Memories of Old Town Tbilisi:
The hills are steeper than anywhere else I’ve ever been, more than a 30-percent grade in some places, if only I had something to measure it. A car tries to back up a hill, not far, only a car length to ease into a parking spot, but he abandons the idea when his engine whines to a piercing level. Better to find another parking spot than burn out an engine. I can’t imagine what these hills are like when there is snow on the ground, since some cars spin a bit on the cobblestones even when they are dry.
My hostel is halfway up one of these hills. When I am in the common room, I can hear travelers arriving, wheezing and trying to catch their breath before talking with the hostel worker.
Just outside my hostel, on the side of the steep hill, sitting on a wall, is an old woman with a cane. She is talking with a friend of about the same age who is sitting on her walker. I can’t tell if they are taking a break on their way up, or on their way down, or if they simply live in the house right there. In any case, for the elderly to navigate these steep roads is a major event, since there are no hand rails or any other safety measures.
There is a narrow walkway, wide enough for two people standing side by side. To navigate it is to run the restaurant gauntlet. Restaurants are lined up on either side for the full length of the path, with hosts and hostesses smiling, saying hello, guiding passersby with an outstretched arm toward the menu. When one host invites me into his restaurant, I check my watch – two o’clock. I tell him that it’s too early to eat. He smiles and says, “Ah, but it’s not too early to drink.”
I pass a man wearing a denim jacket with the inscription, “I’m fine. Thanks for not asking.”
I pass a sign: Skip rope, not breakfast.
A young woman wearing beach sandals while walking these steep cobblestone roads stops to massage a foot. She says to her friends, all of whom are wearing proper footwear for the environment, “My feet hurt.”
At the Bridge of Peace, a man is playing the guitar and tourists have surrounded him, taking photos and videos. But he’s actually not that good. Just past the pedestrian bridge in Rike Park is another musician, twice as talented as the bridge guitarist, but only a couple of people stop to listen to him.
I buy a few postcards from an artist near the sulphuric baths, where he has his oil paintings on display. Other than the typical Tbilisi scenes, much of his work displays a starving artist with a gaunt face in a sparsely furnished room, a paint palette on the wall, drinking wine, and with a dog on the floor. I wonder if they are self-portraits, since the artist looks a bit like the man in the paintings.
Wherever I’m walking, I can’t help but to look up often, to seek out the statue, Kartlis Deda, or Mother of Georgians, at the top of Sololaki Hill. At twenty metres high, she dominates the skyline. The Georgian Mother symbolizes all that is the Georgian people. In one hand, she holds a bowl of wine to greet her friends, and in the other hand is a sword to protect herself from enemies. To gaze upon her brings me peace.
