01 October

It was certainly a busy weekend. School came and went on Thursday with my new position as school soccer coach fully in place. I was even excused from my last lessons to go to the gym and kick a ball around with the kids, dividing the seething masses of youthful energy into two teams and pretending I was a giant amongst pygmies playing a game of keep away that led children to marvel at my ability and me to feel a bit like 18 year old hotshots who used to make themselves feel better by keeping the ball away from my 8 year old self. Friday I was even allowed to take the crew outside, and we played long sessions of keep away and small scrimmages before ending the day with a shoot out, of which I did terribly as I refuse to allow myself unleash as hard a kick as I can muster into the face of a second grade boy or girl. Afterwards, I was mobbed by 100 some-odd kids all screaming my name and thrusting pens and paper in my face, desperate for my autograph (I even signed the hands and forearms of kids who did not think ahead to bring paper). Between the autographs and the photos, I imagine this is how Justin Bieber feels like at all times – hordes of 14 year old girls screaming my name. It was exhausting.

Finally I escaped the paparazzi and jumped on a marshutka, as I was off to spend a weekend in Tbilisi with some other volunteers enjoying the maelstrom of election weekend. I met with Daylene in Senake and spent the few hours waiting for the night train hunting out a shwarma shack for dinner and a wine bar as the true Georgian past time while waiting for anything. In the end, we settled for a bottle of wine next to the train tracks, and were wildly entertained by the station manager Rezni (or something like that) who was wasted and, apparently, deeply troubled at the fact that he only spoke Georgian and Russian and we only spoke English and Spanish. All the same, language barriers did not prevent our recently married friend from trying to convince Daylene to come home with him. Welcome to Georgia. The night train came right on schedule, which I did not realize happened in this country, and 7 hours later we woke up in Tbilisi, only to jump on a marshutka and travel three hours north to Kazbegi Mountain.

The hike to up the mountain was incredible. In the distance there was a snow capped peak serving as the backdrop for an ancient monastery perched on top of our smaller mountain, and the winding trail took us stumbling up the loose rock that served as roads for the tiny village at the mountain base. People with more daring (or at least more money to burn) raced past us on horses, and my group took a communal inhalation to lament the general lack of planning in mountain climbing gear. Once we cleared the village, the woods took on a very New England feel; the leaves have begun their multicolored decay into fall, the yellows, greens, oranges, and reds dazzling our viewpoints and transported me to the woods of Tolland. The air was crisp, the looming shade had not shaken the morning chill, and the scent of fall roamed freely, nature’s Yankee Candle offering unfulfilled promises of apple pie, warm cider, and pumpkin beers at our journey’s end. While we were lost in our nostalgic gazes, the trail shook our complacency by jumping upward, demanding that we earn each step further up to the summit. The curves became sharper, separating each member of the group as the altitude and steep climbs began separating our closely knit pack. The path became more of a battle, and nature’s assault threatened to turn all those involved back around, until finally relenting just as the trees broke and we reached the top of the world, the ancient monastery sitting serenely on the side of the cliff as though asking us what took so long.

The Walk down was much simpler, gravity asking only our respect as it slowly sucked as downward, everyone careful of foot placement to save an embarrassing tumble into the dust (except, of course, for Daylene, who managed to fall twice, narrowly avoiding the booby traps of excrement piles that have come to truly define our experiences in this country). After burning through the descent (only 30 minutes compared to the 2 hours up), it was time to celebrate the only way how (universally, I believe, not just American or Georgian), with a beer and greasy meat. The only down side was jumping back onto the marshutka for the 3 hour ride back to Tbilisi, but even this turned into dinner and a show. As there were 9 of us on this hike and marshutkas come with 15 seats, we were in prime position to nearly fill the entire bus with just our group. This is a very good thing, if you are a marshutka driver. However, it resulted in massive juggling between different marshutkas, drivers kicking other people off of their busses to make room for us, which seemed to upset the apple cart in general. There was plenty of yelling and shoving, with 9 sets of American eyes staring unblinkingly from their seats, until the cops were called and everyone began to settle down. Finally an old grandmother, an octogenarian who had been the loudest of all shouters, walked on as though looking for a seat (still shouting), and finally collected all of the money from the 15 passengers and disappeared, without giving any of the money to the driver. Clearly, this woman is my hero.