BLTs and a Big City Birthday

A tour of Zugdidi would be a poor way to spend the afternoon. This is mostly because the entire city, one of the five largest in Georgia, can be walked end to end in about forty-five minutes. The city center runs along two blocks of Gamsakhurdia Street: capped on one end by a museum and large public garden and on the other by a terrifying roundabout looping a large iron fountain. A boulevard separates the two sides of the road. Tall pines, brick lined walks, decaying park benches, and a small, sticky café line the boulevard. Small markets, pharmacies, and hair salons are built into the first floor of the apartment buildings on the other side of the road.

The garden and museum were once apart of the estates of a royal family called the Dadianis. I tried to ask my host family when the Dadianis ruled in Samegrelo and the answer I got was the 1300’s. This does not at align with the age of the artifacts housed in the Dadiani museum, nor the connection that the locals brag of between the Dadiani family and Napoleon. I’m not sure if it is our ability to communicate, or their knowledge of their own history (which goes back many thousands of years, or so they tell me) that is failing is this case.

The palace is short and blocky, like many of the houses here, and is made of white stone. It looks out over manicured lawns and another fountain. The gardens, once equally manicured, have gone wild, and now stand as a kind of small wildlife preserve. The trees are incredibly tall: mostly dark pines that crowd around the decaying remains of what was once the royal fishpond.

The city center is bisected by Rustaveli Avenue, running from across the city from East to West and continuing to Anaklia, on the coast. As I make my way home from Adam’s apartment on the boulevard, I follow Rustaveli past the bazaar: the large red building looming over the sea of tarps and umbrellas that vendors have put up to protect their wares from the rain. I pass a bright orange market owned by my new host mother, Shorena’s, brother and wave to his wife who sees me through the window. A little further on I cross the street and make my way through the train station, following the tracks to the road that leads the Elie’s host family’s house and my school. I when I reach the school, I begin to make my way south following dirt and stone roads pock marked with potholes large enough to swallow a small child through several rural neighborhoods and the remains of an old paper factory. It’s about three miles from the city to my host family’s house.

The house is not so different from my other host family’s home. The front door opens onto the living room, rarely used now that it’s winter, except by my host father, Dato, and brother, Tedo, who huddle around the computer located in the back corner of the room every evening for hours on end. The kitchen is off to one side of this living room and also opens onto a small bedroom at the front of the house where Tiko, my host sister, Lela, my host grandmother, and Tedo sleep. There are three more bedrooms and another formal living room upstairs, accessed by a treacherous spiral staircase tucked into a corner of the hall behind the kitchen. My two favorite things about this house are that both this staircase and the toilet are located indoors. Score!

My school is located about two and half kilometers from my house (that’s about a mile and half for those of  us who don’t speak metric). It’s a four story building with a small two-story add-on separated from the main building by a small cement courtyard. There are heaters in the classrooms, a novelty here. They are built into alcoves under the windows. However, to get any significant heat off of them you have to be within about four inches of them. When I read in the staff room between classes, I sit with one of my hands constantly pressed against the warm metal so that my fingers stay warm enough to hold the book.

My classes are large, the smallest has twenty-two students and most of them have over thirty. Making my schedule is a trial since all of the first through sixth grade classes are scheduled at the same time and all of the teachers want me to teach with them. Even when I do finally set a schedule, I am often accosted in the halls by one teacher or the other trying to convince me to come to their next class. 

Since I only have a first period class once a week and I never need to stay as late as Tico and Tedo, who are both in the sixth grade, or Shorena, who is a German teacher at the school, I usually walk. So, on the days I don’t do anything other than walk to school and back, I’m traversing about three miles on foot. When I go into town after classes, either to visit friends or run an errand, I walk about six miles, and on Wednesdays, when I play Volleyball in the evening with people from the EUMM, I tuck a solid nine miles under my belt. The third week in my new placement I walk thirty-seven miles (which is a good thing, because between all the birthdays and weddings in that first month, there is a lot of cake floating around).

My new host family is much more interactive than the family I stayed with in the village. My first week with them, we play at least thirty games of Nardi (that’s Georgian for Backgammon). Elie and I teach them how to play Rummy and afterwards I’m averaging three games a day. I especially enjoy playing with Lela, who runs a commentary on every move that is made in the game in murmured Georgian.

When Lela and I see someone making BLTs on a Georgian talk show, I tell her how much I like them. A few days later I come home to find that she has bought all the ingredients and wants me to make them for the family. I am more than happy to oblige. Though the bacon is not sliced, and comes out a little thick, they are delicious. They taste like America and home (like “freedom” as Elie says), and my family really seems to enjoy them. It’s nice to be able to share a little of my culture, humble a piece as it may be, and have it appreciated.

A few weeks after arriving back, I celebrate my birthday by taking a trip to Tbilisi with some of my American (and English) friends. There is nothing particularly noteworthy about the trip, we eat a lot of Shwarma, and drink beer at Chaplin’s. My mom suprises me with a phone call I receive in the marshutka on our way back to Zugdidi. Though I arrive home again at almost 9:30pm, my host family has the table set the table with the good tablecloth. My host mother has prepared a huge cake layered with caramel icing, raisins, walnuts, and covered in chocolate sauce, as well as what I refer to as Party Khachapuri (actually called Achma). It is a version of the cheese bread that I only see at supras. Imagine lasagna made with only cheese, butter, and lots of salt and you would be in the ballpark of this dish. I have several (I won’t say how many) pieces of cake before hauling myself up to bed.