When you step out from the Hotel Beso and see a man walking a monkey down the street, it's time to start posting on the blog.
Nobody notices the monkey; nobody notices me, which is terrific because you never know if you're in a country of swarmers: "Lady, lady, where you from..." In fact, the only chaos I've seen was the moment the plane touched down and everyone jumped out of their seats, pulling their stuff out of the overhead bins in a frenzy.
What is Batumi about (besides being a cheap, introductory Turkish Airlines destination)? Well, Jason and the Argonauts came here looking for the Golden Fleece, and 1000s of years later, so did the Soviet party members on R&R from the latest 5-year plan. The Georgian newspapers think this Black Sea resort will be the new hot destination. Ummm, I think we have a few years to go there. Actually, Georgia is pretty pissed off because they lost most of their prime Black Sea coastline upon independence in the early 1990s when Abkhazia broke away. The Abkhaz and Georgians hate each other, and the border is firmly shut.
The port of Batumi. Does anybody really want to sunbathe on rocks?
I wander around the port, the town. Nice mountain backdrop. Friendly vibe. A grocery store! The food has pictures, which is a good thing because Georgian is written in its own cursive alphabet. I'm now functionally illiterate and will be for the next month and a half.
A Batumi garden spot.
Back at the Hotel Beso the noise in the neighborhood is intense. Dogs, kids yelling, TV racket, and loud hammering in the room next door followed by the couple having sex.
June 29--Batumi to Tbilisi
7:30 in the morning and I have to wake up the hotel owner who is asleep in the lobby. Nothing happens until he finishes his cigarette. Huge guy, very sweet, should have flossed more in his life. He gets me into the right collective taxi for the train station.
A Frenchman, 73 years old, blue jacket and straw hat with Marlboro on the band, sits in the train station with five huge bags full of his books and manuscripts. He says it all weighs 86 kilos. He says he's been traveling for 13 years on his pension for service in the French Air Force, having fought in Algeria and Vietnam. "I have big wound here..." and he makes a slicing motion across his belly. He says he travels from country to country seeking translations for his books. "Oh, what kind of books do you write?" I ask. "Books of jokes because jokes are the best way to learn languages." He starts repeating himself in 10-minute cycles. God, I hope my seat is far away from his.
June 29--Batumi to Tbilisi
7:30 in the morning and I have to wake up the hotel owner who is asleep in the lobby. Nothing happens until he finishes his cigarette. Huge guy, very sweet, should have flossed more in his life. He gets me into the right collective taxi for the train station.
A Frenchman, 73 years old, blue jacket and straw hat with Marlboro on the band, sits in the train station with five huge bags full of his books and manuscripts. He says it all weighs 86 kilos. He says he's been traveling for 13 years on his pension for service in the French Air Force, having fought in Algeria and Vietnam. "I have big wound here..." and he makes a slicing motion across his belly. He says he travels from country to country seeking translations for his books. "Oh, what kind of books do you write?" I ask. "Books of jokes because jokes are the best way to learn languages." He starts repeating himself in 10-minute cycles. God, I hope my seat is far away from his.
The best train in the country. It would be nice to see out the windows.
Thankfully, my seat is far away. But it's a long 7 hours to Tbilisi with video screens around the car at full-throttle audio showing--I swear to God--6 hours straight of some stout, middle-aged, female, Georgian comedienne telling jokes. Ear plugs don't help.
We pass through Gori, birthplace of Georgia's own Josef Stalin. For those energetic enough, there's a museum in tribute.
Arrival Tbilisi, but it deserves it's own post.
We pass through Gori, birthplace of Georgia's own Josef Stalin. For those energetic enough, there's a museum in tribute.
Arrival Tbilisi, but it deserves it's own post.
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