15 September

Today we took a family trip to Aneklia, a fresh, bumpin’ city (the kids are still talking like that, right?) on the coast of the Black Sea, a bit of a drive north of Batumi. A much smaller affair than big city Batumi, the family feel is much more prevalent, massive hotels staring off into the horizon occupying more space than bars, clubs, and casinos, and, instead of a dance floor, a family water park occupies most of the skyline, the giddy screams of childhood excitement audible from the impressive footbridge a few hundred meters away. Meters; I’ve become such a European. The ‘beach’ is still comprised mainly of rocks and leisurely discomfort, but the water is warm and Donald Trump’s forehead, the foreshadowing to the gaudy skyscraper to obscure the Batumi coast, is blissfully absent.

The waterpark is a small slice of Americana served in small, guttural proportions. The scent of chlorine is evident before you walk through the gate, the ticket prices disproportionately expensive for the amount of rides open, and bags are not allowed by the lawn chairs, the keys to a small locker exorbitantly expensive. Luckily we are spared the extortionate costs of food by a political rally that has decided to try and buy votes via hamburgers and hotdogs (successfully, I might add) and the disappointing absence of a liquor license. The stereo system is impressive, although it sounds as though it is manned by a 16 year old lifeguard with his iPod, the songs constantly repeating themselves and cutting out halfway through the second verse. Apparently musical ADD has traversed the Atlantic Ocean. The screams are the same as they might be at the American version of a water park, a mass of unintelligible excitement pushed around a lazy river, down plastic chutes, or running around the wave pool until a life guard yells and ruins the fun for everyone. Flo Rida continues to blare in the background, for some reason intent on ‘blowing my whistle’ (is it too much to hope this is a sports metaphor?), and every few minutes a bell rings. At the bell, countless 8-45 year olds gather under a 500 gallon bucket, giggling nervously while plugging their noses and pinching their bathing suits, intent on avoiding any embarrassing social situation when so many gallons of water pound down on their heads. A garbled Georgian dialect is frattled through the loudspeakers, interrupting Flo Rida’s come ons, insisting everyone on the next sale or opening slide or lost child, until the time is announced and my host brother and sister groan at the parents’ shouts that they are done and it is time to go home. The shouts of dismay and misfortune from the younger kids, hopeful for one last slide or 4 seconds wading in the wave pool, are beaten only by the parents’ shouts that the children line up obediently behind the full body automated dryers, their looks of relief that the day baking in the sun drowning in the cacophony of noise is over.

The only noise in the parking lot is the children half lamenting at such an early departure while replaying out loud how brave they were at attempting this slide or that, coupled with the attendees who thought ahead with packed coolers, soccer balls breaking out across the parking lot to traditional Georgian folk songs and American pop music. Finally the engines roar and everyone races out of their parking spot, only to screech to a halt and wait angrily at the 45 minute line to get out of the parking lot.

The ride home is when we encounter the build up to the first car accident I have seen since being in Georgia, the continued road construction having worsened and the time delay testing the patience of everyone involved. As my host father speeds in and out of stopped traffic and drivers who are clearly not navigating the potholes or 4 way traffic correctly, the manual gears are sent through a flurry of a workout, the grinds and groans of first gear flying into second and up to third only to be smacked back down to first are more felt than heard, the floor vibrating with their effort as the upholstery creaks and adjusts to such violent handling. It is almost comically nostalgic to watch my host mother clutch the door handle in panic while stomping on her imaginary brake that is only the passenger side floor, her belief that her right foot could actually slow the car down doing little more than providing a small dent in the floor. Never have I seen another person since my real mother take in such a vehement amount of oxygen while gritting their teeth, praying the rosary, and letting the smallest of “SHIT’s” slip through her gums. My host dad is continuing an endless monologue that no one pays any attention to besides me (the only one that can’t understand), gesticulating wildly while saying something along the lines, I assume, of “All of these people are idiots, if everyone were as good as I am at driving, there would be no problem at all and the chaos of the road construction would dissipate into perfect vehicular harmony. Of course I am not lost, this is just a small shortcut, which will save us time and put us miles ahead of where we thought we would be.” How could I ever be homesick when it feels as though I have never left? Sorry, Mom and Dad.

The bang-bang-screech of the inevitable car accident is meant with general surprise by everyone involved and watching; the car at fault wondering where the bright green car right in front of them could have possibly come from, every other mother in the passenger seat thankful they managed to avoid the accident, and every other father behind every other wheel casting a reproachful look of disdain, as if to say ‘if only you followed my example, you could have avoided such inconvenience.’ The road work continues uninterrupted, the constant hum of heavy machinery in constant juxtaposition to the 1 man working, 4 men smoking and talking situation that is unionized work in America. The professional noise and the screams of children and farm animals running in and out of traffic compete for airspace with tourist cars, shouts, and screams of people and radios inside those cars, and the mechanical ache of so many vehicles exhausted into service to survive this journey of chaos and antiprogress. My host father is only one that continues his screams as to the ignorance of all others, mothers continue their prayers and exclamations, children sing along to the radio while recounting their stories of excitement and bravery, and every other kid in the car recants their story as fabrication and exaggeration. I smile and laugh to myself, an innocent bystander to the same scenario I have witnessed for 25 years, singing along to words on the radio even though I don’t speak Georgian (my game plan for singing these songs I have heard so many times but do not understand is to simply mumble along in Russian, another language which I do not speak nor understand). A cow meanders out in front of our stalled car perched precariously over the crevice of a pothole, eschewing another string of rants from my father, until it turns away from the hood and defecates all over the Mercedes Benz hood ornament. I swear that this is the first time I have seen a cow smile. Children scream and sing, men cuss and swear, women scold and pray, farm animal bleat and defecate, and machinery everywhere rev and groan. In the distance, Flo Rida is whistling and blowing whistles while being interrupted by automated announcements, bells are sounding and 500 gallons of water are being dumped over slightly nervous coeds. And everybody screams.