This morning sucked. Woke up with the alarm at 7 which had been set with the full, hot-headed intent to get up early and do laundry.
Did neither. Slept another half hour, and when laundry was attempted at closer to 8 AM it was discovered that the Christian Science ladies had beat us to the basket.
Chris left our laundry on the second floor. I stripped the beds, began making experimental piles of black T-shirts and grey underthings for the trip to Sighnaghi, then gave up. Too early/grumpy. Tromped downstairs for a cup of (finally ineffective) Nescafé. Boiled eggs. Ate matzone with Kellog's (German) DayVita! mixed in, egg with mayo applied with a knife.
Don and Dana quietly sparred by the kitchen sink. They and the CS Ladies had a muted (political?) discussion in the far room. Chris, Emily and I sat at the kitchen table, Chris and Emily conversing, I chiming in with occasional (apparent) non-sequiteurs.
This did nothing to improve my mood.
Duties for the morning: to meet with Nino, who had spent 12 hours searching for an apartment for us, so we could pay her. We had originally agreed to 4 lari an hour (which is a measly $2.40/hr) which I then, in a fit of (relative) expansiveness/guilt, upgraded to $8/hr - a livable wage in some low-rent cities. And while Nino did not actually find *the apartment* that we will be moving into later this month, she did make it possible for us to commit to that particular place.
The other apartments were variously flawed: sketchy neighborhood, lack of hot water, lack of heat, lack of vertical clearance. This one we will move into will, I think, be very nice. Its only shortcomings (lack of working plumbing) are repairable.
Our other errand for the morning was to fulfill a request from my mother -- singing in Sighnaghi, two hours east, where we were headed -- for an electric stabilizer. Vague feelings of dread around this one. Um, where is the closest Best Buy?
We set out early, still undercaffeinated, thinking we might use the morning to search for the stabilizer. And lo, none of the shops downtown open before 10. Ah. Well then, we can go to Prospero's and bask in the cozy warm glow of their internet connection. And lo, Prospero's, too, is closed to us.
It was drizzling. Grey. The streets thick with busses, taxis, automobiles - 6-to-8 lanes of traffic on the four-lane road, pedestrians from the swollen sidewalks occasionally dashing across the thoroughfare. In Georgia, drivers beep as they pass other vehicles. Apparently people don't depend on their mirrors -- or delineated lanes -- when they drive. The resulting caccaphony - multiplied by a thousand, added to the din of rough engines and the occasional diesel roar - are persistent and, when a person is short of temper, terribly, terribly aggravating.
We stood opposite the locked gate to Prospero's, in the rain. I smoked an angry, vengeful cigarette. As soon as the gate was opened, we scurried inside - much to the bemusement (mild irritation?) of the Prospero's staff. I promptly requested a computer and did some theraputic email-checking. And lo, the single Americano. And a bit better mood.
Nino was to arrive at 11. 11 came. And went. I received a frantic, apologetic call - she would be 10 minutes late. At 11:40, Nino arrived: frazzled, apologizing, nervy. (We like her). Paid her 175 GEL and wooshed off to try and find a stabilizer.
We walked a while, tried one shop, was redirected to another, discovered that the stabilizer (sold by in a store prominently labled "Computer Technology" up Pushkin street from the Phillips Center store) was 185 GEL.
Nothing deepens my bad, mad mood like spending hundreds of dollars in a day.
I called my mother. Do you still want this? Yes, she said. Please.
I stalked uphill to an ATM. No sooner had two crisp, unspendable 100 GEL bills tongued out of the machine than Mom called back. A techie teen said that laptop computers do not need stabilizers -- their little boxes on the power cords mediate the incoming power. But could I pick up some extension cords?
Sorry, no. I said. Bad morning. Okay! she said. I'll make it up to you with some really good wine this evening. Okay! I said. See you soon.
We hopped a bus to 300 Aragveli and fast-walked back to the house. We missed out 1PM marshutka, but had about 45 minutes to pack for the next one.
Grabbed some lunch. Changed. Packed. Left a thank-you note in a crude scrawl on a found envelope and walked out of the house into a fat rain.
The marshutkas leave from the train station at Samguri in Tbilisi. The parking lot where they congregate is very full (of marshutkas). Each has a sign in the (invariably cracked) windshield. It was raining, and we were in the wrong half of the lot to begin with (local marshutkas bunch in one part of the lot - the out-of-towners are in a lot on the other side of a building that looked like a waiting area -- roof, chairs inside), but we found it and climbed in happily.
Sighnaghi? Asked the diver, diplomatically allowing that we might have boarded the wrong bus. "Ho!" I said. Something like, "YEAH!". More polite forms of "Yes:" "'Ki," "Diagh," are less easy to pronounce. So I come off a bit hickish. Oh, well.
Fellow passengers: 2 Georgian women - dyed redhead and peroxide blonde - two Israelis, and about 10 bolts of white linen. Chatted with the Israelis. Apparently, Sighnaghi is one of the stops on a fairly well-worn tourist circuit for Israeli tourists in Georgia. Huh.
Nearing Sighnaghi, noticed that the marshutka was getting a little ripe. Starting to notice the grease on the headrests. The fermenting breath smell of moist humans. And then, here we are - 2 hours later, doors open, we spill out into a square, rain everywhere. We pay the diver, and head up a familiar hill towards the house.
And here is the part that I like. We are walking up hill, but quickly. Happy to be back. Here, in the rain. Cannot see any mountains - can see very little beyond the buildings and yards we are walking by - for the cloudy misty weather.
We finish our climb, begin our descent, down a road more un- than paved. Fractured asphalt and loose cobblestones shift and slide underfoot in the wet. The road narrows and worsens as we near the house. And then, in the alleyway that the road has become, I see Andrea, who I know from a tour with Northern Harmony in England, 2004. Unexpected, but a happy meeting.
Chris and Emily and I enter cautiously. We run into some people who we don't know, who give us an uncurious once-over and go about their business. But this is *great.* Home!
And up comes Shergil - from Svaneti, instrument-maker, painter, musician - who gives us all big hugs and promises to join us for Mexican food (more on that later) later this week. He, and others, are dashing out the door to attend a rehearsal of the local dance troup, led by Zaza, our former dance instructor. (Also formerly of the Georgian national dance troupe. More on this later also). Things are as they were - palm tree in the autumnal cold, persimmons yellow on the tree, the house, spacious and tidy, welcoming. Mom is putting the finishing touches on the room where Chris and I will stay.
Things look great. Lights are on. Shuki! The upstairs has sitting nooks and a table with benches and kilims on the floor. Downstairs, the bare brick singing room has been (curiously) shelacked. A gorgeous, ornately carved bench (more like a throne) occupies one wall of the room. Through this room, into the lower half of the house, where we lived and studied our brains out in partial darkness in the late autumn of '03.
Changes: Chris and my bedroom is now a very comfortable study/eating room. The kitchen walls sprout iron hangers (from Vermont) from which dangle cast-iron pans and well-seasoned woks. Out on the kitchen porch there is a pot-washing sink under a high roof, as well as an area for drying dishes. There is a sheltered area across the yard, by the fig tree, where the compost is discretely composting.
There is a modern electric kettle. The bathroom has been painted egg-yolk yellow. And everywhere, there are lights on. It is indescribably cozy and familiar.
Chris makes Turkish coffee. We are joined by Mom, and we sit and drink coffee and talk about things - the house, the group, the plans for the week. I am invited to join the camp session. (Well, more like, "I told everyone that you were joining the singing camp."). Well, hooray.
At 7, we go to dinner, and it is here -- in the room at Shalva's house where we used to have classes -- as I am taking in a spoonful of aromatic soup that I felt like I'd finally arrived.
And then! Chris, Emily, Mom and I headed up the hill for flan at Shalva's restaurant.
And the restaurant is really pretty good. We have a flan that is unexpectedly dense -- like pound cake -- but delicious. There are "Aztec oranges" - orange slices with home-made citrus liquor, tequila, and sugar. And the menu looks great. The walls of what was once John's painting studio are sunset-on-red-rock pink. Azure curtains and a shrine of poncho, sombrero, and strings of dried peppers (and a few less readily identifiable fruits) occupy one recess in the wall. There's a photograph of Shalva in cowboy hat, striped shirt, and leather vest, posing behind two young Georgian women who are enjoying an encitrussed beverage (possibly the house margarita?), outside of the restaurant in the street.
I don't quite know where Shalva's Southwestern fetish comes from, but I'm going to find out.
The building exterior has a fresh coat of paint, and a jaunty line of flags fluttering from the roof.
The name of the restaurant: Pancho Villa.
Shalva has always felt a close connection with Chris. He joins us at the table and they begin to converse in what looks like it will become an exclusive and probing conversation. I butt in early - "Er, Emily and I are going to join the group rehearsal at eight," and away we go.
Down the narrow cobble scuttle, in the dark, towards the house. I am glad I wore my hiking boots but sorry I forgot to bring a flash light. We passed a lot of dog shit here when there was still daylight. Oh, well!
Into the downstairs half of the house, where the singing/eating room is packed with the 26 singing camp participants, plus two young men from Svaneti who I don't know but who are sitting in the bass section, smiling gamely.
I take a seat in a corner, where I can see most of the room, and grab a handful of music. Most of it I have sung before. This part of the day is for American and Balkan music. We start with one I know, "Walpole," and no sooner do we launch into it than I can feel my body start to melt. Man, I love singing this music. Or maybe I just love singing. What happens here? Deep, regular breathing. Vibration of the larynx, throat, whole body? Anyway, I make a big loud noise in harmony with 30 other people in a small brick room. The walls are practically resonating, and the air certainly is. When we pause between songs I notice that my heart is beating harder and faster than it was when I entered the room, and that I feel very calm, very alert, and extremely, unexpectedly, happy.
Labels: Georgia
Major breakthrough yesterday: figured out how to use the first washing machine I've encountered that is older than I am. 
