11 September

The sun has begun to set behind the mix of trees and defunct houses that comprise my horizons, the distant sun incapable of keeping the air as warm as our walk around the city all day, another indicator that fall is on its way. The trip into Kutaisi went smoothly enough, our second run through the marshutka hopping making us feel like old hands, and our ability to ask for directions in Georgian reminding us that we can’t actually speak Georgian (even if we have learned the appropriate phrases to apologize for any ineptitude). In the end, it is shocking how little of a native tongue you need to survive in a foreign land, and as long as you are willing to embarrass yourself through trying most people prove more than willing to work with you.

Although Kutaisi feels as though it lacks the sort of splendor that we became accustomed to while travelling in Batumi and Tbilisi, it does, at least, offer a McDonalds; the sight of Ronald perched on the bench outside and prospect of Big Macs lumped under the heat lamps inside was enough to send Ollie and I off the bus preemptively, the gigglish rush of ordering food that is typically a defeat (and ordering in English, at that!) aglow as we discover new taste buds – America, freedom, and nostalgia. As it turns out, bringing a girl to McDonalds has gigantically different social connotations in Georgia, serving more as the impetus of furthered romantic entanglements ultimately leading to marriage, as opposed to the American stigma of cheap and classless, unless such trip is post-high school prom and includes tuxedos, prom dresses, and a limo. Perhaps the real difference in Georgian McDonalds is the classy ambiance of plush 1970s-era chairs, a party room with a large table and flat screen TV (the happiest business meeting in corporate history), and the explicit and suggestive rap lyrics alternating with smooth jazz leaking out of overhead speakers. The lack of a dollar menu only adds to the stale stench of first love and ultimate heartache (cholesterol and emotional) that hangs in the air. Hopefully Ollie did not run away with too many high expectations after our first date.

The hostel, although well hidden, is another gem in the series of successes that has been an overnight trip. Perched behind a convenience store conveniently owned by the hostel proprietor, the beer comes discounted with rental of a bed and the entire house has an early Victorian feel. The downtown section of Kutaisi is equally ideal, miles of streets intertwining through new buildings and soviet era blocks, bustling citizens on foot or in taxi, an open air market, and shuarma good enough to knock the socks off anyone that wasn’t allowed the opportunity to try the shuarma around the corner of the Batumi hostel. Although the monastaries proved too far out of the city to be attainable, the charm of the city was ample without the desperate-to-be-western feel of Batumi and the air of Tbilisi clouded with noise and dust from perpetual construction. If Tbilisi is New York and Batumi is New Orleans with an additional southern California feel, Kutaisi is more of a collegiate Boston area.

Now is the best part of the day, the Efes Turkish pilsner that is colder than the impending fall and winter, and my feet have been granted a rest after their miles and kilometers of service throughout the day. The front porch just barely clears the roof of the convenience store out front, and the hills are littered with houses, monuments and relics leading over the river and into the mountains out of sight. The sun has slipped into the awkward stage between sunset and dusk, casting the last futile flashes of sunlight across the rooftops and occasionally irritating eyesight. Night life has yet to begun, and Zach, another TLG volunteer, is on a marshutka coming in from Batumi. There is no place to be until the next beer is gone, and the entire scenario is reminiscent to long nights spent on the back porch in Kingston. The beer is cold, the conversation flows freely between the intellectual and the juvenile, and the moments of silence lay as crisp as the settling autumn air. Some plans are launched to have the TLG volunteers recreate Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, allowing each volunteer to rewrite a tale in modern times, centered instead on our journeys through Georgia (Kartuli Tales, anyone?), but those thoughts are ultimately hung out and pushed to another day, wondering whether such a concept will be as inspirational through a more sober lens.

Without fail, and in true homage to nights in Kingston, the silent stillness is broken suddenly, Zach’s arrival reminding us there is still a night to be enjoyed. Georgia is hosting world powerhouses Spain, and the air is thick with my own anticipation of a routing of the host team as well as the locals’ morale. The beer is again cold, the gyros are not as tasty as the shuarma but importance is downplayed by the night alive with shrieks of excitement and groans of ultimate disappointment from the wine-laden patrons of our café. The night is over as quickly as it begun, the beer coupling with energy exerted to make a quick exit out of the world of the conscious.

I suppose I should mention a note of regret or at least sheepishness. I went a full day and quite a few points wrapped up in another adventure into the cities of Georgia, and obviously left the thought of America at home on an unfortunate day. It is only the morning after that I realize September 11 came and went without much in the way of an acknowledgement; of the tragic day in New York, Washington, and Pennsylvania; of the lives that have been lost in war and are continued to be lost (and largely ignored) today, and my small role in that aspect of the world through my bried yet enlightening military career. Perhaps that is the ultimate goal of any tragedy, to be able to move on from that event stronger than before, to not live in the shadow of fear and still go out and take vacations and buy expensive things like George Bush preached in the aftermath 11 years ago (what a fucking idiot). Maybe it would have been more appropriate for Ollie and I to have eaten freedom fries earlier at McDonalds, who knows. Either way, in lieu of actual reflection and introspection due to lack of time, suffice it for now with a rediscovery of the past.

 

-Gravity

What is the terminal velocity
of a tax consultant’s body
as it falls from the 70^th floor?
Galileo must know, after his
fateful experiment.
What of a man and woman,
leaping at once, strangers
gripping each others’ hands in
desperation – will they be parted on the
long journey down?
How aerodynamic the human body must be,
gliding gracefully downward – twisting,
tumbling – speeding to examine the
sidewalk crack in greater detail.
They ought to splinter like glass, fathers,
into a thousand irreparable shards.
When a balding store owner slams the
concrete from 2500 feet you should hear
everything he has ever touched
shatter –
every appliance in his home, each and
every pen he’s signed with, TV remotes, half
a dozen women’s thighs, phone receivers, every
single
glass case in his store,
in addition to ten ribs, his pelvis,
collarbone and spine.
But no.
Only silence as he
drops – like water from a faucet –
then a thud
(maybe a crash if he lands on a
bus or sports utility vehicle).
that’s all.
The world shrinks a bit and an
entire home is broken with one
jolt.
No one hears the whisper of a
body imploding,
they just count the bodies as they
fall:
2,973
(and no drain to swallow them up)