While wandering through Old Town, I come across the Train Cafe.
It’s not really called the Train Cafe, but I cannot see the proper name posted anywhere.
It’s just a cafe in an old train engine.
I climb the stairs into the engine room, where I see dashboard dials, a lever to control the speed, and a few other gadgets, the purposes of which I don’t understand.
On the counter is an old army helmet that people have written on in various languages.
No, says the barman when I inquire, no ice cream today.
Indeed, I see the ice cream machine outside and, from the look of it, it’s been out of service for a very long time.
There is no food that I can see, so I order a cafe latte and a couple of diet colas.
Walking the thirty-degree cobblestone streets of Old Town Tbilisi is thirsty work.
American pop music bursts from the exterior speakers, a testament to the fact that this is also a bar that is probably busy at night.
I think to take a seat inside but it looks like the two small tables are covered in business paperwork.
There are a handful of men out on the deck, all drinking coffee from paper cups.
At least thirty tourists stop to take pictures of the train, some striking various poses, and one man climbing the steps to the engine room and hanging off the railing.
But not a single one of them buys anything, which I imagine must be frustrating for the proprietor and could explain his gruff dialogue with me.
As the barman is preparing my coffee, I ask him for permission to take a couple of interior photos.
He agrees, seeming to be neither enthusiastic nor upset about it.
