Last Wednesday was a big travel day. I took the bus from Klaipėda to Vilnius (a four-hour trip), hung out at the Vilnius international airport for another four hours, flew to Riga (less than an hour), waited at Riga airport (nearly 90 minutes with the flight delay), flew on to Tblisi (a little over three hours), and was delighted that by the time I got my checked luggage, there was a youthful Georgian taxi driver standing in the arrivals waiting area with my name (correctly written in Roman letters) on a white A4 piece of paper. He cheerfully helped push my red suitcase to the taxi. As he was about to start the car, I made an age judgment and got up the nerve to ask him if he knew whether Portugal or Wales won the semi-finals Eurocup match. I asked, "Do you watch football?" He stared straight at me, gave an apologetic smile, and shrugged.
I persisted, hoping that if I said "Portugal" in Arabic that it might be the same in Georgian. "Portugal?" I said, raising my right hand as if it were half of a mechanical weighing scale. "Wales?" I said, raising my left hand.
"I don't know what you say to me," he replied. I had to give up and use facial expressions to show that what I was asking wasn't really important. We exited the airport short-term parking and drove on north through the city, along the left bank of the Mitkvari river that cuts north/south throughout main Tblisi. The cityscape offered an eclectic mix of Renaissnace period castles, nine-storey Soviet -style residential rabbit holes, modern glass buildings with plenty of nuanced lights, and what looks to be a very large stone statue along the east bank that I call, Dude on a Horse, but in reality is a commemoration of King Vakhtang Gorgasali.
About 20 minutes into the ride, it's clear that the taxi driver doesn't exactly know how to get to the Bateli Center (a nursing home and where I'll be living for the next month) in Didi Digomi (დიდი დიღომი), a residential neighborhood on the northwest side of the city. We reach a roundabout near a shopping center called 'Goodwill' (pronounced good-wheelie). From information previously told to me by a colleague, I feel relief. It's a landmark within walking distance of the Bateli Center. The driver asks me, "How this place look?"
I extend my arms to either side, saying, "Big. A big house. House for old people."
Driver: "Near America digomi"?
Me: [thinking he means the American embassy] "Yes. Near America."
We get to the north-most end of what I later learn is Parnavaz Mepe Avenue. In that moment, though, we meet a tri-forked road. Left? Right? Straight, angling to left?
"Wait! Wait!" I say, and I dig out the 'preparing for service' print out that I had in my bag. I flip through to locate the 'not really an address because there is no delivery address to this place street name' written in the documents. I show it to the driver. No dice.
"Number? Call?" he says. Using his smart phone, we try a couple of phone numbers written in the documents. The first doesn't work. The second, we get an answer, but at this time another taxi is coming toward us from the opposite direction. My driver forgets he's on the phone, rolls down his window, and shouts to the on-coming taxi if he knows where to go. He doesn't. Does he know English? No, he doesn't, but the rider in the other taxi speaks a little. The rider gets out of the other car, opens the door to the backseat of the taxi I'm in and asks me, "Where you going?"
I say very slowly, "Bateli? A big house. For old people."
Rider: "Ah, okay!" He shuts the door and leans into the window to explain in Georgian to the taxi driver where we need to go. After hearing the directions twice, my driver thanks the rider and the other taxi driver. Throughout the exchange, I gain two things: 1) the assurance that I won't have to continue riding around in this taxi the whole morning and 2) how to say 'thank you' in Georgian: გმადლობთ - 'mat-loo-baht'.
By the time we get to the Bateli Center, it's nearly 5AM, and the sky is turning from a soft pink to light orange. The gate to the center is closed, and the guard is asleep. The taxi driver has to wake up the guard in the gate house, print out the pre-paid receipt for me to sign, and make sure that my red suitcase is not carried by me (a lady) into the center, but the guard. I shake hands with the apologetic taxi driver, and say, "გმადლობთ". He gives an appreciative smile, and wishes me a good journey.
I follow the guard into the ground floor of the Bateli Center as he pushes my red suitcase down the hall. The door to my room is open, thankfully. I thank the guard for his help, cross over the threshold, find the key in the lock on the inside, and shut the door. A cursory look through the room shows two sections: a living area and bedroom area (see photos above), as well as a bathroom with shower (photos not shown so as not to overworry my mother). I pull out a set of post-it-notes from my bag, write a note for my neighbors to let them know I arrived, post it on their door, return to my room, lock the door, dig out the pajamas from my suitcase, wash my face, brush my teeth, and then sleep hard for the next 6.5 hours.
I persisted, hoping that if I said "Portugal" in Arabic that it might be the same in Georgian. "Portugal?" I said, raising my right hand as if it were half of a mechanical weighing scale. "Wales?" I said, raising my left hand.
"I don't know what you say to me," he replied. I had to give up and use facial expressions to show that what I was asking wasn't really important. We exited the airport short-term parking and drove on north through the city, along the left bank of the Mitkvari river that cuts north/south throughout main Tblisi. The cityscape offered an eclectic mix of Renaissnace period castles, nine-storey Soviet -style residential rabbit holes, modern glass buildings with plenty of nuanced lights, and what looks to be a very large stone statue along the east bank that I call, Dude on a Horse, but in reality is a commemoration of King Vakhtang Gorgasali.
About 20 minutes into the ride, it's clear that the taxi driver doesn't exactly know how to get to the Bateli Center (a nursing home and where I'll be living for the next month) in Didi Digomi (დიდი დიღომი), a residential neighborhood on the northwest side of the city. We reach a roundabout near a shopping center called 'Goodwill' (pronounced good-wheelie). From information previously told to me by a colleague, I feel relief. It's a landmark within walking distance of the Bateli Center. The driver asks me, "How this place look?"
I extend my arms to either side, saying, "Big. A big house. House for old people."
Driver: "Near America digomi"?
Me: [thinking he means the American embassy] "Yes. Near America."
We get to the north-most end of what I later learn is Parnavaz Mepe Avenue. In that moment, though, we meet a tri-forked road. Left? Right? Straight, angling to left?
"Wait! Wait!" I say, and I dig out the 'preparing for service' print out that I had in my bag. I flip through to locate the 'not really an address because there is no delivery address to this place street name' written in the documents. I show it to the driver. No dice.
"Number? Call?" he says. Using his smart phone, we try a couple of phone numbers written in the documents. The first doesn't work. The second, we get an answer, but at this time another taxi is coming toward us from the opposite direction. My driver forgets he's on the phone, rolls down his window, and shouts to the on-coming taxi if he knows where to go. He doesn't. Does he know English? No, he doesn't, but the rider in the other taxi speaks a little. The rider gets out of the other car, opens the door to the backseat of the taxi I'm in and asks me, "Where you going?"
I say very slowly, "Bateli? A big house. For old people."
Rider: "Ah, okay!" He shuts the door and leans into the window to explain in Georgian to the taxi driver where we need to go. After hearing the directions twice, my driver thanks the rider and the other taxi driver. Throughout the exchange, I gain two things: 1) the assurance that I won't have to continue riding around in this taxi the whole morning and 2) how to say 'thank you' in Georgian: გმადლობთ - 'mat-loo-baht'.
By the time we get to the Bateli Center, it's nearly 5AM, and the sky is turning from a soft pink to light orange. The gate to the center is closed, and the guard is asleep. The taxi driver has to wake up the guard in the gate house, print out the pre-paid receipt for me to sign, and make sure that my red suitcase is not carried by me (a lady) into the center, but the guard. I shake hands with the apologetic taxi driver, and say, "გმადლობთ". He gives an appreciative smile, and wishes me a good journey.
I follow the guard into the ground floor of the Bateli Center as he pushes my red suitcase down the hall. The door to my room is open, thankfully. I thank the guard for his help, cross over the threshold, find the key in the lock on the inside, and shut the door. A cursory look through the room shows two sections: a living area and bedroom area (see photos above), as well as a bathroom with shower (photos not shown so as not to overworry my mother). I pull out a set of post-it-notes from my bag, write a note for my neighbors to let them know I arrived, post it on their door, return to my room, lock the door, dig out the pajamas from my suitcase, wash my face, brush my teeth, and then sleep hard for the next 6.5 hours.
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