The richness of Anna Netrebko Verdi fills my apartment, which has just been post-trip-admin'd - depacked, machines whirring. Netrebko sang the role of the sexy vamp Lady Macbeth at The Met last Saturday to much praise. My seat was Orchestra Centre Row BB, a row that tested my now 40 year-old eyes. Among the details that did not independently jump into my luggage were my binoculars. So opera is experienced the old-fashioned way - without interviews, without amplification, without visual assistance. To the right of me were two empty seats, reserved for the schnauzer of one of the HD cameras. The cameraman has been filming at the Met since 1979, and while he sitting just behind, has an entirely different experience of opera. While, say, a normal opera-goer is somewhere between enthralled and sleeping, this man is part of the production of seeing opera, and the less we see of him, the better he is doing his job successfully, he says. I'm not sure if opera is better and is truly meant to be appreciated 'unaided', or if this is one of the last bastions of art forms that desperately needs to revamp itself with technology to survive. As I grow older, I will appreciate what I can sense. Perhaps with less sensory inputs, I grow more inwardly, and that is the progress of life.
G and I were sitting in different parts of the auditorium, but we met at intermission. I had never seen her smoke, and usually I am averse to it. She is a fine woman of grace, and her cigarettes had equally fine particles. I have taken to some of her habits, and if smoking became a culturally acceptable activity again I would be tempted to follow in her footsteps. G happened to be in town, and happened to be at the opera - a happy happenstance.
After the performance we meet again, and make our way to Chambers, and then to the foot of Brooklyn Bridge, where my eyes spy a small sign, pointing towards what looked like a gardenhouse by the water. We have in the end the best meal I think I will ever have in my life. A piece of heaven, I write on the receipt, for an amount a friend suggested I consider amortizing over 10 years. I am so happy, I tell S, over and over again that evening. Certainly for me it was everything that I did not order that was the 'main course' - the lobby that seemed to double as the warehouse supplying local florists, the light that transferred from the sunset to the skyscrapers across East River. A bottle of champagne arrived courtesy of the chef. Humble wine choices from one of the world's best wine lists fell into this cup of perfection, around which was an aura that insulated us from anything otherwise: a young 2012 Chablis Champs Royaux - Fevre to start; a mellow, rich 2007 Chateauneuf du Pape - E Guigal for the mains. The amuse-bouches - in particular a local foie-gras - were singular strokes of tastefulness that competed with the mains and won our hearts. Anything we ordered was simply something in between the real thing, it seemed; small bits of life with no names, and which come unbidden. Who called for the semifreddo, which magically appeared, as well as magically disappeared, with gasped exclamations.
We walk around on a cloud afterwards, myself thinking that anything entering my stomach would be considered contamination. We had thought to take the ferry back to our townhouse, but the last ferry had left hours ago. Our taxi driver, we discover, is from Senegal, and has been here for 8 years. S ripples off names of Senegalese dishes, and I tell him that Senegal is on my travel list. He tells us that we are so friendly, that we don't just say the address. As we all know, but as we often need reminding, it is of course the journey that is the destination. I ask him to drop us off one block away. Presumably to avoid the one-way street. But also, may we not get to where we think we need to go to, too soon.
---
It is a good idea to invite a Dane to one's birthday. If there is one reason why Danes are so happy, it may be that they have really perfected the celebration of birthdays. The more, the merrier. On the morning of, I climb up the stairs and find the handrail wrapped in Danish flags, a kind of symbol of celebration that I love, and that simply would not have the same effect should Canadian flags be substituted. The situation might in fact tumble down to confusion, as the separation of state and birthdays is quite clear. I am quickly ordered to blind myself, and hasten toward the lemon yellow settee into which I enfold, listening to rustling and whipping sounds in the kitchen. Most people would, should they find themselves in New York whilst considering an event which involved a birthday cake, put into process some operation to extract a cake from a New York bakery. And then there are Danes. Such as this one, B. Who brought a cake from Denmark and openly declared it at the airport. It tests, and spreads, the presence of humanity and compassion among airport security officers, much like the transport of containers exceeding 100 ml of baby food for one's accompanying infants. B even bought 40 candles, but the cake would have been a complete fireball. Blueberries, bananas, and whipping cream formed the most lovely birthday cake that was our breakfast, starting our day, and my year, on an awfully good footing of lightness and sweetness. A paper cartoon image of the Statue of Liberty is put on the top of the cake as well, and it seemed so fitting - her flame in one hand, her book of law in the other. I'll try to photoshop in the cover of the Building Code onto her book.
---
I had a small checklist for this trip: opera, dinner, Brooklyn's oldest bar, and a park on Roosevelt Island. I generally call it precision tourism and it comes with a healthy amount of getting lost. I couldn't quite remember why I wanted to visit this park - the checklist box was formed about a year ago - but it tumbled into spectacular focus when I got there. It was designed 40 years ago by Louis Kahn, a major architect who has designed very few buildings. We share the same initials, occupation, and he passed away the year I was born. I remember seeing a house he designed in Pennsylvania, simply knocking on the door. The original owners still live there, and even drove me to the train station. He died of a heart attach in the men's washroom in Penn Station, penniless and in debt, with the drawings of this park under his arm. The park is called the Franklin D Roosevelt Four Freedoms Park, the four freedoms being freedom of speech and expression, freedom of religion, freedom from want, and freedom from fear. I know no project that was built 38 years after it was designed. While the worth of many buildings are revealed only after time, this design was already mature with timelessness 'built in.'
Most of the park is outside the park - the vastness of the water around and sky above. But also from away - viewed across from a shore, the park is a blazingly white, horizontal form that contrasts with the grey high-rises around, that perhaps make us think about the varying forms of ambition and freedom, and the forms that relate to looking up and those that instinctively look down. I bought a lapel pin - four silver rectangles on a blue background - as a gift to my 4x10 self. For me to think about these four freedoms, and to remember these four days.
Wednesday, 15 October 2014
Wednesday, 17 September 2014
Georgiousness
Home now, waking up at midnight and seeing a landscape of hours of quiet time in front of me - a foreign but friendly home that welcomes me as a guest for the time being.
Processing a bit now. Reading the books that I bought, going through the photographs I made. One has 12 short stories that illustrate the Georgian mentality. The first story is by Ilia Chavchavadze, who lived in the 19th century. He is generally known as the 'Father of Georgia' and revered by the nation; the last president claimed political legacy. Whereas the Russian woman who I met on my first day in Tblisi said that the neighbouring house was a 'period house' museum, I learned on my last day that it was the house of Chavchavadze himself. The grey street then started to sparkle, and the colours of the neighbourhood came out from beneath its veneer, otherwise damaged by years of neglect.
There is another memorial house across the street, but it is of someone that exists beyond the confines of Google. And I learn on my last day that my guesthouse was the house of Giorgi Chubanishvili, who, as mentioned, was the father of the guesthouse 'husband'. The house is landmarked with a plaque, as he founded the Tbilisi State Academy of Art, and this street is named after him too. (There is a much larger boulevard named after Chavchavadze.)
It was a beautiful last and lazy sunny day, and I spent it exploring the southern part of Old Tblisi, which I had neglected until then. It was a gorgeous - georgious? - Saturday, and it seemed I passed by at least 5 wedding parties which were having photographs taken, all in the same part of Old Tbilisi. They all seemed to be each in a glistening soap bubble, each party close to another but lots of space and happiness within. Of note in the area, actually of extraordinary note, is a mosque which serves both Shia and Sunni Muslims. Perhaps this band ought to connect up with female imams in western China and develop some sort of unorthodox mosque.
By the end of the afternoon I went by Sioni Cathedral. It was, I learn in Google, the main Georgian Orthodox Cathedral for centuries until 2004. It is, like all of the churches that I visited, without pews. During the two hours that I was there, people came in and out as a service went on - and in my experience of Orthodox churches, a service has started at some point before I arrive, and ends at some point after I leave. Pews seem to be 'unorthodox' and not something I should take for granted ever again in a church. People went in and out of the Cathedral - normal enough - and some people were standing inside. But many were standing outside listening to the service which was broadcast on speakers outside. I was lucky to have a bench seat outside.
The scene was beautiful on a variety of levels. That the congregation seemed willingly and earnestly there, and were there for an indeterminate length of time that was not dictated by form or schedule. That there was this openness and informality to it all - that people kissed and touched the church (I'm an architect, but have I ever kissed a building?), walked around, that children were running around and playing. That people were clothed in all ways such that one's facade and one's interior might not necessarily 'look' the same. That people ritually made the sign of the cross, 3 times, right shoulder then left. The sounds of the service were Christian sounds, and the music a light and open chanting the Georgians do so well. Indeed a polyphony to the music and to the people in this arrangement.
I have often invoked on this trip my time in Damascus, and this scenario was no exception. The open area was like the open court outside of the former Cathedral of St. John, which together (court and cathedral) constitute the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. Sacred space open to the skies and open to the masses, but connected to a ritualized, interior space.
I read through my Georgian food and culture book yesterday night. It seemed to really drive the nail in - that much of what I experienced has some derivation to this country's comfortable and daily relationship with their form of Christianity. It's like a really snug fit in a lambswool slipper. That the wine would have a connection - i.e. the grapevine cross. That the Transfiguration seems to be timed with wine harvesting and production. That some of the foods I had were Lenten or ritual foods. That the Georgian tradition for hospitality stems from Matthew 25.
On my last evening, I see the marionette play "The Autumn of My Spring" at the Gabriadze Theatre. A very good production that describes a personal story but also broadly paints a picture of post-war and post-Soviet Georgia using finely crafted marionettes of a grandmother, a bird, and other creatures in a Georgian 'Alice in Wonderland.' As I remember in Damascus, and as I rarely if ever see here, modern politics and in particular corruption, disguised quite lightly, come out in fine form. And what better way to describe politicians as marionettes?
Just before the show I had sat at an outdoor bar/café, in a little plaza outside the theatre and had a cup of tea. It seemed like the new, quietly pumping heart of the old city. It had been completely redone, so it does not resemble the rest of the crumbling city. Behind me was a pack of guys from the UK watching 'the game'. In front is the theatre, an artistic labour of love with a crooked clock at the top, and embraced in colourful tilework and whimsical sculpture. Every day at noon and 7 a little mechanical display of marionettes happens for a minute, and a gathering of tourists provides the mirror image, myself included.
A women seats herself a couple of tables away from me, and we nod. I rarely, if ever, nod, to another person simply sitting down at a nearby table. But we are in another world, and we can make this other world the way we see most fit. The theatre crowd starts to fill the plaza, and the other woman leaves. As I enter the theatre, I find that my seat is next to her, and I am not the least bit surprised. She tells me that these things seem to happen. We chat as if we've known each other all along, and are just catching up.
A good trip. I knew before I arrived that I would return, and that remains.
Processing a bit now. Reading the books that I bought, going through the photographs I made. One has 12 short stories that illustrate the Georgian mentality. The first story is by Ilia Chavchavadze, who lived in the 19th century. He is generally known as the 'Father of Georgia' and revered by the nation; the last president claimed political legacy. Whereas the Russian woman who I met on my first day in Tblisi said that the neighbouring house was a 'period house' museum, I learned on my last day that it was the house of Chavchavadze himself. The grey street then started to sparkle, and the colours of the neighbourhood came out from beneath its veneer, otherwise damaged by years of neglect.
There is another memorial house across the street, but it is of someone that exists beyond the confines of Google. And I learn on my last day that my guesthouse was the house of Giorgi Chubanishvili, who, as mentioned, was the father of the guesthouse 'husband'. The house is landmarked with a plaque, as he founded the Tbilisi State Academy of Art, and this street is named after him too. (There is a much larger boulevard named after Chavchavadze.)
It was a beautiful last and lazy sunny day, and I spent it exploring the southern part of Old Tblisi, which I had neglected until then. It was a gorgeous - georgious? - Saturday, and it seemed I passed by at least 5 wedding parties which were having photographs taken, all in the same part of Old Tbilisi. They all seemed to be each in a glistening soap bubble, each party close to another but lots of space and happiness within. Of note in the area, actually of extraordinary note, is a mosque which serves both Shia and Sunni Muslims. Perhaps this band ought to connect up with female imams in western China and develop some sort of unorthodox mosque.
By the end of the afternoon I went by Sioni Cathedral. It was, I learn in Google, the main Georgian Orthodox Cathedral for centuries until 2004. It is, like all of the churches that I visited, without pews. During the two hours that I was there, people came in and out as a service went on - and in my experience of Orthodox churches, a service has started at some point before I arrive, and ends at some point after I leave. Pews seem to be 'unorthodox' and not something I should take for granted ever again in a church. People went in and out of the Cathedral - normal enough - and some people were standing inside. But many were standing outside listening to the service which was broadcast on speakers outside. I was lucky to have a bench seat outside.
The scene was beautiful on a variety of levels. That the congregation seemed willingly and earnestly there, and were there for an indeterminate length of time that was not dictated by form or schedule. That there was this openness and informality to it all - that people kissed and touched the church (I'm an architect, but have I ever kissed a building?), walked around, that children were running around and playing. That people were clothed in all ways such that one's facade and one's interior might not necessarily 'look' the same. That people ritually made the sign of the cross, 3 times, right shoulder then left. The sounds of the service were Christian sounds, and the music a light and open chanting the Georgians do so well. Indeed a polyphony to the music and to the people in this arrangement.
I have often invoked on this trip my time in Damascus, and this scenario was no exception. The open area was like the open court outside of the former Cathedral of St. John, which together (court and cathedral) constitute the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus. Sacred space open to the skies and open to the masses, but connected to a ritualized, interior space.
I read through my Georgian food and culture book yesterday night. It seemed to really drive the nail in - that much of what I experienced has some derivation to this country's comfortable and daily relationship with their form of Christianity. It's like a really snug fit in a lambswool slipper. That the wine would have a connection - i.e. the grapevine cross. That the Transfiguration seems to be timed with wine harvesting and production. That some of the foods I had were Lenten or ritual foods. That the Georgian tradition for hospitality stems from Matthew 25.
On my last evening, I see the marionette play "The Autumn of My Spring" at the Gabriadze Theatre. A very good production that describes a personal story but also broadly paints a picture of post-war and post-Soviet Georgia using finely crafted marionettes of a grandmother, a bird, and other creatures in a Georgian 'Alice in Wonderland.' As I remember in Damascus, and as I rarely if ever see here, modern politics and in particular corruption, disguised quite lightly, come out in fine form. And what better way to describe politicians as marionettes?
Just before the show I had sat at an outdoor bar/café, in a little plaza outside the theatre and had a cup of tea. It seemed like the new, quietly pumping heart of the old city. It had been completely redone, so it does not resemble the rest of the crumbling city. Behind me was a pack of guys from the UK watching 'the game'. In front is the theatre, an artistic labour of love with a crooked clock at the top, and embraced in colourful tilework and whimsical sculpture. Every day at noon and 7 a little mechanical display of marionettes happens for a minute, and a gathering of tourists provides the mirror image, myself included.
A women seats herself a couple of tables away from me, and we nod. I rarely, if ever, nod, to another person simply sitting down at a nearby table. But we are in another world, and we can make this other world the way we see most fit. The theatre crowd starts to fill the plaza, and the other woman leaves. As I enter the theatre, I find that my seat is next to her, and I am not the least bit surprised. She tells me that these things seem to happen. We chat as if we've known each other all along, and are just catching up.
A good trip. I knew before I arrived that I would return, and that remains.
Friday, 12 September 2014
Today
Today has been a typical day in my time as a tourist in Georgia:
It starts with breakfast on the deck here at the guesthouse, which has been 'decked out' with dried flowers and corn, garlic braids, pottery, and other things to provide the full domestic effect. The interesting aspect of this type of house is that the interior courtyard facade is the kind that is considered traditional, and is mostly (not always) viewed from either within or from a lane. I haven't tired from looking at it, it being an L-shape, me sitting at breakfast along one of the sides.
Breakfast here makes me happy. I hear the dog lap up water in the courtyard below, and a light wind rustle through the chestnut tree. A cat purrs in the distance. The husband of the house returns with puri, warm Georgian bread. It is a shotis puri, and in the country a round oven, open from above, bakes these along the inner walls, giving it its round form. Today I am treated with tangerine jam and a wild small-plum jam. Plums, among other foodstuffs, are very typical here, and tomorrow I will probably buy some tkemali, a sour plum sauce, otherwise known as Georgian ketchup. There is also a glass blue bowl with yoghurt with small cherries, little plates of cheese and butter, a big cup of coffee, and a basket of fruit. It's really been an excellent way to start the day.
Accompanying me are usually people who speak Russian and no English. I have met many people of this sort here. The vast lot are smokers from Poland, and occassionally some from Latvia, France and Moscow. I hear Germans and Americans, and a few Danes. Some ask me if Georgia is well-known as a place to visit. I respond saying unfortunately not. Georgia certainly has all things required for its tourism industry to ferment; it simply needs more tourists. As far as I can see, nothing is to capacity, but my hostess says that this year has been atypical.
After my morning ritual I walk out to Chubinasvili kucha (street), named after my hostess' husband's father, and down Marjanisvili kucha. A beautiful, made-up young woman with high heels etc. pauses by the Russian Orthodox church, turns towards it, and makes the sign of the cross. She could be on the front cover of a fashion magazine but if anything she wants to attract something else in her life. Georgia is fundamentally Christian. Most cars have an icon as a constant companion. Monasteries exist ad infinitum here. And tonight at dinner at an upscale restaurant, while a supra (Georgian feast) is being enjoyed, at another table a group of three women, one in black habit, stands and offers thanks for nourishment.
At Marjanishvili Moedani (Square) I catch the metro. There is always a uniformed guard at each metro station. Such guards or officers are in expected places, such as directing traffic or unmuddling an accident, and sometimes they are randomly in the middle of seemingly nowhere by the highway. The metro is similar to the one in Moscow in that one seems to go down 7 leagues, but the similarity stops there. There is no art inside, just advertisements. One in particular is for something called 'Express Pay' - and throughout the city are ATM-like machines where one can do transactional banking and, um, pay bills in particular. For to fill the state coffers and end corruption, the government is making a valiant leap with the help of technology. It's a bit of a 'smart bribe' - the more you use it, the more bonus points you get for free public transportation. I take the metro for two stops, and there is usually a sales pitch or an act of poverty for one stop. There was one boy, about 10, who handed out tarot cards. Many passengers rejected having these cards forced onto them.
I get off at Freedom, or Liberty Square. The metro stop is at the south end of the Rustaveli, a boulevard that seems like a Haussman boulevard in Paris, in that just adjacent are some very mean streets. It is very wide and hosts top institutions. Many of the finer buildings are on one side, and what better way to keep people apart than put a six-lane highway between 2 sides of a street, and not a single crosswalk. There are underground crossings but these are a kilometer apart. One if these by chance brought my into the arms of the English bookstore recommended by Miss LPG. And here I exchange lari (< lira) for a pound of books.
Today's tour went to David Gareji, truly a monastery that went out of the way to carve its own path. They couldn't get to the moon to get away from it all, and this was the next best location. The monastery steps into Azerbaijan a bit, and there were a couple of guards there to make sure we walked back into Georgia.
At the end of the day, I treated myself to a taxi ride, otherwise known as a Georgian language lesson. Navigated with success by being able to say words effortlessly memorized from my cheat sheet minutes prior: pirveli, pirdapir, mokthke kucha, marts hniv (first, straight, fourth street, left). My polyglotic thrills!
It starts with breakfast on the deck here at the guesthouse, which has been 'decked out' with dried flowers and corn, garlic braids, pottery, and other things to provide the full domestic effect. The interesting aspect of this type of house is that the interior courtyard facade is the kind that is considered traditional, and is mostly (not always) viewed from either within or from a lane. I haven't tired from looking at it, it being an L-shape, me sitting at breakfast along one of the sides.
Breakfast here makes me happy. I hear the dog lap up water in the courtyard below, and a light wind rustle through the chestnut tree. A cat purrs in the distance. The husband of the house returns with puri, warm Georgian bread. It is a shotis puri, and in the country a round oven, open from above, bakes these along the inner walls, giving it its round form. Today I am treated with tangerine jam and a wild small-plum jam. Plums, among other foodstuffs, are very typical here, and tomorrow I will probably buy some tkemali, a sour plum sauce, otherwise known as Georgian ketchup. There is also a glass blue bowl with yoghurt with small cherries, little plates of cheese and butter, a big cup of coffee, and a basket of fruit. It's really been an excellent way to start the day.
Accompanying me are usually people who speak Russian and no English. I have met many people of this sort here. The vast lot are smokers from Poland, and occassionally some from Latvia, France and Moscow. I hear Germans and Americans, and a few Danes. Some ask me if Georgia is well-known as a place to visit. I respond saying unfortunately not. Georgia certainly has all things required for its tourism industry to ferment; it simply needs more tourists. As far as I can see, nothing is to capacity, but my hostess says that this year has been atypical.
After my morning ritual I walk out to Chubinasvili kucha (street), named after my hostess' husband's father, and down Marjanisvili kucha. A beautiful, made-up young woman with high heels etc. pauses by the Russian Orthodox church, turns towards it, and makes the sign of the cross. She could be on the front cover of a fashion magazine but if anything she wants to attract something else in her life. Georgia is fundamentally Christian. Most cars have an icon as a constant companion. Monasteries exist ad infinitum here. And tonight at dinner at an upscale restaurant, while a supra (Georgian feast) is being enjoyed, at another table a group of three women, one in black habit, stands and offers thanks for nourishment.
At Marjanishvili Moedani (Square) I catch the metro. There is always a uniformed guard at each metro station. Such guards or officers are in expected places, such as directing traffic or unmuddling an accident, and sometimes they are randomly in the middle of seemingly nowhere by the highway. The metro is similar to the one in Moscow in that one seems to go down 7 leagues, but the similarity stops there. There is no art inside, just advertisements. One in particular is for something called 'Express Pay' - and throughout the city are ATM-like machines where one can do transactional banking and, um, pay bills in particular. For to fill the state coffers and end corruption, the government is making a valiant leap with the help of technology. It's a bit of a 'smart bribe' - the more you use it, the more bonus points you get for free public transportation. I take the metro for two stops, and there is usually a sales pitch or an act of poverty for one stop. There was one boy, about 10, who handed out tarot cards. Many passengers rejected having these cards forced onto them.
I get off at Freedom, or Liberty Square. The metro stop is at the south end of the Rustaveli, a boulevard that seems like a Haussman boulevard in Paris, in that just adjacent are some very mean streets. It is very wide and hosts top institutions. Many of the finer buildings are on one side, and what better way to keep people apart than put a six-lane highway between 2 sides of a street, and not a single crosswalk. There are underground crossings but these are a kilometer apart. One if these by chance brought my into the arms of the English bookstore recommended by Miss LPG. And here I exchange lari (< lira) for a pound of books.
Today's tour went to David Gareji, truly a monastery that went out of the way to carve its own path. They couldn't get to the moon to get away from it all, and this was the next best location. The monastery steps into Azerbaijan a bit, and there were a couple of guards there to make sure we walked back into Georgia.
At the end of the day, I treated myself to a taxi ride, otherwise known as a Georgian language lesson. Navigated with success by being able to say words effortlessly memorized from my cheat sheet minutes prior: pirveli, pirdapir, mokthke kucha, marts hniv (first, straight, fourth street, left). My polyglotic thrills!
Tuesday, 9 September 2014
'Morning mood elevator'
An in-town ramble today, after yesterday's wine tasting tour to Kakheti. The guesthouse I am staying in is very nice, though I suspect that due to it being 2 metro stops away from the thick of things, it is officially off the path to beat. The tour yesterday included a 20-something Chinese-Australian mermaid off the Gold Coast beaches, and, like the 20-something Russian older sister, also had many travel tips. If there was a Miss Lonely Planet Georgia, she would rank high as a contender. The English language bookshop 'Prospero', the French cafe Entree, and an Italian restaurant were warmly recommended as her regular haunts of the past week. We bonded as we both forego explaining precisely to our parents where we travel. The other two, aside from our driver Altor, was a 20-something couple from Poland, both who speak very good English, and who opened up our driver with an impressive mash-up of Russian and German. If it weren't for their interaction with Altor, it would have been a day of refining the art of hand gestures.
Today was a typical travel day for me. It combined Getting Lost - which involves chunks of time in both unforgiving parts of the city, as well as in places of grace - and The Hunt. The Hunt is for the Doll Museum. Many online pages point to it in the Old City, but the Information Centre (at which the man asked me if I had a map, clarifying his role as providing information only) said that it is in fact on a street near where I live. Confusion ensues, as I walk there (without a specified address) and find nothing, and in Damascus form think, do they do this too here? I.e., provide a response, but not the correct answer? I walk home and google up an address, which was last facebook-posted 9 months ago. Recent enough. I return to the street, and find '103-105'. These numbers are on either side of an open gate which leads to a courtyard about the size of a city block. Nothing. My guesthouse hostess said she will call tomorrow - I have read that she herself has made dolls for the museum. But it seems odd that puppets are nowhere to be found. If this was New York, and if these were Muppets, there'd be a movie.
Museums are not really part of the wine world that is coincidentally the happy meeting point between this host culture, and the current and significant 20-something subset of the tourists here. I find many museums cultural artifacts themselves, pocket time-pieces so to speak, and worthy of inspection. I wandered into the State Museum for Folk Music today and, true to times past, two uniformed guards were at the front watching tv, while a young woman - who spoke English and sings in the group Nanina - gave me change out of her purse, and turned the lights on in the 3 rooms that compose the museum.
In my room, as I read online more about Georgia. Georgia is, like Greenland, a name that a country has because of what others call it. This country is otherwise referred to by its own as Sakartvelo, and the important part of this word is 'Kart' which indicates an ancestral lineage. Georgia's new president is a philosopher, fairly unknown, disliked by other former presidents and so may therefore show promise for Georgia's future. The current news is that he plans to 'enter into wedlock.' This news agency also prides itself on providing each morning with an uplifting 'mood elevator.'
Well, happy full moon, with or without an elevator.
Today was a typical travel day for me. It combined Getting Lost - which involves chunks of time in both unforgiving parts of the city, as well as in places of grace - and The Hunt. The Hunt is for the Doll Museum. Many online pages point to it in the Old City, but the Information Centre (at which the man asked me if I had a map, clarifying his role as providing information only) said that it is in fact on a street near where I live. Confusion ensues, as I walk there (without a specified address) and find nothing, and in Damascus form think, do they do this too here? I.e., provide a response, but not the correct answer? I walk home and google up an address, which was last facebook-posted 9 months ago. Recent enough. I return to the street, and find '103-105'. These numbers are on either side of an open gate which leads to a courtyard about the size of a city block. Nothing. My guesthouse hostess said she will call tomorrow - I have read that she herself has made dolls for the museum. But it seems odd that puppets are nowhere to be found. If this was New York, and if these were Muppets, there'd be a movie.
Museums are not really part of the wine world that is coincidentally the happy meeting point between this host culture, and the current and significant 20-something subset of the tourists here. I find many museums cultural artifacts themselves, pocket time-pieces so to speak, and worthy of inspection. I wandered into the State Museum for Folk Music today and, true to times past, two uniformed guards were at the front watching tv, while a young woman - who spoke English and sings in the group Nanina - gave me change out of her purse, and turned the lights on in the 3 rooms that compose the museum.
In my room, as I read online more about Georgia. Georgia is, like Greenland, a name that a country has because of what others call it. This country is otherwise referred to by its own as Sakartvelo, and the important part of this word is 'Kart' which indicates an ancestral lineage. Georgia's new president is a philosopher, fairly unknown, disliked by other former presidents and so may therefore show promise for Georgia's future. The current news is that he plans to 'enter into wedlock.' This news agency also prides itself on providing each morning with an uplifting 'mood elevator.'
Well, happy full moon, with or without an elevator.
Sunday, 7 September 2014
First day in 'Bilisi
Lots of memories of Damascus here - finding many similarities, or otherwise I'm not travelling very far. But it is different, and much easier here.
First days seem to begin with getting lost and going around on foot a lot, which I did until lunch. Managed to walk to the football stadium. There is a shopping labyrinth there that was quite something. A consumer black hole, requiring either bread crumbs, a good memory, or a modest visiting strategy. All surfaces except for the floor and ceiling were dissolved by the cover of everyday goods. And it had a kind of unintelligent design to it all, like tunnels carved by ants.
A young Russian woman had been drawing at the guesthouse today, as her husband is ill. We went out to lunch, and I accept the generous waterfall of travel and food tips that come. It started with her seeing me with a drink which did not meet her approval. She thought that she would withhold comment. But she thought the better if it, and felt strongly that I should learn a few things. So I have now been given a run-down of a menu, and tonight she gifted me with matsoni (a kind of plain yogurt) and borjomi (a kind of mineral water). She also gifted me with the notion of 'generous, but dangerous,' referring to different incidents of local generosity which have happened to her.
(There must be a game on at the stadium - someone just cried out here in the neighbourhood, and then it sounded like there was a big wind above the city. I have been told I should stay put in this guesthouse to get a sense of the everyday here. It's now become a big and recurrent wind...).
Tomorrow I am off on a day tour, specifically to the wine region of Kakheti. From the internet, I could only get information about private tours, and I can tell you that these are very expensive. From guidebooks, I get useful information on the public long-distance transport network, on which can get one can travel far for very little. However, now that I am here, I have happily found the middle-ground: the locally organized, inexpensive group day tour. I don't remember this option existing in Damascus, but I am sure they would have come had the war not broken out.
First days seem to begin with getting lost and going around on foot a lot, which I did until lunch. Managed to walk to the football stadium. There is a shopping labyrinth there that was quite something. A consumer black hole, requiring either bread crumbs, a good memory, or a modest visiting strategy. All surfaces except for the floor and ceiling were dissolved by the cover of everyday goods. And it had a kind of unintelligent design to it all, like tunnels carved by ants.
A young Russian woman had been drawing at the guesthouse today, as her husband is ill. We went out to lunch, and I accept the generous waterfall of travel and food tips that come. It started with her seeing me with a drink which did not meet her approval. She thought that she would withhold comment. But she thought the better if it, and felt strongly that I should learn a few things. So I have now been given a run-down of a menu, and tonight she gifted me with matsoni (a kind of plain yogurt) and borjomi (a kind of mineral water). She also gifted me with the notion of 'generous, but dangerous,' referring to different incidents of local generosity which have happened to her.
(There must be a game on at the stadium - someone just cried out here in the neighbourhood, and then it sounded like there was a big wind above the city. I have been told I should stay put in this guesthouse to get a sense of the everyday here. It's now become a big and recurrent wind...).
Tomorrow I am off on a day tour, specifically to the wine region of Kakheti. From the internet, I could only get information about private tours, and I can tell you that these are very expensive. From guidebooks, I get useful information on the public long-distance transport network, on which can get one can travel far for very little. However, now that I am here, I have happily found the middle-ground: the locally organized, inexpensive group day tour. I don't remember this option existing in Damascus, but I am sure they would have come had the war not broken out.
Saturday, 6 September 2014
Gamarjoba
Arrived very well at the Tbilisi airport last night, all things smooth and effortless, which is most desirable during those vulnerable, crepuscular hours. I am sitting in my room, which is full of blue - blue sheets, blue prints on the wall - dried flower bouquets, and old Georgian maps in Georgian. Outside, the police make their Sunday morning loudspeaker rounds. I have just had breakfast with a young German couple who will make Tbilisi their home this year, and later today will move into their new apartment. We can't quite tell yet how to pronounce the name of this city, which I am about to explore while the air has a freshness to it. But no matter, it will smell just as sweet, or sweaty.
Thursday, 4 September 2014
Footloose and Fancy
A sense of time and spontaneity is a good thing. We were supposed to go to Jylland today, but this idea (which was kept loose anyways) dissolved over the course of yesterday evening. We decided instead to rent bikes and head north. Took a train to Klampenborg then biked up to Ålsgarde via Helsingør. By 6pm it was a fine idea to take a train to Gilleleje for a dinner of rødspætter and fiskefrikadeller in the harbour. Return train via Hillerød.
Many Chinese tourists at Kronborg in Helsingør. I crashed on the grassy ramparts for a bit, and it seemed there was an unending parade of Chinese tourists. I noticed also at the airport in Copenhagen for the first time signs in both Chinese and Japanese. And on both flights, I recall being addressed (i.e. by my first name, or by Ms. X), and there was a female Chinese stewardess (is there a better word?). One of them spoke in English on the PA system, but the effect on me was to listen to the French announcements.
A full day, all in all, and most days since Monday have been full, filled to the brim with the best the late summer offers here. Nice to see Danes being Danish in Denmark. My hostess has just told me she baked a new bread for tomorrow, with oil, egg, pecans, almonds, and hazelnuts. What's not to like?
Many Chinese tourists at Kronborg in Helsingør. I crashed on the grassy ramparts for a bit, and it seemed there was an unending parade of Chinese tourists. I noticed also at the airport in Copenhagen for the first time signs in both Chinese and Japanese. And on both flights, I recall being addressed (i.e. by my first name, or by Ms. X), and there was a female Chinese stewardess (is there a better word?). One of them spoke in English on the PA system, but the effect on me was to listen to the French announcements.
A full day, all in all, and most days since Monday have been full, filled to the brim with the best the late summer offers here. Nice to see Danes being Danish in Denmark. My hostess has just told me she baked a new bread for tomorrow, with oil, egg, pecans, almonds, and hazelnuts. What's not to like?
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