Reality Check

The last several posts give the impression that all we do is sightsee. In fact, we spend most of our time at home doing the most mundane stuff: [p]laying around on the floor (there's so much of it here); talking--nonstop talking--during every waking moment; and eating, someone is always eating or hungry. You could almost say life is boring, but after work and school are done, everyone comes back for more.

My second child loves taking pics with the iPad, the following are mostly her work.

Lisi Lake

Some love the ocean: vast foreign shores, unfathomable depths, moody blue changeability, endless horizons . . . but not me. I'm from the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and I love lakes.
 

Unfortunately Georgia doesn't have any naturally occurring lakes, but they have enough reservoirs around to make a lake-sick soul like me feel at home. We found one such reservoir, which they call Lisi Lake, very near to our home.

It has a picnic area, decent beach, and paved pathway on one side; and if you're adventurous (like hubby, above), there's a rough muddy trail encircling the entire lake that's passable for running.

I'm sure I'll reveal deep psychological truths about myself, but I expressly dislike all those things about oceans. I prefer a knowable distant shore, the outline of land and trees inversely manifested, the familiarity of seasonal changes (the freeze, the thaw), and fathomable depths.

I never tire of the familiar sparkle of sunset on rippling water in contrast to the dark shadows that only a near shore can effect.

And I find utter peace in the glassy tranquil surface so common on a windless evening.

I've tried to awaken in myself a similar reverence for the salty sea, but to no avail. Let the coastal dwellers have their oceans views and roaring waves, I'll take my land-locked rounds of calm fresh water. Having grown up with a lake across the street and summer cabin on a lakeshore property, how could I possibly do otherwise?

Gudauri

A Federal Holiday presented the opportunity for a day-trip sans children (whose French school adheres to a different calendar). We decided to drive north, leaving spring behind, to check out the ski slopes of Gudauri.

Along the way we passed the confluence of the White and Black Aragvi Rivers. They run light and dark year round due to minerals accumulated in the mountain snow's runoff. We followed the river's course for most of the trip, which took us on a winding path through rugged, rocky terrain.

As we approached Gudauri, we left the river below and ascended a narrow road with a series of sharp switchbacks that carried us ever higher. Up top, we scouted out the ski slopes to ascertain if an end-of-the season run should be scheduled, but the snow was wet and heavy. We decided instead to return next winter.

We drove above town a little higher along a road that caters mostly to trucks shipping goods; this mountain pass offers one of only two peaceable possible routes from Russia to Armenia and Azerbaijan. The concrete tunnel was built to shield the roads from regularly occurring avalanches.

In town we stopped for lunch at a cozy little place that lost power partway through. They seem accustomed to that sort of thing here though, so lunch was still served in a timely manner.

The scenery was dazzling, but to be honest, I couldn't stand the heights. The winding roads, flimsy guardrails, manic drivers, and dizzying drops had me white-knuckled the entire drive. Luckily I wasn't driving. This was our last trip we took with our hired driver, we're now learning to commandeer our own vehicle here in Georgia.

All smiles

We had a grand week,

embracing opportunities,

 

charting territory,

 

challenging boundaries,

 

seeking adventures,

and sticking together.

There were voices of dissent,

but we can gratify with less than perfection--we aim instead for authenticity (including in our group shots).

We spent our last evening together in Tbilisi. It was a beautiful night, and an unforgettable time.

“In friendship . . . we think we have chosen our peers. In reality a few years' difference in the dates of our births, a few more miles between certain houses, the choice of one university instead of another . . . the accident of a topic being raised or not raised at a first meeting--any of these chances might have kept us apart. But, for a Christian there are, strictly speaking, no chances. A secret master of ceremonies has been at work. Christ, who said to the disciples, "Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you," can truly say to every group of Christian friends, "Ye have not chosen one another but I have chosen you for one another." The friendship is not a reward for our discriminating and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each of us the beauties of others.”
-C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Gori story

On our last day together, dads and kids took a trip to the city of Gori, the birthplace of Joseph Stalin. He was born Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvili, a patently Georgian name, but later traded his surname for Stalin (Russian for steel).

As you can imagine, the kids were enamored with the museum . . . luckily there was a train in the mix. Apparently Stalin hated to fly and preferred to thunder around the Soviet Union in his famous armored train.  

Off with his head! It's not every day you get the chance to decapitate Stalin.

Curiously, there was no mention during the guided tour of the estimated tens of millions of deaths attributed to Stalin's reign of terror. Communism ever lingers.

After what they declared a "sickening experience" in Gori, the guys took the kids to nearby Uplistsikhe, an ancient town hewn out of rock, dating back as far as the Iron Age.

I'm sure the children were quite interested in the coexistence of Pagan and Christian architecture found here, as well as the unique combination of styles of rock-cut cultures from Anatolia and Persia; but since I was in town at a yoga class, having girl time, I really don't know.

Based on photographic evidence, I can only really be certain there was ample sun, wind, and stone. And a fair amount of theatrics.

Signagi

For the curious, the correct pronunciation of this town involves employing a sound like the French "R" at the back of the throat each time you see the letter G. Try it now: Signagi. Takes a little getting used to.

Signagi is one of the most beautifully preserved historic towns in Georgia. With such a dramatic location, it was unfortunate that a haze obscured the full impact of the Caucasus Mountain Range on the day of our visit.

Still we did our best to take in the view. We thought we could almost see Russia on the other side.

In the 18th Century a wall was constructed to protect the city from marauding Dagestan tribesmen. Today that wall stands strong and has a reinforced walkway running along several lengths. Looking down on the valley from above, it feels like you're on top of the world.

At the end of this section of wall, a traditional Georgian restaurant with an incredible view awaited our arrival. We chose a spot in the sunshine.

Besides being known for their wine, Signagi is also known for mcvadi, or in Russian, shashlik, or in American, skewered grilled meat. We were happy to oblige.

There is something amazing about eating fresh food outdoors in the environment from whence it originates; and, I might add, a synergistic effect with the combination of well prepared food, sunshine, and a warm breeze. And don't even get me started on the good company . . . it was a memorable meal.

When we could eat no more, we took a stroll around the city. These ornately carved balconies are classic Georgian architecture. You find them on the oldest and newest buildings. This one was recently rebuilt. 

They also employ much stone, terra cotta tiles, and ornate brickwork in their construction.

This window pane features the sloping cross design originating from the grapevine cross that St. Nino is said to have carried.

Meanwhile, our kids didn't find one sculpture or fountain that they didn't like. There was nonstop climbing, swinging, dipping, running, and exploring, which was good because they needed to wear themselves out in order to be bearable for the 2-hour drive back to Tbilisi.

Bodbe Monastery

With signs of spring aplenty, we left the city for a trip to the Georgian countryside. We ventured to the Kakheti Region, which is known for wine, craftsmen, landscapes, and monuments. 

I borrowed this image of Bodbe from the internet.

Just outside Signagi (our ultimate destination) lies the beautiful Bodbe Monastery and Convent. It houses the remains of St. Nino, the most venerated Georgian Saint.

Legend has it her cross was tied together with her own hair.

She healed and taught in Ancient Georgia, leading to the conversion of the Queen and King (in that order) in the 4th Century. After she witnessed the acceptance of Christianity by then-Iberia, she retired to the mountains near Bodbe, Kakheti, where she thereafter died. Her remains are enshrined there to this day. The sloping grapevine cross she was known to carry has become the symbol of Georgian Christianity.

The meticulously manicured grounds of the monastery were lovely and spirit filled. With moderate success we attempted to impress upon our children the sacred nature of the place. It has been a pilgrimage destination for centuries.

Behind the monastery, terraced fruit and vegetable gardens are carved into the mountainside which face the immense snow-capped Caucasus Mountain Range, visible on the distant horizon. The scenery was stunning on an epic scale, unfortunately these images hardly convey the majesty.

We were thrilled to finally witness the mountain range firsthand.

 Next we descended the mountain to visit Nino's Spring. According to legend, it emerged in response St. Nino's prayers and is said to have healing powers.

All along the way we saw leaves beginning to unfurl. The air was fresh, the scent was green, the surroundings were peaceful . . .

. . . and our children were bounding down the stairs. After a long grey winter, it was an idyllic spring awakening. Perhaps the only drawback was when, after arriving at the spring and accompanying monastery at the bottom, the children were still unable to contain their fervor, and the attending nun had to shoo them away, lest they climb into the sacred spring and take a swim.