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Published: August 8th 2007
Bad Boys
Ahmad and me posing as Mongol raiders.Sitting on Nino's balcony
It's past midnight. I hear voices, distant TVs. I see headlights race up the hill on the far side of the river. I read, write, contemplate. I'm reading The Moor's Last Sigh by (Sir) Rushdie. I copy passages that speak to me into my journal:
(She) drank her own bitterness and called it sweet,
walked in her own desert and called it lush ...
If Nino were here there would be endless Georgian toasts and bottomless glasses of strong liquor. Suddenly, skyrockets explode in the sky. I am literally thrilled by my private show.
Traveler Tales
Getting here from Yerevan was easy, at least for some of us. Originally four people wanted to come to Tbilisi with me this weekend. One couldn't get out of a dinner party and had to cancel. At the border Ahmad casually told me that he left his visa at home. I knew instantly that he was screwed, but I smiled and told him that maybe he wouldn't need it. An hour later, as our minibus driver hurried us aboard, I reached back across the border and handed Ahmad a tiny piece of paper on
Butt Rest
Our mini van's shocks probably hadn't been changed since the Brezhnev Era. Barry and I cool our butts at the only rest stop. which I had scratched the word Charm. "This is the name of our hotel," I said, "Try to find us, if you make it across." And then it was just Barry and me.
At the bus terminal in Tbilisi several taxi drivers fought viciously over our fare. The victor rushed us into his cab, but his engine wouldn't start. Like a lion guarding its kill, the driver had to divide his time between fiddling with the motor and keeping the other drivers—the ones with working taxis-- at bay.
Once underway, I instructed the driver to take us to Hotel Charm. But the driver had never heard of it. He began to suggest alternative hotels owned by various "relatives." My mind raced. Then I remembered. Last year Nino told me that she was changing the name of her hotel to Charm. But of course the taxi drivers would only know it by its old name: Hotel Boni. "Now Ahmad is really screwed," I said to myself, "and this time it's my fault!"
Oh, strange place!
Tbilisi is a study in crumbling elegance. It's not hard to look beyond the sagging balconies, chipping paint, and bowed walls to
Faded Glory
A sign on an abandoned factory in northern Armenia. It reads "Glory to the CPSS" (Communist Party of the Soviet Union). A worker holds a book aloft with a faded picture of Lenin on the cover. appreciate the wrought iron and finely carved woodwork created in another century by people with taste and skill. If asked to generalize, I would say European and Ottoman influences are more evident here, while the Persian influence is more evident in Yerevan. But the advanced state of decay in Tbilisi is difficult to explain. A recent civil war and earthquake have certainly taken their toll. Perhaps the sometimes charming, sometimes aggravating "Whatever" attitude of Georgians is partly to blame. One more earthquake should finish the place off. Whatever. I just hope it's not this weekend.
Lost then Found
Hours later, while relaxing on the balcony of the hotel, I heard a car pull up followed by some commotion in the street. I thought I heard someone struggling to pronounce my name: "Dgawn." Curious, I peered over the ledge. Miraculously, Ahmad had found us! My guilt was relieved, but I wasn't thrilled to see him because it meant I would be sharing a bed with him.
Other computer applications
Barry and Ahmad were impressed with my ability to find my way around Tbilisi. "How many times have you been here?" asked Ahmad as I led them on
Dragon Slayer
St. George is the patron saint of Georgia, England, Beirut, Bulgaria, and the Boy Scouts of America! a shortcut through the old part of town. I explained that while I had only been here once before, physically, I had spent many weeks in Tbilisi lurking in its alleys and scrambling across its rooftops as Sam Fisher, the commando hero of Tom Clancy's computer game, Splinter Cell.
Bride Napping
It seemed like we kept bumping into G6's every where we turned. (G6: Georgia Peace Corps, generation 6.) They were all in town to greet the G7's, who would be arriving Saturday night. On Monday there would be a feast honoring them at the ambassador's residence.
Several G6's complained to us about the Georgian custom of bride napping, which is still practiced outside of Tbilisi. Georgia sticks to the tried and true customs of courtship handed down by their Neolithic ancestors, except cars are used instead of clubs. No, this is not a Borat joke. The procedure is simple: get a bunch of buddies together in a car, select a bride, force her into the car, then drive away. The bride is forced to spend the night at the groom's house. She isn't touched, but in the morning she has a choice, either marry her kidnapper,
Lunch
Barry almost blew chunks when this guy killed and skinned this sheep in front of us. or return to her village with a tarnished reputation for having spent the night in a man's home.
I had heard of bride napping, but thought that it was only a custom carried out with the bride's prior consent. My G6 informants think not.
The Menu
We ate and drank. We ate badrijani nigvzit (pureed eggplant with walnut paste). We ate khachapuris (cheese pie). We ate pkhali (spinach with garlic and crushed walnuts). We drank Argos beer (Georgia is the land of the Golden Fleece.) We would have eaten more lamb souslik, but after hiking up to Narikala fortress in the hot sun, we stopped in a little cafe for cold drinks. While we were sitting there the owner killed and butchered a sheep in front of us. Barry got upset and probably won't eat lamb again.
Paranoia strikes deep
Last night we stopped in the Hangar Bar for dessert. I have walked by this place many times, and I knew it was a hang out for American ex-pats, but now I think maybe it is a hangout for soldiers of fortune on R&R from Baghdad. Why not? Iraq is close and Georgia is our
Narikala fortress I
The ruin of Narikala fortress looms over Tbilisi. bitch. ("Our foreign policy priority is the integration into NATO" read signs along the main boulevards.)
Beefy guys from America, Australia, New Zealand, and the UK sat at every table. They all had military haircuts. Some had blondes clinging to their arms. I picked up a few snippets of conversation— talk of C5 transports, Humvees, and the importance of training. A band played Eric Clapton covers. Fox Sports was on the TV. The owner/singer, sporting a hillbilly haircut (sort of a female mullet,) circulated from table to table (avoiding ours). She stroked her customers fondly and spoke with a southern accent. Everyone seemed to know everyone else. Who were these guys? Air America? Black Water?
Ahmad became convinced that Hangar Club was some sort of arms bazaar, that we were surrounded by arms dealers, and that we were in grave danger. I didn't think so, but his paranoia was feeding into mine (I get paranoid when Girl Scouts try to sell me cookies!) Where was the damned waitress with our check?
Monday, June 18, Yerevan
Lunch with Artak
Artak is a colleague and friend who teaches engineering courses at AUA. I noticed him
Narikala fortress II
An interesting staircase in Narikala sitting with the two new secretaries in the AUA cafeteria a few days ago. I joined them.
Artak was acting like he had just snorted a shovel-full of cocaine. He had been to the gym that morning with Barry and was on some sort of exercise high that he called "muscle joy". It was then that I noticed for the first time that he is very muscular, a former body builder I would later learn. In a frenetic, bee-bop rant he told us about his planned schedule for returning his body to its former glory. Toward that end he had eaten two lunches: the lunch he just finished, plus a juicy steak twenty minutes earlier. He interrupted himself to quickly tell the secretary to his left that she had a beautiful smile, and then returned to his semi-erotic description of the devoured steak. I wondered if he would have his way with the women after lunch. Perhaps he would develop a taste for human flesh by dinner and come looking for me.
To my horror Artak insisted that I come to the gym with him next week. He says that in just two short years he can have
Narikala fortress III
The view of Tbilisi from Narikala me looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger. I guess I'll have to buy new clothes.
Anyone home?
In addition to teaching, I have been going to lots of meetings at AUA. I am asked to help formulate policy and to help establish a direction for the College of Engineering. It seems strange because I am only here for the summer. Cyrus, another colleague in Computer Science, also plays an important role. Like me, he will be leaving at the end of the summer. Barry, the department chair and chief architect, leaves tomorrow night. Armen, who calls himself an E-dean, has already gone.
During an interview with a candidate applying for Assistant Dean I am asked to give my thoughts on problems facing the college. I told him one problem was that he was being interviewed by me. It's still not clear to me what goes on at AUA when I'm not here. Are there permanent instructors who teach a full panel of courses? If so, where are these guys and why aren't they interviewing this candidate?
New Pals
A few days ago it was David Stronach's birthday. (David is the archaeologist I wrote about in my last
Fake boobs?
Mother Georgia. Yerevan has a Mother Armenia. blog.) I phoned and asked if he wanted to join Barry and me for dinner at our favorite Lebanese restaurant across from the former KGB headquarters. He asked if he could bring his team along. I was surprised when he showed up at the restaurant with an entourage of eight. Apparently the team has been so busy with their work that they have had few opportunities for a night out in Yerevan. On top of that everyone was giddy because they had found a 3000 year-old bracelet earlier in the day. The waitresses had to scramble to put enough tables end to end.
As before, David had lots of stories. In 1942, at age 11, he had to make his way from Canada back to England to be with his father. He sailed from Baltimore to Lisbon. (Ships departing New York were being targeted by U-Boats.) En route his ship answered a distress call from a cargo ship that had been ripped in half by a German torpedo. His flight from Lisbon to Bristol was strafed by a Messerschmitt and had to make an emergency landing.
David asked that I not repeat stories about his adventures in Iran
Wine Wagon
We hiked by this vessel on a cart in Tbilisi. I thought it looked picturesque. as he wants to stay on good terms with the government in the hope of getting to dig there again. Accordingly, I have removed the story I told last week from my blog (see Heat, Dust, Ruins, and MIGs).
David's colleagues were equally as interesting. Before becoming an archaeologist, Suesue was an architect who designed many famous buildings in downtown San Francisco. Before becoming an archaeologist, Bill was a professor of City Planning. Before that he was in Army Intelligence during the Vietnam War.
After dinner we moved to the sidewalk tables where we drank Arabic tea, smoked exotic tobaccos from a hookah, and talked until after dark.
X File Episode
Last summer I went to Tbilisi with my friend, Liesel (see Georgia on my mind). We became friends with Nino, the owner of Hotel Boni/Charm. I was disappointed when I got an email from Nino saying that she wouldn't be in Tbilisi when I was there because she had to go to a workshop for hotel owners in Milan.
When I got to my office today there was an email waiting for me from Liesel. I opened it and up popped a picture of
Cafe Society
Tbilisi has many outdoor cafes. This street has the fanciest cafes. her and Nino standing in some piazza together! The caption read—"SEE THIS AND WEEP, MY FRIEND! PROOF THAT YOU CHOSE THE WRONG PLACE!"
I knew Liesel had accompanied Jason, her husband, to a conference in Italy, but come on! Italy has got to be bigger than that. This can't be a coincidence, can it? It's got to be astrology, synchronicity, parallel universes, maybe Photoshop.
Adios, Barry
Farewell dinner for Barry tonight. He's leaving for Scandinavia and then back to San Francisco. Now I have to start over.
P.S.
Sometimes the photos I post to the blog spill over onto a second page. This happened in last week's blog (see Heat, Dust, Ruins, and MIGs). If there is a second page, there should be a little arrow at the bottom of the page that displays it.
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nancy
non-member comment
top of the morning
John....you made my morning....great stories...love getting these blogs! the perfect armchair travel!