Giorgi sold a Subaru last month to some "Subaru racers" from Moscow. According to G's father, they were hard on the car during their test drive, so it wasn't surprising that they blew out the engine less than 1 week later. After doing so, and not surprisingingly, they decided that they wanted to return the car for a full refund. G, as some of you know, will avoid conflict at all costs and it often gets him even deeper in trouble. So, in true form, he avoided their calls until I couldn't stand to hear his phone ring any more and his brother (the true negotiator) was back in town from vacation. They set a meeting at G's parents' house where G, his brother, his dad and his cousin (who's bigger than G) all met with the buyers and their clan. At that meeting, G agreed to refund some money to the buyers so that they could have some money to fix the wrecked engine.
G's generosity apparently backfired a bit because the buyers began calling more and more instead of less and less, eventually saying that the money wasn't enough to purchase a brand new engine (which was never part of the deal) and that they would really rather return the car for a full refund (yes, it sounds a bit like a broken record).
As an aside, I can understand why someone here would not want to embark on the joy of dealing with engine replacement in the Republic of Georgia. If you'd like to know a bit what it's like, see the "Poti" story below, but add a few months to the time period spent running around between various "parts" stores which are really small shops opened by people who have a various assortment of engine parts that may or may not be identifiable and do not guarantee any of them, nor do they even know what half of them are.
I began to get frustrated. Worrying about car buyers who ruined a car was not on my list of things to do this month. Finally, G agreed to meet them again and tell them once and for all that they bought the car "as is" and if they'd like to hire him to find cheaper parts for it, they can do that but he won't be refunding any more money for a problem they likely caused. I personally can even vouch for this, as I had driven the car for a while before they purchased it and it was fine.
G agreed to meet them at 8:00 p.m. at the entrance to Vake Park. At 7:30, they started their incessant calling, saying they were there and wondering where G was. Seriously. G told them to wait unitl 8:00, as agreed upon, at which time, he went with his brother and one of his best men for the wedding, Zura, to meet the buyers yet again. G, Gocha, and Zura were dressed in jeans and button down shirts of various colors, a little "off" for the standard Georgian "showdown". The buyers, however, were in true form, this time numbering 8 and wearing all black, ready to intimidate in number and fashion.
Unfortunately for the buyers, their intimidating status did not produce the desired effect and, in fact, backfired a bit. G told them again that he was not going to refund their money, at which point, they all started speaking at once, the effect of which was that no one could be understood. Gocha then suggested that they were not at a concert and perhaps only one should speak for all. The buyer, a little man, began to speak, but quickly got upset when he realized that G, Gocha and Zura were not interested in any more negotiating. With such frustration, the buyer began jumping up and down and Zura, not missing a beat, followed Gocha's earlier lead and suggested that neither were they at a circus. The little man got so enraged that he began to yell at Zura, at which point, Zura had had enough and asked the little man to look closely at his face. When the little man looked at Zura's face, he realized that the higher hand had been dealt to G: Zura is one of the most famous police officers in Tbilisi, often on the television and for all intents and purposes, above the law.
Around this time, Giorgi's other best man showed up, not knowing that he would be coming upon this "showdown" and only wanting to discuss plans for the wedding. He fell right into place, though, reasonably advising the little man and his cohorts that they had no case (Giorgi's other best man is a lawyer here in Tbilisi) and should probably stop wasting everyone's time. Eventually, the 8 finally "agreed" that a rebuilt motor may actually work as well as one that was not rebuilt and decided to leave it as such.
Fortunately for George (and this country), civility and law won over the old fashioned ways of "negotiating" which, in the past, would likely have been decided by violence.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Sopeli
September 1st was a big birthday day in Georgia: we began the evening at G’s Best Man’s birthday supra (dinner party) in Buriani (roasted piglet and all) and then raced home to Tbilisi to have a family birthday party for Gocha at a restaurant in town.
The next day was Gocha’s supra in Sopeli where, as you might be able to guess by now, everyone partied into the night under the grape ceiling led by none other than Giorgi & Gocha’s father, Soso. For men in the village who like a challenge, he is their benchmark and oftentimes idol. Especially for those who would like a drinking competition. His idea for Gocha’s supra on the 2nd was to have every man have a 1-liter bottle of wine by his side, using it to pour into his glass for the evening’s toasts. In a way, his idea was the great equalizer: everyone was to drink the same amount throughout the evening; however, once someone was ready for their 2nd liter bottle, everyone else was required to quickly drink down the rest of their liter bottle in order to be supplied with a second liter bottle. Soso, of course, would always win the game and delight in watching everyone else have to drink down their leftover wine before he brought out another round. Fortunately, women don’t have to partake in the Georgian drinking games, and the smarter men don’t even try to compete. There are still some, though, who try to prove themselves and win his favor through following his rules. For me, winning his favor is much more preferable through wit.
As you might have guessed, Soso also carries a reputation in the village for being a little crazy. He was so bothered by the mosquitoes the first night we were there, he took the pickup, a shotgun, and his quilt (made by my mother for Giorgi, but Soso has adopted it as his own) up into the hills and slept under the stars. It must have been a good sleep because he was up bright and early the next morning, taking care of the farm and his pigs.
When G and I finally rose, we went to visit the family’s vineyards (one new, recently purchased by G and the other old, purchased and tended by his grandfather). Our vineyard grapes were looking good and should be ready for harvest in a few weeks. We also have the added bonus of almond trees all around, so we stuffed our pockets like chipmunk cheeks with fresh almonds as we wandered down the rows of grapes.
At the end of our rows of grapes, I lit up with excitement as I saw a burro and her baby in the neighboring pasture. They pricked their ears when we emerged, and the baby ran to hide behind her mother, only her long rabbit ears peeking over her mother’s back. G waited patiently as I bonded with the burro and eventually even touched the baby’s nose from the other side of her mother. We became fast friends as soon as I discovered how much she loved the grapes, so I traipsed back and forth from the vines a few times to make her happy before we were on our way. It was hard to leave, but G had eventually had enough of my nature time.
Trying to find G’s grandfather’s vineyard we found ourselves in the middle of a sunflower field, where G hopped out and grabbed a sunflower head for his own nibbling. Backtracking and racing along bumpy dirt roads that looked like veins in a huge body, I was amazed when we actually did find the vineyard. No almond trees, but the grapes were already sweet, so we put a few bunches in the truck and headed out to look for a wild horse that we had heard about earlier in our stay.
We came upon 2 mares with foals at their sides where the wild horse was supposed to live and I took out the grapes, hoping to make friends as I had with the burro. The horses weren’t too interested in friendship, although one did partake in the treats I brought for her. At that point, G got nervous and called me back to the truck, having just seen someone spot us from the farm up on the hill and go back inside. G was worried that they might think we were horse thieves (as Azerbaijan was nearby and apparently people come from there to steal the Georgian’s horses). I wasn’t too worried. A blonde girl in a pink t-shirt would hardly look like an Azerbaijani horse thief, but I went back to the truck anyway and suggested that we head to the farm and meet the owners.
When we arrived, the farm complex looked abandoned, but there were a few families living there. I felt like I was in an old western: there was a huge one-level cement house with rundown outbuildings and random pieces of trash like an old rubber boot lying around. The only bit of color on the property was a little beagle puppy who adored belly rubs and lying in the shade. Everything else was gray: dogs, horses, men. Giorgi, of course, found someone he knew (the son of our neighbors in the village) and the boy ran out to catch a horse for me to ride. He came racing back bareback with a halter and “lead” on the horse (although the lead was a chain that he had creatively wrapped around the small mare’s face for steering) with the baby screaming in the distance, running to catch up. It turned out to be the mare with whom I had earlier shared my grapes. The boy offered her for me to ride, and I hopped up quite easily (she was probably less than 15 hands high (e.g. her back was about 10 inches shorter than Vegas’) and rode around the compound unable to steer without yanking the chain. I opted for a bridle (which turned out to be equally gentle) and saddle (which looked more like a small flotation device), and rode into the hills for a little trail ride, baby trotting behind. Although I miss riding, I’ve realized that I’m a bit spoiled because nothing can really compare to Vegas. So, I came back early and we went home.
That night we had dinner at another relative’s house (everyone seems to be related in the village) and for the first time, I really began to appreciate the Georgian toast. In addition to the standard toasting to love, Georgia, dead people and G’s and my future, I heard some amazing toasts to people sitting around the table that included wonderful memories of those people, including a cousin’s memory of G’s mother on her wedding day and how, when he was a teenager chasing his friend around a party, she was the first bride he had ever seen when his friend (her younger brother) hid behind her to escape. He was enamored with her beauty. It was wonderful to hear memories of people sitting around the table about other people I know. We also were fortunate enough to be in the home of Georgian dancers, so when the dinner and toasting were waning, the music came out and everyone took turns dancing the traditional Georgian dance (even me!). The children were quite impressive and I’m hoping to get a lesson or two from them before our big show!
On a not-so-romantic note, Georgians aren’t too advanced when it comes to differentiating between “wive’s tales” and reality. When I went outside to pet the kitten sitting on the step, the children were right by my side, trying to get it away from me and yanking at the hair on it’s back as if to rip it out. I kept telling them to stop but they would have nothing of it, pretending not to hear me. I finally asked what was going on -- why must they fight with a kitten who’s only trying to rest? After much translation and miscommunication, I discovered that Georgians believe that cat hair can kill you. No joke. They believe that it is possible to inhale cat hair in a way that it sticks to your lungs and gives you a disease “similar to cancer” and you die. In fact, the grandfather in that family had just that happen to him. I wondered if he smoked and they said he did, but the lung disease was not due to the cigarettes, but rather, the cat hair. I had to pull one of the children aside and plant the seed in his mind that such a belief was definitely not true. I think he believed me.
The next morning, I went along with G and the men in the family and a few close friends from the village to harvest a crop of sunflowers that was not thick enough for the combines. The women thought I was insane of course, but I needed some exercise and something new to photograph, as I had not had my camera with me for the last 2 days, so I hopped in the back of the pickup on a burlap sack, knife in hand and was off to do work for the farm. The work was tough: the grass was taller than me and brambles were everywhere we walked. Under the brambles, it was a little muddy, but it felt good to get dirty. We chopped the heads off of the good sunflowers with old dull knives, walking side by side up the rows, leaving the bad ones for the birds. It took less than 2 hours and we had a pick-up truck load full of sunflower heads for the women to bang with sticks above a tarp to release the seeds. Once the seeds are collected, they’ll take it to the local processing house to make sunflower oil for the family to eat throughout the year. The men were embarrassed when I was snapping photos, worried that the Americans would feel sorry for them for having no harvest. So, all you Americans out there, rest assured, the rest of the fields are healthy and ready for the combines to roll through. This one just gave me a little bit of an adventure!
Before heading home that day, G and I made a quick trip to Signagi, a town near our Sopeli (called Bodbe) that is being completely rebuilt by the government as a tourist town. It felt a little like we were on a movie set at Universal Studios: locals were sparse, only workmen were on the streets. Homes didn’t look lived-in, and construction was literally on every major building in the city and it was difficult to find a restaurant or tourist attraction. We finally found a nice restaurant after driving through mounds of construction, ate fried potatoes and fried mushrooms, and played some dominoes. I don’t recommend playing dominoes with G unless you’re in the mood to be beat quite badly. I cut the stay short, as I wasn’t in this type of mood that day, and we headed home to Tbilisi, where we’ve been enjoying running water and lack of mosquitoes ever since.
The next day was Gocha’s supra in Sopeli where, as you might be able to guess by now, everyone partied into the night under the grape ceiling led by none other than Giorgi & Gocha’s father, Soso. For men in the village who like a challenge, he is their benchmark and oftentimes idol. Especially for those who would like a drinking competition. His idea for Gocha’s supra on the 2nd was to have every man have a 1-liter bottle of wine by his side, using it to pour into his glass for the evening’s toasts. In a way, his idea was the great equalizer: everyone was to drink the same amount throughout the evening; however, once someone was ready for their 2nd liter bottle, everyone else was required to quickly drink down the rest of their liter bottle in order to be supplied with a second liter bottle. Soso, of course, would always win the game and delight in watching everyone else have to drink down their leftover wine before he brought out another round. Fortunately, women don’t have to partake in the Georgian drinking games, and the smarter men don’t even try to compete. There are still some, though, who try to prove themselves and win his favor through following his rules. For me, winning his favor is much more preferable through wit.
As you might have guessed, Soso also carries a reputation in the village for being a little crazy. He was so bothered by the mosquitoes the first night we were there, he took the pickup, a shotgun, and his quilt (made by my mother for Giorgi, but Soso has adopted it as his own) up into the hills and slept under the stars. It must have been a good sleep because he was up bright and early the next morning, taking care of the farm and his pigs.
When G and I finally rose, we went to visit the family’s vineyards (one new, recently purchased by G and the other old, purchased and tended by his grandfather). Our vineyard grapes were looking good and should be ready for harvest in a few weeks. We also have the added bonus of almond trees all around, so we stuffed our pockets like chipmunk cheeks with fresh almonds as we wandered down the rows of grapes.
At the end of our rows of grapes, I lit up with excitement as I saw a burro and her baby in the neighboring pasture. They pricked their ears when we emerged, and the baby ran to hide behind her mother, only her long rabbit ears peeking over her mother’s back. G waited patiently as I bonded with the burro and eventually even touched the baby’s nose from the other side of her mother. We became fast friends as soon as I discovered how much she loved the grapes, so I traipsed back and forth from the vines a few times to make her happy before we were on our way. It was hard to leave, but G had eventually had enough of my nature time.
Trying to find G’s grandfather’s vineyard we found ourselves in the middle of a sunflower field, where G hopped out and grabbed a sunflower head for his own nibbling. Backtracking and racing along bumpy dirt roads that looked like veins in a huge body, I was amazed when we actually did find the vineyard. No almond trees, but the grapes were already sweet, so we put a few bunches in the truck and headed out to look for a wild horse that we had heard about earlier in our stay.
We came upon 2 mares with foals at their sides where the wild horse was supposed to live and I took out the grapes, hoping to make friends as I had with the burro. The horses weren’t too interested in friendship, although one did partake in the treats I brought for her. At that point, G got nervous and called me back to the truck, having just seen someone spot us from the farm up on the hill and go back inside. G was worried that they might think we were horse thieves (as Azerbaijan was nearby and apparently people come from there to steal the Georgian’s horses). I wasn’t too worried. A blonde girl in a pink t-shirt would hardly look like an Azerbaijani horse thief, but I went back to the truck anyway and suggested that we head to the farm and meet the owners.
When we arrived, the farm complex looked abandoned, but there were a few families living there. I felt like I was in an old western: there was a huge one-level cement house with rundown outbuildings and random pieces of trash like an old rubber boot lying around. The only bit of color on the property was a little beagle puppy who adored belly rubs and lying in the shade. Everything else was gray: dogs, horses, men. Giorgi, of course, found someone he knew (the son of our neighbors in the village) and the boy ran out to catch a horse for me to ride. He came racing back bareback with a halter and “lead” on the horse (although the lead was a chain that he had creatively wrapped around the small mare’s face for steering) with the baby screaming in the distance, running to catch up. It turned out to be the mare with whom I had earlier shared my grapes. The boy offered her for me to ride, and I hopped up quite easily (she was probably less than 15 hands high (e.g. her back was about 10 inches shorter than Vegas’) and rode around the compound unable to steer without yanking the chain. I opted for a bridle (which turned out to be equally gentle) and saddle (which looked more like a small flotation device), and rode into the hills for a little trail ride, baby trotting behind. Although I miss riding, I’ve realized that I’m a bit spoiled because nothing can really compare to Vegas. So, I came back early and we went home.
That night we had dinner at another relative’s house (everyone seems to be related in the village) and for the first time, I really began to appreciate the Georgian toast. In addition to the standard toasting to love, Georgia, dead people and G’s and my future, I heard some amazing toasts to people sitting around the table that included wonderful memories of those people, including a cousin’s memory of G’s mother on her wedding day and how, when he was a teenager chasing his friend around a party, she was the first bride he had ever seen when his friend (her younger brother) hid behind her to escape. He was enamored with her beauty. It was wonderful to hear memories of people sitting around the table about other people I know. We also were fortunate enough to be in the home of Georgian dancers, so when the dinner and toasting were waning, the music came out and everyone took turns dancing the traditional Georgian dance (even me!). The children were quite impressive and I’m hoping to get a lesson or two from them before our big show!
On a not-so-romantic note, Georgians aren’t too advanced when it comes to differentiating between “wive’s tales” and reality. When I went outside to pet the kitten sitting on the step, the children were right by my side, trying to get it away from me and yanking at the hair on it’s back as if to rip it out. I kept telling them to stop but they would have nothing of it, pretending not to hear me. I finally asked what was going on -- why must they fight with a kitten who’s only trying to rest? After much translation and miscommunication, I discovered that Georgians believe that cat hair can kill you. No joke. They believe that it is possible to inhale cat hair in a way that it sticks to your lungs and gives you a disease “similar to cancer” and you die. In fact, the grandfather in that family had just that happen to him. I wondered if he smoked and they said he did, but the lung disease was not due to the cigarettes, but rather, the cat hair. I had to pull one of the children aside and plant the seed in his mind that such a belief was definitely not true. I think he believed me.
The next morning, I went along with G and the men in the family and a few close friends from the village to harvest a crop of sunflowers that was not thick enough for the combines. The women thought I was insane of course, but I needed some exercise and something new to photograph, as I had not had my camera with me for the last 2 days, so I hopped in the back of the pickup on a burlap sack, knife in hand and was off to do work for the farm. The work was tough: the grass was taller than me and brambles were everywhere we walked. Under the brambles, it was a little muddy, but it felt good to get dirty. We chopped the heads off of the good sunflowers with old dull knives, walking side by side up the rows, leaving the bad ones for the birds. It took less than 2 hours and we had a pick-up truck load full of sunflower heads for the women to bang with sticks above a tarp to release the seeds. Once the seeds are collected, they’ll take it to the local processing house to make sunflower oil for the family to eat throughout the year. The men were embarrassed when I was snapping photos, worried that the Americans would feel sorry for them for having no harvest. So, all you Americans out there, rest assured, the rest of the fields are healthy and ready for the combines to roll through. This one just gave me a little bit of an adventure!
Before heading home that day, G and I made a quick trip to Signagi, a town near our Sopeli (called Bodbe) that is being completely rebuilt by the government as a tourist town. It felt a little like we were on a movie set at Universal Studios: locals were sparse, only workmen were on the streets. Homes didn’t look lived-in, and construction was literally on every major building in the city and it was difficult to find a restaurant or tourist attraction. We finally found a nice restaurant after driving through mounds of construction, ate fried potatoes and fried mushrooms, and played some dominoes. I don’t recommend playing dominoes with G unless you’re in the mood to be beat quite badly. I cut the stay short, as I wasn’t in this type of mood that day, and we headed home to Tbilisi, where we’ve been enjoying running water and lack of mosquitoes ever since.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Kazbegi on Maryamoba
Our American friend had Tuesday off work and his wife suggested that we head to Kazbegi (she knew that I’ve been dying to go there since we arrived in Georgia). We all piled into the pick-up truck and headed out at 7:00 a.m. for the 3 hour drive. Not long after we left the city, we were bombarded with incredible vistas from every direction and they didn’t stop for the entire drive. Many times, I had to tell G to stop the car so we could get out and take pictures. Haystacks were my personal favorite on the drive. Here, of course, they make haystacks the old-fashioned way: starting with a pole in the middle, lifting the hay (that has been cut with a scythe and hand-turned to dry) with pitchforks and stomping it down around the pole, sloping the top so that the rain runs off. They were all over the mountains, along with the cows. I’ve never seen mountain cows before now.
When we arrived in the small town at the bottom of the hike, we sat in a little café and ordered fresh Khachapuri (which wasn’t on the menu, but G, in his usual fashion, sweet-talked the female proprietor into making us some anyway), drank warm vodka out of the cooler that wasn’t plugged in, and joked about our adventures yet to come.
After our breakfast of champions, we hopped back in the truck and started up the hill, following the rest of the people up to the Church of the Holy Trinity. Unbeknownst to us, August 28th was a national religious holiday: the day the Virgin Mary died. As such, it was a day for religious pilgrimages for the Georgians, so Don, Nagila, G and I went on a 2-hour hike up to a remote church in the mountains with about 700 other people that day. The path was not an easy one, either, with loose rocks and a steep grade for the better part of two hours. I toss fashion out the window when faced with such adversity, but Georgian slaves to fashion know no bounds: high heels and flip flops were not an uncommon sight hiking next to me on the mountain.
When we reached the church, we were not disappointed: vistas all around and horseman racing along the road and in the fields, hoping to rent a horse for a ride. Hundreds of people gathered in the fields around the church to pay homage to their favorite saint. Many also brought lunch along in the form of a live sheep that they would slaughter later in the afternoon for a lovely picnic in the shadow of their God’s house. Were I a little younger and unaware of the blood splatters across the grass, I might have believed they were pets. Part of me still hopes some might have been shown mercy. Probably not.
We and the masses squeezed into the small fortress of the church, where we took more pictures and watched the rest of the people proceed to walk around and kiss all 4 corners of the church so that they would be shown mercy. Most do it with their lips, but G has modified it to a kiss on the hand which he then touches to the wall. A bit more hygienic, but I wonder whether his salvation would then be modified? So many questions when it comes to these unwritten rules for Christians here! I feel, however, that I must confess my own superstitious nature ingrained from somewhere: just this morning as I was cleaning the counter-tops in my kitchen, I spilled some salt. My mind thought of superstition disguised as religion in so many places and hesitated for a moment. But I couldn’t stand it: I had to toss some of the spilled salt over my shoulder to undo any bad luck that might otherwise have befallen me. Alas! We all seem to be slaves to some type of superstition!
Where was I? Oh yes - Kazbegi. The only disappointment of the day was the fact that after making the hike on a beautiful day, we found the big mountain a bit shy and hiding behind the clouds. Like a birka, they covered it’s face and only occasionally could we catch a glimpse of how beautiful it was before it would quickly look away and be enveloped by the clouds once again. Nonetheless, the vistas remained breathtaking.
We found a shortcut back to the truck through a graveyard (not a bad place to take one’s final rest I thought, considering) and had a picnic of watermelon and left over Khachapuri back at the truck. When it was time to leave, there was a large traffic jam (30 cars waiting to come up and 10 waiting to go down). Majority won, and we had to back up the single rocky lane dirt road until we could find a “shoulder” to pause on. Thank goodness for 4-wheel drive! On the way home, more vistas and little cat naps for those of us not behind the wheel. We slept well that night.
When we arrived in the small town at the bottom of the hike, we sat in a little café and ordered fresh Khachapuri (which wasn’t on the menu, but G, in his usual fashion, sweet-talked the female proprietor into making us some anyway), drank warm vodka out of the cooler that wasn’t plugged in, and joked about our adventures yet to come.
After our breakfast of champions, we hopped back in the truck and started up the hill, following the rest of the people up to the Church of the Holy Trinity. Unbeknownst to us, August 28th was a national religious holiday: the day the Virgin Mary died. As such, it was a day for religious pilgrimages for the Georgians, so Don, Nagila, G and I went on a 2-hour hike up to a remote church in the mountains with about 700 other people that day. The path was not an easy one, either, with loose rocks and a steep grade for the better part of two hours. I toss fashion out the window when faced with such adversity, but Georgian slaves to fashion know no bounds: high heels and flip flops were not an uncommon sight hiking next to me on the mountain.
When we reached the church, we were not disappointed: vistas all around and horseman racing along the road and in the fields, hoping to rent a horse for a ride. Hundreds of people gathered in the fields around the church to pay homage to their favorite saint. Many also brought lunch along in the form of a live sheep that they would slaughter later in the afternoon for a lovely picnic in the shadow of their God’s house. Were I a little younger and unaware of the blood splatters across the grass, I might have believed they were pets. Part of me still hopes some might have been shown mercy. Probably not.
We and the masses squeezed into the small fortress of the church, where we took more pictures and watched the rest of the people proceed to walk around and kiss all 4 corners of the church so that they would be shown mercy. Most do it with their lips, but G has modified it to a kiss on the hand which he then touches to the wall. A bit more hygienic, but I wonder whether his salvation would then be modified? So many questions when it comes to these unwritten rules for Christians here! I feel, however, that I must confess my own superstitious nature ingrained from somewhere: just this morning as I was cleaning the counter-tops in my kitchen, I spilled some salt. My mind thought of superstition disguised as religion in so many places and hesitated for a moment. But I couldn’t stand it: I had to toss some of the spilled salt over my shoulder to undo any bad luck that might otherwise have befallen me. Alas! We all seem to be slaves to some type of superstition!
Where was I? Oh yes - Kazbegi. The only disappointment of the day was the fact that after making the hike on a beautiful day, we found the big mountain a bit shy and hiding behind the clouds. Like a birka, they covered it’s face and only occasionally could we catch a glimpse of how beautiful it was before it would quickly look away and be enveloped by the clouds once again. Nonetheless, the vistas remained breathtaking.
We found a shortcut back to the truck through a graveyard (not a bad place to take one’s final rest I thought, considering) and had a picnic of watermelon and left over Khachapuri back at the truck. When it was time to leave, there was a large traffic jam (30 cars waiting to come up and 10 waiting to go down). Majority won, and we had to back up the single rocky lane dirt road until we could find a “shoulder” to pause on. Thank goodness for 4-wheel drive! On the way home, more vistas and little cat naps for those of us not behind the wheel. We slept well that night.
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