Travel Blasphemy #4: "American" is OK

One of the first questions people ask a foreigner:

Where are you from? 

You'd think that'd be an easy thing to answer.




Am I from the US, the USA, or America? 


I used to answer carefully that I was from the U.S. because, in order to be accurate and respectful, I must recognize that two continents share the name American. To say I was from America would be at best, gauche, and at worst, imperialistic. I didn't want that. 

Now I use "the U.S." or "America" interchangeably, depending on whichever option my brain pushes forward first. The reason why is in the section below.


Am I American or USian?


Fake question. Because in truth, USian was never an option for me. USian is just stupid, though if you want to call yourself that, go right ahead. I think we have the right to call ourselves whatever we want.

I used to feel awkward self-identifying as American (see first section for why), so I generally reframed my answer as "I'm from the U.S." 


But over time, I noticed something interesting. Almost everyone outside of the U.S. refers to people from the U.S. as Americans. And almost as often, they use America following "going to," "visiting," or "living in."

In other words, they don't trip over what is, in my current view, an artificial issue. By artificial I mean that we North and South Americans don't talk about being American (with a larger capital A than is already there) unless we're talking in the context of North America or South America. In other words, the distinction doesn't usually come up in casual conversation. Which is what the question "where are you from"? is -- casual conversation. 


I noticed something else here in Georgia. Sakartvelians don't complain about being called Georgian even though they refer to their country as Sakartvelo. (They do get a mite annoyed about being called Russian.) 

Speaking of Georgians, they don't shy away from calling themselves Caucasian simply because billions of people outside of Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia might also self-identify as Caucasian.



So anyway, I'm American.

But what if this offends people in North or South America? 

Bottom line: All of us have the right to self-identify as we wish.

Georgia's Secret City

Rustavi, Georgia. Arishi Ruins.

This post originally appeared in TLG's official blog, Making a Difference. I couldn't include photos, so I've added them here. 


The city is very old, but most Georgians don’t know that.

It has been destroyed, reborn, destroyed, reborn, and destroyed and reborn again.

In the city’s lone, mostly unknown, museum, lie the plaster-cast remains of a girl. Centuries ago, she died at her doorway, a weapon in her hand, while she attempted to defend her family from invaders.

There are archeological treasures buried beneath the city, but there’s no money to retrieve them.

A thousand-year old fortress stands guard over a man-made lake that feeds into the River Mtkvari.

Rustavi, Georgia. Fortress ruins.

In the spring, the steppes surrounding the city wear a grassy cover draped like the folds of a toga.  Ivory herds of sheep move up and down the steppes and in the floodplain around the city.

A wide, straight boulevard runs through the city, its name changing from Shatava to Megobroba to Kostava at each of three important city sections. There are numerous parks – small, medium, and large – distributed throughout the city. An improbable amusement park with bumper cars is stashed behind modern glass public-service buildings.

Rustavi, Georgia.

The city is so like the country at large – a place of contrasts. It is ugly and beautiful. It is old and new. It has a large population, but possesses a village sensibility.  There is birth here and there is decay. It is a Cinderella city, full of hidden loveliness, but maligned by residents and outsiders alike.

Rustavi, Georgia. New Rustavi.

In the time of Stalin, the city was an international center, populated by men and women from all over the Soviet Union. In this time, one of the city’s heydays, it was a planned community. Workers lived in gracious flats. Each type of worker had his own health clinic, hospital, and health resort.

There was a grand theater.
 

Rustavi, Georgia. Theater, Pirosmani Street.

Rustavi, Georgia. Youth Park. Remains of a zoo.

A large park housed a zoo, another theater, botanical gardens.

Buildings were designed in the [Stalinist] Empire style, graceful and classic. Trees lined wide streets.

Rustavi, Georgia. Donatsmetalurgi Street.

Rustavi, Georgia.

In the 1970s, on the other side of the river, there was a demand for a lot of housing very fast. So hundreds of block apartments shot up, vertical micro-villages for workers streaming in from Georgia’s countryside and beyond.  Less outwardly beautiful than its older sister across the river, this new addition to the city boasted an internal beauty in the camaraderie of the neighbors.

Rustavi, Georgia. Farmlet in New Rustavi.

Some inhabitants recreated small bits of their villages in the form of pocket farms with tiny orchards, vegetable gardens, and chickens.

















When the Abkhazian refugees came, they brought only their memories of a gorgeous land, as most had to flee with what they wore on their backs and nothing more.

Rustavi, Georgia. Miniature church. Shatava Street.

One Abkhazian husband and wife who settled in the not-so-beautiful part of this city recreated a bit of paradise by transforming their block apartment yard into a botanical garden, then building in that yard a petite church, and then in an empty lot next door, creating a tiny fountain park with a tiled pool stocked with fish. In the midst of ugliness, then, an island of beauty, shared with all.
















Many people know there’s a new part of this city and an old part. But even life-long residents forget about the third part of the city – its vibrant city of the dead. The city’s massive cemetery, which includes both Christian and Muslim sections, is located on a bluff that overlooks the River Mtkvari valley with views of both the old and new parts of the living city. There’s also a view of an Azeri-Georgian village.

Rustavi, Georgia. Cemetery.

Rustavi, Georgia. Cemetery.

For good or ill, the engraved photographic images of the dead create the sense of a city populated with men and women (and, alas, children) who smile, laugh, drink, smoke, and ponder into perpetuity. Cement picnic tables, trees, flowers, and arbors welcome loved ones still living.

















Would-be travelers often ask if a place is “worth” visiting. About Rustavi, I say: For more than a day, right now, no. Maybe in the future. But for one day? Yes!  It’s a worthwhile destination for cyclists (the land is flat – and you can cycle to Azerbaijan from here), architecture lovers, photographers, and historians. It’s a very walkable city. There may be more restaurants per capita here than anywhere in Georgia.


To get to Rustavi from Tbilisi: Pick up a marshrutka in any one of a number of spots, such as Station Square, Didube, by the Polytechnic University, or Samgori. Cost = 1 lari, 30 tetri. Time = 40 minutes.

You’ll enter New Rustavi first, where masses of block apartments rise eerily from the river plain. Get off here if you wish, but I recommend starting your visit in Old Rustavi, which means you’ll continue on the main boulevard until it crosses the river. Get off at the ‘meria,’ the main plaza in front of the city hall.

Some sights to see:

• Old Rustavi:  The Youth Park, which is along the River Mtkvari and which is home to the ancient fortress and the remains of a zoo
• Old Rustavi: Metallurgical Factory building at the end of the boulevard
• Old Rustavi: Rustavi’s History Museum
• Old Rustavi: A meandering walking tour to look at the Stalinist-era Empire buildings, many falling slowly (and beautifully) into a patina-ed decay
• New Rustavi: On Shatava Street (main boulevard before you get to the Rustaveli roundabout) – the miniature church and park built by the Abhkazian couple
• New Rustavi: Amusement park behind the glass public-service buildings that are on Megobroba Street (main boulevard after the Rustaveli roundabout)
• New Rustavi: Brand new car race track before you enter Rustavi proper, in the auto bazaar area
• New Rustavi: Hike up the steppes to the enormous cross
• Between Old and New Rustavi: Walk along the marshes near the river bridge, following the railroad tracks
• Cemetery: At the Old Bazaar in Old Rustavi, take marshrutka #15, which will take you past the cemetery. (This marshrutka also goes to Samgori station in Tbilisi via an Azeri-Georgian village)

Rustavi, Georgia. Metallurgical Factory.

Tbilisi: Evening Song

Awhile back, Kate, a TLG colleague and I went to an evening of choral singing at the National Parliament Library off of Rustaveli Street.

The Rustavi Men's Choir performed first. Moving and powerful. A real crowd-pleaser.

Toward the end, we enjoyed a really fun, enthusiastic performance of an American folk song, Jericho. I especially enjoyed the soprano shout-out at about 1:12.

If I'd had more space on my SD card, I'd have captured one of the seemingly dozens of songs that consisted primarily of humming. Perhaps these showcased technical virtuosity to those in the know, but as a simple layperson, all I know is one humming dirge sounded pretty much like the other.

There was one exception, however, that I wish I had recorded. The only problem is it was a very long song, and it was such that its beauty and complexity - the sound "story" it told - required that you be there and let it work into your body and brain, slowly.

Svaneti, Part 4: An Aside on Preservation v. Reconstruction, et al

Mestia, Georgia.

The hype

Georgians swoon over two things Georgian: Barbecue pork (mtsvardi) and Svaneti.  I estimate only 15% of Georgians have actually been to Svaneti, but that doesn't take away from the legend. It is the Land of Beauty, the Strong, the Valiant, the Wild, the Tradition.

Yes, there are hundreds (perhaps thousands) of Svani jokes that poke fun at the presumed dunce-headedness of Svanis. But at the same time Georgians admire how Svans thrive in their harsh climate (and culture). One man I know refers to Svans as "our wild Georgians."


The reality


Svaneti is beautiful. So are Racha, Kazbegi (Stepantsminda), Shatili, and other Georgian mountain locations. Svaneti is not more beautiful than any of these, but it enjoys the greater hype. My point is this: If you're a person visiting Georgia and can't make it to Svaneti, know that if you can get to any of these other locations, you'll see stunning panoramas.


Preservation v. Restoration v. Reconstruction

Mestia, the default Svani village destination, is undergoing massive construction. It seems destined to become what some (including me) call the Disneyfied version of historic Georgian structures, a reproduction of An Authentic Georgian Village.

It is disconcerting to see a building that looks brand new, but which is purportedly ancient. St. Nino's Church in Mtskheta is an example. For me, there is something missing when a building is over-restored. It loses the dignity of its age. 

St. Nino's Church in Mtskheta, Georgia

I don't know enough about the fine points of the terms "conservation" ("preservation" in the U.S.), "restoration," "renovation," and "reconstruction," but from what I do understand, it seems that Georgia's approach is on the pushing-the-envelope end of "restoration" and on into "reconstruction." This site about Kutaisi uses the terms "restoration" and "reconstruction."

From this site, here are some bare-bones definitions: 

1.6	Preservation means maintaining the fabric of a place in its existing state and retarding deterioration.
1.7	Restoration means returning the existing fabric of a place to a known earlier state by removing accretions or by reassembling existing components without the introduction of new material.
1.8	Reconstruction means returning a place to a known earlier state and is distinguished from restoration by the introduction of new material into the fabric.

I don't know the answers. Perhaps Georgia needs to reconstruct (including replicate), but then distress the finished, reconstructed products to make them look older. It's still all smoke and mirrors, but at least it will appear more Authentic.

In Part 5, I'll get back to the actual visit to Mestia.

Georgia: Gurieli Package Art

Gurieli Tea, a Georgian product, has a beautiful design for its fruit teas.


Here is the berry fruit box:

It's a work of art, in my opinion. Gurieli believes it, too:

I bought the fruit tea to see how it would taste as an iced drink, and because I loved the package design so much. 

It was a win-win purchase.

Tbilisi: Drummer Boys

Recently, there was a street music festival in Tbilisi.

These young drummer boys on Rustaveli Street were a highlight. At about the 34-second point, pay attention to the boy on the far right. He wasn't drumming at this moment, but he played an important role of drawing attention to the solo drummer, with typical Georgian movements in performances of traditional dance/drumming: the right hand on his knee; knees apart; the broad performer smile; the intermittent shouts. An impresario.

 

Philip and Toby Stories: Part 3: Ridin' the Rails

Philip and Toby were my esteemed great-uncles, known in the family for their story-telling and singing. They were young men during the Great Depression. They often took to the road in search of work or adventure ... not so different for those of us teaching English in Georgia today. 

This is one of Toby's adventures.

1930: RIDIN' THE RAILS TO CALIFORNIA

Part 3

Go here for Part 1.  

Go here for Part 2.

When we got to El Paso, we went to the jungle, got something to eat, shaved, cleaned up the best we could, slept for a couple of hours and then went to town to try to get a decent meal. We did manage to get some bread and bologna and went back to the jungle. We had a can of coffee (that's what they used for cups). We had talked to so many people about work and knew it was hopeless. The cattle ranchers were laying off there  hands and there was no work in the towns. 

Everyone was talking about going to California, so we decided that's where we would go. Mama was there, so at last I had a destination.

George and I picked a freight we thought was headed west and tried to hop aboard. George caught it. I did, too, but fell off. George didn't know I fell off and kept going. (I saw him six months later and he said he ended up in Mexico.)

I waited and caught a train later in the day. I felt awful alone without George, but soon made friends with some more 'bos and didn't miss him too much.

I finally was on the last leg to Los Angeles and was sound asleep when I was awakened by a railroad bull. He hit the bottom of my foot with his stick. A terrible blow, I felt it all the way to the top of my head. He told me to get up and out. I did. There were six or eight bulls out on the track. They had about forty men all lined up. They said, "Put your hands over your head." I did. They frisked me and said, "Put your hands down." I did. The next thing, we were led to a stake body truck and told to get aboard. We did.

Next we were finger-printed, had our picture taken, and name, etc. Then we were taken before a judge.  He tried us at once and sentenced us to three days for vagrancy. He said if anyone wanted to enter a plea to step forward. No one did. The jail was clean, the bunks clean, and the food good. I slept the whole three days, only getting up to eat. The jailer said it took three days to see if we were wanted in any other state.

I had rested up pretty good and bathed, washed my clothes and when I left, I headed for Oakland, where Mama had a motel.  I took the highway and caught rides and two days later was knocking on her door. ... 

... I saw Tom O* while there . He tried his best to get me to go to Hollywood and try for the movies. I thought he was crazy, and still do on that score, but sometimes I wish I had. I would have tried for Westerns. I could ride and shoot good, but nothing else.

After about a month of nothing to do there, and I had a girl at home, Olivia, I was ready to leave. Ceil [sister] had been ready ever since she got there .... the car was loaded down with things Mama wanted to send home. So with a happy heart, we were headed home.  



Notes:

I extracted some non-travel-related family bits from the last three paragraphs of Toby's story. I also omitted Tom's surname. Other than that, the only changes I've made to Toby's narrative relate to punctuation.

Go here for an article on "ridin' the rails" during the Great Depression, including an audio from a former hobo

Go here to watch a PBS documentary on "riding the rails" during the Depression. It's part of the American Experience series.  


 

Philip and Toby Stories: Part 2: Ridin' the Rails

Philip and Toby were my esteemed great-uncles, known in the family for their story-telling and singing. They were young men during the Great Depression. They often took to the road in search of work or adventure ... not so different for those of us teaching English in Georgia today. 

This is one of Toby's adventures. With the exception of minor punctuation revisions, no changes were made to his written narrative.   

1930: RIDIN' THE RAILS TO CALIFORNIA

Part 2

Go here for Part 1. 

There was a water tank in the town (I don’t remember the name); and wherever there is a water tank in Texas, there is a jungle, hobo jungle that is. A ‘bo always heads for the jungle! This one had stew cooking twenty-four hours a day. You had to contribute something to the stew and you could have all you wanted. Some begged or stole a hen, some potatoes, some canned corn or tomatoes. Me and George brought a large can of tomatoes. A housewife would always give you a half loaf of bread or biscuits left from breakfast. Most of the people I begged from were hungry themselves, but they would always find something, if only a few stale biscuits. They were never too stale to taste good! 

There was a woman in this jungle who looked like she'd seen better days. Some of the 'bos talked ugly to her, but one man kept them from going too far. Most of them ignored the whole thing and George and I did, too. If it came down to a fight, I would have gotten into it, but I didn't want to. She was still there when we left. 

We caught a train for El Paso and were about about two hours when the train went on a side track. While there, I went to a ranch house about two miles away. I didn't care if I missed the train or not. I was so tired and hungry, anything would be an improvement, or so I thought.  

When I got about a quarter of a mile from the ranch building, two dogs, big ones, came out and dared me to take another step.  I turned around and headed back for the train. It was still there, and it was still there three or four hours later.  

Several freights went by, and then a passenger train, then we left once more for El Paso. It was so hot and dry, I thought if I ever got out of the desert, I would never go near it again. 

We stopped many times before we got to El Paso; sometimes in a town; sometimes on a side track with nothing in sight. When in town, we always got something to eat, not much though. When I left home, I was thin, but by this time I was skin and bones.

To be continued ....

Go here for Part 1.
Go here for Part 3.

Philip and Toby Stories: Part 1: Ridin' the Rails

Philip and Toby were my esteemed great-uncles, known in the family for their story-telling and singing. They were young men during the Great Depression. They often took to the road in search of work or adventure ... not so different for those of us teaching English in Georgia today. 

This is one of Toby's adventures. With the exception of minor punctuation revisions, no changes were made to his written narrative.  

1930: RIDIN' THE RAILS TO CALIFORNIA

Part 1

During the Depression in 1930, a neighbor boy, the same age as myself, told me about a trip he had made to Texas on a freight train. It sounded like real fun and interesting. At the time, I never had anything to do and there were no jobs to be had, even if you worked for just room and board. I had always dreamed of being a Texas cowboy and thought this is a good chance to try.

George (that was the boy's name) was ready to go again. So was I. I went into the house and told my brother Phil and my Pop good-bye. I rolled up a pair of socks, undershirt, and pants, a pair of dungarees and a shirt, and was on my way thirty minutes after I decided to go.

We went to Long Beach [Mississippi] to catch a freight. There was a filling station across the depot. At one time it had been a blacksmith shop. It was a gathering place for the men and boys of Long Beach to meet and talk about Hoover, the unemployment situation, weather, crops, and whatever the local gossip was at the time. Well, George and I joined them, told them our plans, and the word spread, because when we did catch a freight out of Long Beach, I think all the male population was there to tell us good-bye and wish us well. We could see them waving to us as long as they were in sight.

George knew how to bum food and I soon learned. Almost anyone would give you a nickel for a cup of coffee and doughnuts. If you looked hungry and the owner was the cook and waiter at the restaurant, he may give you a hamburger with it.

We made it to San Antonio without too much trouble. Most of the time we had no idea where we were. We just caught anything going west. Out of San Antonio, we caught one going southwest. It seemed like a good one. As soon as we settled in a cattle car, we went to sleep. It was deep in straw. None too clean, nevertheless, sleep was one thing that was hard to get. When we awoke, we found that we were on a side track near a loading chute for cattle. We must have been there for at least eight hours. We were only about fifty miles out of San Antonio and it was night (it was morning when we left). Time meant nothing to us; we ate when we could, slept when we could, and rode freights when we could. 

We stayed in the car all night. The next morning we were starved and thirsty. We stayed there all day. We were hoping some cowboys would come with a herd as that would mean a freight would have to stop and pick up the cattle car.

None came, but that night a freight did stop and it picked up the empty car. We had been without food and water for at least thirty-six hours and the first town we came to, we got off. The train didn't stop, but it slowed up.

We had about $2.00 between us and ran to a restaurant and had bacon and eggs, coffee, and lots of water.  I believe it cost about a dollar. While there, we asked about work and were told there was none. The people were leaving there, going to California.

To be continued ...

Go here for Part 2.
Go here for Part 3. 

Rustavi: Mockingbird Outside My Window

It began one night, the long serenade, and has continued each night since.

A mockingbird.

Svaneti, Part 3: Road to Mestia

Svaneti: Road to Mestia

When we hopped off the train, there was Sparrow. She and I had been communicating for the past hour via phone, so she knew when we were to arrive and had lassoed us a marshrutka for the next leg of our trip.

Side note: Sandy, Sparrow, and I are with TLG (Teach and Learn with Georgia). Now that I've been in Georgia awhile, it's easy to take for granted the phones we received from TLG when we began our tenures. We can call any other TLGer or TLG staff at no charge. Being in a foreign country, having this phone is a real benefit. Yup, we pay to fill up the prepay accounts, but it's still a tremendous value.

... and off were on our 2.5 or 3-hour drive to Mestia, the best-known town in Svaneti. We paid 20 lari per person for this private charter.

I'll be quiet now and let the photos tell the story of our drive:

Georgia: What Does It Mean?

A conversation between my colleague, Sandy, and a co-teacher, "Gwantsa":

Sandy to Gwantsa: "Ras nish navs"? What does it mean? 

Gwantsa: What does it mean?

Sandy: Yes, what does it mean?

Gwantsa: What does it mean?

Sandy: Yes, what does it mean? 

Gwantsa: What does it mean!

Sandy: No, what does it mean!?

Gwantsa: What does it mean!

Sandy: Ohhhhhh.


 

Georgia: Vodka in the Morning

My hostess, Nely, says:


Ah, vodka is sooo nice in the morning for breakfast. 

Svaneti, Part 2: The Overnight Train to Zugdidi

Svaneti, Georgia

For the first leg of our journey to Svaneti, Sandy, Kate, and I took the overnight train from Tbilisi to Zugdidi.

I’d been worried about our tickets – they were only 11 lari apiece and the ticket agent had asked Kate (who purchased the tickets) if she was OK with 2^nd class, as that’s all that was available.

The tickets from Batumi to Tbilisi had been 20 lari for a 4-bed cabin and 40 lari for a 2-bed cabin, so I fretted about these 11-lari tickets. This is because I’d heard about the dreaded platzkart class, where I had the impression travelers stretched out on bare wooden pallets in a car filled with same.

But Marina, who owns the guesthouse where Kate stayed, pored over the ticket information and pronounced that our beds were, indeed, beds and were, indeed, in a private cabin.

So we arrived timely to the train station, climbed aboard our train car and entered our cabin. Tight quarters, but not terrible. We’d shared the cost of the 4^th bunk, so we had the place to ourselves. Sandy volunteered to take the top bunk and Kate and I each had a bottom bunk. No sheets or pillowcases on the vinyl mattresses or for the naked cloth mattress or pillow. I was wondering, "Is this what 2nd class means? No sheets or pillowcases"? But the porter did eventually distribute same.

Having one toilet for 40+ people in a train car is really not sufficient. And the condition of the toilet was foul. People, people: Cleaning supplies don’t cost much. There’s no excuse for such toilets on a public train. They should be cleaned at least once midway through the trip. 

Unfortunately, we couldn't see much out our window as it was pretty grimy.  

But I guess when all was said and done, it got the job done. We slept. We arrived without mishap. And for only 11 lari.  

Sparrow was our man on the ground in Zugdidi; she'd agreed to procure us four seats on the 7:30 a.m. marshrutka to Mestia.

Svaneti, Part 1: Planning

Svaneti, Georgia

You can't get to Svaneti from here. 

Well, you can, but it requires some planning. Do you take the overnight train from Tbilisi to Zugdidi and then the marshrutka? One marshrutka from Tbilisi to Mestia (in Svaneti)? Or one marshrutka to Zugdidi and then a second to Mestia? Or do you fly? Both ways? One way? In the summer, do you take the retro Soviet plane? Or do you stick with the allegedly more reliable plane via Pegasus?

Kate, Sandy, Sparrow, and I decided on this plan: 

• Kate, Sandy, and I would take the overnight train from Tbilisi to Zugdidi. We'd buy all four tickets (11 lari each, or ~ $6.50 USD) for a four-bed sleeper cabin (called a kupay in Georgian) so we could have it to ourselves. 
• Sandy and I would meet Friday evening (Sandy from Gori; me from Rustavi) at Marina's guesthouse, where Kate was staying, then we'd go to the train station about 10:30 p.m. or so. 
• Upon arrival in Zugdidi at 7:30 the next morning, Sparrow, who's based there, would join us and we'd all take a marshrutka to Mestia.  
• For the return, Kate, Sandy, and I would fly back to Tbilisi in the Pegasus plane (75 lari each, or ~ $46 USD), and Sparrow would take a marshrutka back to Zugdidi. 

All of us helped with the planning and execution in some way. Kate devoted a goodly part of a day acquiring train tickets at Station Square and flight tickets at the Pegasus airline office in Saburtalo. Sandy did the preliminary research on the plane situation and also checked out the lodging options in Mestia. Sparrow found us a marshrutka in Zugdidi and met us at the train. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what I did to contribute to this little adventure!

There are some quotes about planning I like:

The plan is nothing; planning is everything. (Eisenhower)

No plan survives contact with the enemy. (Moltke the Elder)


So true.

Don't Throw Out the малыш With the Bath Water

The common wisdom is that Georgia intends for English to be the new second language, replacing Russian.

I've been asked if I've noticed that more Georgians are speaking English since I arrived here.  No, I haven't.

Not because there aren't more Georgians speaking English. It's just that I've only been in Georgia since July 2011. So I don't have enough time here to have observed such a change.

I have observed, with great appreciation, a notable increase in English signage in Tbilisi's metro stations and at businesses. I also love that the bus stop LED boards in Tbilisi show both Georgian and English information.

I asked the Georgians around me this question: "Do more Georgians speak more English now than a year ago"?

The unanimous answer was yes.


"Why"? I asked.

To which all replied, "Because there are more people coming to Georgia who speak English, so we have more opportunities to practice it."

And 100% of my respondents (approximately 25 men and women of various ages, professions, and interests) agreed: "And we should continue to learn Russian."

"Why"?

"Because Russia is our neighbor. Because Russia is an enemy. And because our former brothers and sisters in the old Soviet Union also speak Russian, thus it is a common language."

I heard proverbs:

• You live a new life for every new language you speak.
• One who speaks only one language is one person, but one who speaks two languages is two people.

There's another dimension to the language issue. 

In the schools, it's a difficult time for language teachers. English teachers are in demand; Russian teachers are expendable.  Old teachers are disdained; the young are admired. There are too many part-time Russian teachers fighting for too few class hours and too few lari.

In the abstract, the painful flux of organizational change in Georgia's education system is necessary. There are so many needed reforms, and not just related to foreign language. 

But as with all progress, there is collateral damage. My hostess, for one. She has a university degree in education, and she's taught at her public school for more than 40 years. She's fluent in Georgian, Russian, and English, and has conversational competence in other languages. She's a skilled and dedicated teacher. She welcomes innovation. But she's an older woman, so there is a presumption of obsolescence and incompetence. Out onto the ice floe she'll go.

There aren't many Georgians in the world. There are fewer Georgians in Georgia than there are people in my home state of Missouri. Georgia has millennia of experience being invaded by enemies.

I agree that English as Georgia's second language is a good strategic choice, in both the security and economic arenas. But I'm a believer in diversifying one's portfolio to mitigate risk.

As such, I agree with my focus group members that Russian should remain an important secondary language.

Don't throw out the малыш with the bath water.

Rustavi: An American Dinner

I don't particularly care to cook. This has caused a little consternation to my hostesses, "Nino" and Nely, but both have been gracious.

I assured Nely that when Pam and Kate came to visit from the U.S., they would enjoy some good American cooking, at last.

And so it came to pass. Unfortunately, Pam could only spend five days in Georgia, but Kate had more time, so she retrieved the recipe for one of her signature dishes, ziti, from a friend via email. Below is the recipe:

Baked Ziti with Spinach and Tomatoes

Bon Appétit |  November 1994

by Carmela M. Meely: Walnut Creek, California

Ingredients

• 3/4 pound hot Italian sausages, casings removed
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 3 large garlic cloves, chopped
• 1 28-ounce can diced peeled tomatoes
• 1/4 cup purchased pesto sauce

• 10 ounces ziti or penne pasta (about 3 cups), freshly cooked
• 8 cups ready-to-use spinach leaves (about 2/3 of 10-ounce package)
• 6 ounces mozzarella cheese, cubed
• 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese (about 3 ounces)

Preparation

Heat heavy large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add sausage, onion and garlic and sauté until sausage is cooked through, breaking up meat with back of spoon, about 10 minutes. Add tomatoes with juices to pan. Simmer until sauce thickens slightly, stirring occasionally, about 10 minutes. Stir in pesto. Season sauce with salt and pepper. (Can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover and refrigerate. Bring to simmer before continuing.)
Preheat oven to 375° F. Lightly oil 13 x 9-inch glass baking dish. Combine pasta, spinach, mozzarella and 1/3 cup Parmesan cheese in large bowl. Stir in hot tomato sauce. Transfer mixture to prepared baking dish. Sprinkle remaining 2/3 cup Parmesan cheese over. Bake until sauce bubbles and cheeses melt, about 30 minutes.

Note:  I usually use the entire # of sausage. 1 large onion, 4-5 garlic cloves, 3 regular cans tomatoes, more pesto, 1# of ziti, and allof the 10 oz bag of spinach.  I usually save a little bit of the sauce to put on the top – helps keep the pasta from drying out.

Note from Mzuri: Note that the above note is not mine; it's Kate's friend's. 

Kate and I went on a shopping expedition to the newest supervmarket in Rustavi. The manager escorted us about the store, translating for us and ensuring we found what we wanted. We discovered we'd have to make our own pesto, as it wasn't available in a jar. Note that my references to "we" actually mean "Kate."

We used the traditional spicy Georgian sausage "kupati" for the hot Italian sausages, a nice Georgian sulguni cheese for the mozzarella, and an imported hard Dutch cheese to stand in for both the Romano (for the pesto) and the parmesan.   

Laden with our goods, we took a taxi to Nely's place and commenced to the preparations. Kate was the chef; I the assistant, as in cutting and chopping stuff. When we arrived at Nely's, we saw that Nely and Tatia had already set the dining table beautifully. We made a few minor changes to achieve an American-style of setting for authenticity.

I made iced tea, both sweetened and not. We'd bought ice cream for dessert. Kate brought crisp, coconutty thin cookies from Entree in Tblisi to stick into the ice cream.

We knew we'd have some of Irakli's good wine for dinner-time consumption.

A sidebar: An English-language student asked me what a traditional American dish was, but before I could answer, she said, "Oh, I forgot. Americans don't have any traditional dishes. Maybe a hot dog"? Haha, Georgians like to joke that Americans have no culture or tradition because we are so new compared to them. I rejoindered with the question: "What do Georgians do with the good cuts of meat off their cows and pigs? Export them to other countries and save the bones and gristle for themselves?" Er, maybe I asked that question before I got the no-culture comment. Whatever.


Our dinner party guests included Nely, Tatia; Tatia's other grandmother, Ketino; my former hostess, "Nino;" her son, "Giorgi;" Nely's son's friend, Malkhaz; Nely's daughter-in-law, Eka, and her mother; and Paata and Eka's daughter, Baya; Kate, and a TLG colleague. I was very happy that my former hosts, "Nino" and "Giorgi," could be there.

Over coffee and dessert, Irakli pulled out his guitar and sang. He also accompanied little sister, Baya, and his mother, Eka, on a rendition of Kargi Gogo. Nely also sang along.

At 1:16 in the above video, former hostess "Nino" is on the left and current hostess Nely on the right. The large beer bottle actually holds black wine made by Nely's husband, Irakli.

Former host, "Giorgi," is on singing Irakli's left in the above video. Giorgi is Nino's son. Ketino, Tatia's other grandmother, is sitting between Giorgi and singing Baya and her mother, Eka.

Tbilisi: Dry Bridge and Dining

Sandy and I visited Dry Bridge awhile back, but it's such a unique place, I knew Kate would like it.

I told one of my English-language students that I found Dry Bridge to be poignant; she told me she liked how a Georgian news reporter described it: That Dry Bridge isn't so much about history, but about Georgians selling their own past. This fits.

Kate was in the market for some art, and almost immediately fell in love with an oil of an old building.

The artist hadn't even finished hanging all of her work. Kate's object of affection is on the artist's left. Taupe and white hues. Blue doors.

Tbilisi - Dry Bridge.

Kate asked the price. It was enough to give one pause; to mull over while drinking a mug of beer.  We looked around a bit more, then crossed over to the cafe adjacent to The Old House restaurant. The cafe has outside seating along the river. Shady, cool, a sense of privacy and country within the city. We both ordered a pot of lobio, Kate getting lobio "straight" and me getting the lobio with Rachuli ham (for which Racha is famous).

Delicious. Kate and I liked the earthenware dishware. In the interest of transparency, I must confess that we felt the tableau needed a splash of color, so we borrowed the luscious pitcher of irises from another table for a more proper stage.  

Tbilisi - Dry Bridge. Cafe adjacent to Old House restaurant, along river. 

 

We had intended to connect with Sandy here, but because of a misunderstanding about which bridge we'd meet at, Kate and I resumed our visit at Dry Bridge, while Sandy began a pleasant walk toward Rustaveli Street, where we agreed to hook up later.

I bought some earrings to complement to a red-glass ring I bought at Missouri Bluestem in Columbia a number of years ago.

Tbilisi - Dry Bridge. Earrings purchase. Ring from Missouri Bluestem in Columbia, MO.

 I also bought a blue and green silk scarf.

Tbilisi - Dry Bridge. Scarf purchase.

Finally, I bought a sports medal that I wear on a silver chain:

 

Tbilisi - Dry Bridge. Sports medal.

I was on a shopping binge.

Some other Dry Bridge sights on this day.

Tbilisi - Dry Bridge. A mace?!

Tbilisi - Dry Bridge.

Tbilisi - Dry Bridge.

 
Kate continued to consider the painting, but we moved on up to Rustaveli Street and met with Sandy at Entree, a favorite eatery and wifi place. We sat outside at one of Entree's cafe tables.

Sandy discovered she'd lost her jacket somewhere on her walk up to Rustaveli, and despite her retracing her steps, it was not to be found. This, however, didn't stop us from catching a bus up to Mtatsminda for the afternoon.

That night, after Sandy left for Gori, Kate and I dined at the Old House restaurant by Dry Bridge.

The barbecue we shared (among some other things) was quite good.

Out on the patio was the fire for barbecue and also the tone (toh-nay) oven for bread.  

A foursome of men sang. At first we were underwhelmed. We felt as if we were present at the Georgian version of the Lawrence Welk show, with too-perfect, white-bread pop songs (presumably). It wouldn't have surprised me to see bubbles appear in the dining room. A staid group of tourists dined quietly in a corner. Kate and I conjectured about their nationality - some place known for sedate people. Maybe Scandinavian.

Periodically, a woman and two men burst out from the kitchen swing doors to engage in traditional dance. Later, the singing men swung into some traditional songs, a cappella, eschewing the electronic keyboard. That's when it got good.

Tbilisi: Marjanishvili Area

Tbilisi - Marjanishvili neighborhood

The Marjanishvili neighborhood may be my favorite in Tbilisi. It is a neighborhood. It's got a metro station and is fairly close to other highly-frequented spots in Tbilisi. It's not entirely gentrified (yet). There are residents of diverse incomes here. Many trees shade the streets. Tiny markets that sell groceries, flowers, and clothes dot Marjanishvili Street between the metro and the Prestige Hotel. The intersecting Aghmashenebili Street is grander and less neighborhood-y than Marainishvili, but it's beautiful for ambling by and ogling the architecture. 



View Larger Map

Some photos.

Tbilisi: Baratashvili Street

Tbilisi - Roofline of restaurant in clocktower courtyard off Baratashvili

Baratashvili Avenue and its offshoots boast: 

• Puppet Museum
• Doll Museum
• Clocktower courtyard
• Marriage Registry office

Over the course of several days during her visit, Kate and I had occasion to visit the area.

View Larger Map

In the petite courtyard with the quirky clocktower are the Hangar Bar, the Puppet Museum, a couple of other restaurants, and a vacant, new building that seems destined for a boutique hotel.

On the hour, the clocktower's doors open to allow an angel to emerge, open his wings, turn, strike a bell with a hammer - once for each hour - turn, fold his wings, and go back through the doors, and the doors close.

Tbilisi - Clocktower courtyard. Original, interior ceiling of Hangar Bar. Building was a bakery long time ago, when built.

Tbilisi - Hangar Bar. Clocktower courtyard off Baratashvili. "American breakfast" delish.

Tbilisi - Restaurant in clocktower courtyard off Baratshvili.

Tbilisi - New, unoccupied building in clocktower courtyard off Baratashvili.

A few weeks ago, I'd had lunch at Buta's Restaurant on Baratashvili, enjoying the best damned chicken livers ever.























I finished Isaac Asimov's book, Lucky Starr: Pirates of the Asteroids there.





But when Kate and I visited, it was closed.








On the bright side, on our way there, we passed the marriage registry office. We stopped to look as a newly-minted couple emerged.

Tbilisi - Baratashvili Street. Marriage registry.

Tbilisi - Baratashvili Street. Marriage registry.

Some other sights off of Baratashvili:

Tbilisi - Off Baratashvili Street

Tbilisi - Off Baratashvili Street