The Country, Not The State

Late last year I did something big.

No, I did not cure cancer. No, I did not conquer Everest. But what I did do was push myself outside of my own comfort zone. So far outside of my comfort zone that I landed straight in the Republic of Georgia.

That’s right, folks. The country of Georgia. By “country” I do not mean envision fields of corn and cotton, southern drawls, and pickup trucks. I mean the legitimate country of Georgia in the city of Tbilisi, population: 1.5 million.

I didn’t end up there on a whim. Not entirely. I ended up there to meet my boyfriend’s family for the first time. A nerve wracking experience in itself that was only amplified by my lack of knowledge of the Georgian language. This accompanied by their lack of knowledge of the English language, and only him to serve as a mediator, was sure to make for interesting events.

To this day, I cannot tell you what I was expecting or if I had any expectations at all. I stepped foot on that plane a blank slate, acknowledging that it would be an adventure, and nothing short of that. Truth be told, I could have listened to a hundred anecdotes and, still, nothing outside of firsthand experience could have answered the questions I didn’t even know I had.

Our flight landed in the early hours of the morning. Between the sleep deprivation and the jet lag, I was barely coherent when we were greeted by twenty or so of his closest friends and relatives. It didn’t take me long to deduce that I fit in about as well as I fit into that old pair of blue jeans from high school. Hearing conversation yet not being able to decipher the meaning left me smiling at great lengths and, surely, at inappropriate moments.

What the hell do I know? None the wiser. —Cheese.

Without familiarity of the language outside of “hello”, “nice to meet you”, and a few mandatory expletives, it took all of a few hours before my first mishap.

Freshly showered, preparing to get dressed, I hear his mother knock on the bedroom door. Suddenly, it dawns on me that I don’t know the Georgian equivalent for any word that will delay the opening of that door. I silently damn my boyfriend for not being in the vicinity. Where’s my translator when I need him?

I panic.

I fill the silence with a desperate cry of “one moment!” as I make a mad dash for a towel as if I was running for the 50 yard line. Futile. The door opens. I stand there with a look of horror, grasping my towel so tightly that my knuckles have whitened. Between the two of us, I’m not sure whom was more crimson; me or her.

Talk about an icebreaker.

Tbilisi itself is gorgeous, full of vibrant life and abundant history. Throughout the city an eclectic mix of both archaic and innovative architecture lined the populated streets. Off of cobblestoned roads were tiny shops with hidden treasures and restaurants with food so decadent you did not feel worthy enough to eat it. And outside of the endless lights and sounds was a subdued, mountainous region that rivaled the beauty of the city held within its palm.

The vast landscape was far from empty, though. Atop of mountains sat massive, ancient stone churches. Within their walls, the structures were adorned with rich textures and religious works of art. Even without considering myself a religious person, I could feel the presence of the church. It was as if an aura emanated from each brick and each surface within. Without words, the place spoke of a story.

The beauty of the city and the beauty of the people was unprecedented. And although the language barrier proved challenging, I could feel the warmth of his family and friends. I could see in his family the same gentle soul that he possesses and I could sense the goodness of the hearts of the people themselves. It was fascinating what could be communicated without ever exchanging words.

And when it was time for me to leave the city, I had had an adventure as I expected —only not the adventure I was expecting at all.

✌️ One Love

Too Much Bourbon

Disclaimer for the overly sensitive:
My humor can be questionable. I am lighthearted. Learn to laugh. It’s good for ya’.

So, what I neglected to mention from my previous entry is that the city of New Orleans, like all beautiful things, has its darkness. Not all smiles are from friendly faces. If you’re not quick, there are those quick to hustle. If you’re not aware, there are others aware of you. However, admittedly, my girlfriends and I do not make for quick victims.

Each of us are proficient with firearms —safety and accuracy. And on this particular trip, one of my girlfriends shined above the rest. Concealed in this small pink purse on her lap, which can only described as the Mary Poppin’s Grab Bag of weaponry, were more tools than physically possible. In fact, she broke physics. The tight confines of this purse held not only your run of the mill knives, tasers, and bears –oh my– but also a full fledged baton.

Safety first.

Be that as it may, despite preparation, sometimes you are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. And, fortunately for our group, that was not the case for us in the wee hours of that morning. With luck and a dash of intuition, we decided to spend our Saturday evening on St. Peters instead of returning to the tourist staple of Bourbon Street where we had been earlier that day.

It wasn’t until we woke up hazily that Sunday afternoon to concerned text and possible accusations of our whereabouts that we heard the news.

Naturally, despite being in our “backyard”, we remained completely oblivious to our own names, let alone Channel 4. As it so happened, while we were perpendicular, a much more tragic scene was unfolding on the famed street. Two currently unidentified men exchanged gunfire, injuring a total of 9 individuals in the process. Locals and tourist alike scattered indoors in search of safety. Thankfully, as luck would have it, there were no fatalities.

So, with heavy hearts & livers, we closed our trip on a solemn note, both thankful for our own good fortunate and saddened by the choices of some and the misfortune of others.

✌️ One Love