starts to feel different. Each of the three rows of chairs, left and right comes in a different colour: green, yellow and blue. This is what it feels like to be inside a rainbow. Behind we leave the Russian airport formalities. Here, everyone is talking and the crew is quite nice. Smiles are everywhere. But a mysterious language can be heard. Never heard anything like this before. And the writing is peculiar. Looks like Thai, but it isn’t. Just like Chinese looks like Japanese. It’s best to remain silent and away from silly comparisons.

Soon after landing we feel the heat. Un-breathable. The customs officers, women in their majority, are pretty and smile a lot. The airport is absolutely pristine. After the arrival formalities, we walk to an outside parking lot with a busy taxi stop. In a flash, two individuals get a hold of my suitcase and demand for my destination. I give them the hotel name and they translate to the driver, a third individual who was already inside the car, just before pushing me inside as well. Quick and clean. I felt like a hostage being taken on a kidnapping movie scene.

As we are driving five hundred meters down the road we stop again. The three lanes on the road are stuck. On the right lane, a family calmly loads some luggage into a car trunk. The other two have two cars stopped in each with their drivers busy… punching each other. No one can drive through. It’s surreal. My driver turns his head to me with a huge grin on his face. I can read something in his eyes. Welcome to Georgia.

The heat is unbearable despite the car windows being wide open. We finally managed to get through the boxing scene and for the last fifteen minutes we have been driving across a landscape that is nothing short of… corrupt. Inhabited houses, half constructed, no sidewalks or zebras on the road, a poverty environment contrasting with some flashy glass buildings. It’s that kind of landscape one gets when the government has other priorities other than infrastructure or basic well-being. The traffic is not chaotic, but rather “free format” as I like to call it in countries with a free interpretation of driving rules. There is still some adherence to traffic rules and very few traffic signs. Some drivers go all the way to the end of an avenue in order to reverse legally only to avoid crossing the double white line in the middle of the road. As for the remaining rules, they are probably found on a driving school manual, not on the road. It feels like something in between the strict adherence to driving rules of Northern countries and the freedom of interpretation found a little to the South – in cities like Bangalore. Where there are (not) as many rules or traffic signs as inside a termite ant house. It just works.

Finally, we arrive at the hotel. Not the best choice, among very few alternatives. The good ones are either sold out or come with speculative price tag. Mine is very, very dodgy.

Time to go out for dinner. The street outside the hotel feels like Rio de Janeiro. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a group of running kids carrying a recently stolen photo camera from some careless tourist. As a reflex, I put phone in the pocket. Two hundred meters down the road I see some familiar symbols. Beer brands. It’s an Irish bar redundantly called “Murphy”. In 15 years and thousands of trips around the world later, I came to the conclusion that we have three certainties in life: death, taxes and an Irish bar. If I was in the middle of the desert, I would first come across an Irish bar and then I would eventually see a camel - if I got lucky. Murphy is dark, long and full of empty tables. Dozens of TV sets on the walls watch each other. It’s nice and cold inside. Three young girls fight amongst each other for the honour of serving this unexpected customer. One carries a box of napkins, another brings a fork and a knife and the last one drops a beer glass on the table. They all carry a smile. The brave one engages on an English conversation, apologising for her basic knowledge. I tell her that her English is far better than my Georgian. Déja vu. Doesn’t matter. It works. Her face illuminates in a huge smile. Once the ice is broken, we talk for a while.

The night was warm, but quiet. The working day was pleasant. My customer promised to show up “around ten o’clock”. Around noon, I look at my third coffee cup and notice that I was still waiting. At least I was back at Murphy’s – where I arrived at a quarter to ten – talking to the same girl and time was flying. Her smile was still printed on her face, until I told her I was only visiting Georgia for a day. It was as if somebody had told her she was fired. Her whole world escaped from her hands. But I will come back to Georgia, I said. When I do, I’ll come back to Murphy’s. Slowly, the smile was printed back on her face.

It was noon sharp when my client arrived at Murphy’s. For a few seconds I was impressed with the time accuracy, until I remembered they were two hours late. Nice and pleasant people, almost Mediterranean. Delays are part of the culture. Apologies are not due.

For two hours, we met at their office. But now it’s lunchtime. My three guests invite me to a Georgian lunch. We drive to the outskirts of Tbilisi. The car, a Mercedes CL 55 AMG, has far more engine power than required for those poor roads. I like to have power available, if required, the driver says. I am happy we have air conditioning on. Different priorities.

We arrive at the restaurant, near the river. One of those beautifully cared places with a huge garden and lunch tables spread across nature. If it weren’t a working day, I would swear I was coming to a wedding ceremony. We are taken to a round table under some trees, near the water. For three hours, we tasted local food and drank three types of different wines. Wine is one of Georgia’s most popular exports. No wonder why - it is really good wine. It’s now five o’clock in the afternoon. Time to drive back to the office for a quick wrap up. Sure. Thanks to the four hundred something horsepower I am kept awake, on what otherwise be a wonderful nap on that leather seat.

We finish work at six and it’s now time to make arrangements for… dinner. Of course, that would be my first thought right after wondering when I would be done digesting lunch. They say they will drop by around eight. That means no earlier than ten. Good, enough time to get lunch out of my system.

I am driven back to a different hotel in an attempt to fix last night’s bad choice. Following local advice, I check-in to this simple, but very well designed place, located on a hill surrounding the city centre. The view is breath-taking. Swimming pool, bar and suite with a balcony are a few of the items on the list. Good stuff, I knew Tbilisi was cool. Never underestimate the power of local knowledge.

It’s almost ten o’clock when my colleagues show up. Can’t miss them and the engine noise going up hill into the swimming pool parking area. I have just enough time to finish that Georgian beer. I enter the car and we head to the city centre.

The next two hours are spent walking around the city centre. Endless terraces inviting us for a drink on a very warm night. But also full of contrasts. Abandoned buildings side by side with an Italian design bridge. An Italian design bridge – just double-checking that I heard well. Like an Armani suit. A bit down the road, another building from the same designer. Unbelievable.

Somewhere we get a cable car that takes us uphill to a wall surrounding the centre. A huge statue overlooks the city. It’s Mother-Georgia. Holding a sword in one hand and a glass wine in the other. The legend says she protects the city from visitors. If a foreigner comes with good intentions, Mother Georgia serves the wine. If not, the sword in unleashed. A couple of bottles of wine later I am back at the hotel. The room is nice and cold, while the view invites for some pictures. So far, no sword was unleashed. It was a good day.

The next day was short. Breakfast is served on the restaurant balcony overlooking the city. At nine in the morning the heat is already unbearable. Or still unbearable. The morning is spent at the swimming pool bar working on my laptop. I doubt all houses in Tbilisi have running water, but I would bet they all have wi-fi.

My taxi arrives at the hotel around one in the afternoon. It’s a small Japanese car not bigger than a Smart car. The registration mentions four seats, but I can only see two. The rest is covered with the luggage. I am surprised it actually drives. And yet, the radio has a remote control. Nice music.

The trip to the airport was hot. With the window wide open I had to remind myself not to stretch the arm or my hand would touch the road. The driver did not say word, driving with a serious face, focused on the absence of rules. On arrival, we both exit the car and he hands me over my luggage. Not before shaking my hand with an honest and strong feeling. As if that trip was a road trip we took together for a month. As if we were bond forever. A huge smile and a perfect English thank you. As he drives away, I hear the car radio music disappear in the horizon.

The airport looks familiar; after all I had arrived only two days ago. At the check-in counter, the airline clerk asks me if I want an emergency exit seat with more leg space. Of course, that would be excellent, I reply. He calls his supervisor, an old lady with glasses hanging on her chest, reminds me of my school teacher. As he asks her for permission to give me an emergency exit seat, she puts on her glasses and looks seriously at me from head to toe. The seconds start to feel like an eternity. Wine or sword? She moves her hand to pick up the glasses on drops them on her chest again. Suddenly, her face illuminates in a smile as she nods her head in approval. 11A: Emergency exit and window seat. Yes!

I look around the airport and everywhere there are huge tourism ads: “Tbilisi, the city that loves you”.

Absolutely.

Murphy, I will come back.