Red Swamp

                Sometimes we travel because we have to.  Sometimes we travel because we want to.  Sometimes we travel because it’s just the right thing to do.  That’s what happened in July, 2006 when I ventured to Norway… The land of my kin.

                A year earlier, in May of 2005, my Father started to display the first signs of what would become a rather hideous form of Parkinson’s disease.  My Dad and Step-Mom loved to travel.  When it became obvious that he would not be able to travel much in the future, we decided that he needed to take the trip he always wanted to take but kept on the back burner while more alluring destinations kept his attention.  This trip was to see, with his own eyes, the ancestral family farm outside of Lyngholm, Norway: the birthplace of his Great-Grandfather.

As the family legend goes, Hans Rygmyr emigrated to the United States in 1849.  He departed the port of Stavanger and landed in New York.  Soon after, he ventured to the one place in the U.S. that was equally as miserable as the place he left… Minnesota.  I still don’t understand that.  Sure, they knew how to farm in that climate, and the soil was good, but what would have been wrong with South Florida?  If the early immigrants from Norway had taken the wagon train SOUTH instead of northwest, who knows… Miami Beach would be known as Oslo Beach and it would be the Norwegians that have the great tans.

The ancestral vessel... per family legend

                The grand scheme came together in one of those good-Karma-stars-aligning ways that seem unbelievable.  My Dad and Step-Mom would take a cruise through Scandinavia with stops in Copenhagen, Bergen, Oslo, Stockholm, and Helsinki.  The ingenious plan would have my Dad and Mom get off the ship in Bergen, Norway, to link up with me.  We would drive south to the County of Sveio, visit the family farm, then head back to Bergen.  They would catch a flight to Oslo and meet back up with their cruise, and I would fly back home.  Perfect.  As the good travel Karma continued, I was able to get a frequent flyer ticket from Atlanta to Gatwick, then bought a round trip hop on Lufthansa to Bergen.

Hilltop view of Bergen, Norway

I have a distant cousin who had actually visited the farm and had contact information for the woman and her family that lived there.  Although no longer in the family, the farm still had the crumbled remains of the house where my Great-Great-Grandfather was born.  I traded emails with her and she graciously agreed to host us on the farm and take us out to the site of the old house.  We were all set.          

                After two flights that included a 10 hour layover in Gatwick and a diverted flight to Stavanger, I arrived in Bergen early in the morning tired and aggravated.  Two ingredients that usually don’t bode well when traveling with retired parents.  I rented a car and went to meet them at the hotel.  While they were still out touring the city, I took a short, but much-needed, Lufthansa-induced nap.  We finally met up, had lunch, and did some sightseeing.  The lunch, which consisted of  two club sandwiches, a salad, two beers and a tea came in at about $110.  Before tip.  Later that night, I found the local Irish Pub and drank a couple Norwegian brews while watching the World Cup.  $11 apiece.  No wonder my Great-Great-Grandfather left.  He couldn’t afford the beer.

A traditional Irish pub... in Norway

                The next morning was the start of what would be a great day.  We headed out with a Norwegian road map and a tank full of diesel.  Other than taking thirty minutes to find our way out of Bergen, the trip was pretty easy.  Two ferry boat rides and a long tunnel later we were in Sveio.  We found the farm and drove up the long driveway to the main house.  Our host, Linda, met us and we were all very excited to be on the Rygmyr version of ‘Hallowed Ground’.

Mom and Dad at the Rygmyr Farm

                The long walk took us through a couple small pastures and over a barbed wire fence.  Finally, about 50 yards short of the old home site deeper into the woods, my Dad gave out.  His legs now numb, he took a seat on a rock near an old well house and the rest of us continued on to take some photos and try to get back to him as soon as possible.  It was heartbreaking that his ailment would keep him from seeing the one thing he always wanted to see.  A whole lifetime of traveling around the world only to end up 50 yards short.

Linda and I at the Rygmyr Ruins

                After some quick photos of the Rygmyr ruins, we met back up with my Dad and headed back to the main house.  Linda brought out some homemade strawberry sherbet and we sat on the deck and talked about the land, the farm and the history.  Before long, my Dad had to ask the big question.  The question that up until now had an undeniably quixotic answer… “So, what does ‘Rygmyr’ really mean in Norwegian?” my Dad asked.  Before Linda could answer, he piped in “I believe it is the name of a little yellow flower that grows out of the rocky crags in the fjords and when it blooms, the fishermen know it’s time to head out to sea!” 

                To that, Linda answered swiftly and sternly “NO! Rygmyr… Ryg… Myr! RED… SWAMP!”  My Father's face sunk. He protested “What? That can’t be right!”  Linda assured him that her Norwegian was intact and that she certainly knew what the name meant in her native tongue.

                After a little more sherbet and some calming conversation, we thanked Linda profusely for her hospitality, said our goodbyes, and started driving down the long dirt driveway to the main road.  My Dad just couldn’t let go.  He said “You know, I’m still not sure she was right about the real meaning of our name…”  To that, I couldn’t resist and said “Hey Dad!  Look out the window!  I see a cow stuck in the Rygmyr!”

Stuck in the Rygmyr... Again!

                I was honored to tell that story at my Dads funeral.  It got a good laugh, but more importantly it paid tribute to the fact that no matter how old we are, or what experiences we have, there is always more to learn about ourselves and the world around us.  I believe that the best way to do that is to travel.  No matter whether we need to or want to, sometimes it’s just the right thing to do. 

The Toast of the Two Kisses

                Over the past seven years or so, I have been greatly blessed by the opportunity to travel to the delightful, charming city of Tbilisi almost two dozen times.  Nestled just south of the Caucasus Mountains and straddled by the Mtkvari river, the 1500 year old capitol city of the Country of Georgia lives up to the meaning of its name; warmth.  Tbilisi is a city of contrasts.  Old, pre-Soviet stone buildings sit cheerfully next to modern steel and glass structures the way a grandfather and grandchild sit next to each other on a park bench.  The remains of the old city wall wind through antique neighborhoods with brightly painted facades and large balconies that jut out from the wall like jewels on a bracelet.

            The Narikala Fortress sits above the city looking down as if a paternal protector; reminiscent of a not so distant past when envious neighbors lusted after this city and its riches.  Tbilisi, or Tiflis as it was once known, was a key trading city on the Silk Road.  Persians, Byzantines, Mongols, Arabs, Ottomans, and Russians all marched with swords or rifles in hand against this very citadel that now seems content to be resting comfortably like an old Soldier retired to a rocking chair viewing the modern city with wonder and pride.  In the Mtatsminda Pantheon Cemetery that sits on the hillside overlooking the city (where the photo at the top of the blog was taken) the bones of famous Georgian poets and musicians rest near those of the mother of one of Georgia’s most notorious native sons, Josif Dzhugashvili, known to the rest of the world as Joseph Stalin.  The stones and wisdom of antiquity rest quietly and contentedly next to the steel and energy of the modern day.

            I love this city.  Not for the contrasts, or the architecture, or the geography, but for the people.  I can truly say that some of my most beloved friends live there.  There is a Georgian proverb that says “Guests are a gift from God”.  This lives in their hearts and has been shown to me with such affection and honest emotion that I wonder if I had indeed been a Georgian in a previous life, or if maybe that’s just the way we should all behave toward our fellow man and Georgians have just figured that out before the rest of humanity has.

            There is no greater method of demonstrating this philosophy that the Supra.  A Supra (Georgian for ‘table’) is a dinner conducted in varying states of formality that is the epitome of Georgian hospitality.  Whether it is a family gathering, work colleagues and their guests, or a large gathering of powerful political or business leaders and their clients, the spirit is the same; fellowship, friendship, and hospitality.  The food is brought out in waves and it’s not unusual to have plates of food stacked upon plates of food.  Georgian wine is served in pitchers and a guest’s glass is never empty.  Before going any farther, it should be noted that considerable amounts of wine are consumed at a Supra.  The wine, usually a product of the family of one of the participants, is often brought in to the Supra in large five litre jugs.  It is bad manners to allow a guest’s glass to remain empty, or allow a guest to fill their own glass.

 The key figure in this tradition is the Tamada.  This is the master of the Supra.  He gives the toasts and regulates the flow and timing of the evening.  Being a Tamada is a responsibility that is not taken, or given, lightly.  It is not necessarily the oldest, or youngest, or highest ranking that is named as the Tamada.  Rather it is the one that can be the most sincere host for the given audience.

            The primary responsibility of the Tamada is to be the toastmaster.  The Tamada proposes a series of toasts that honor tradition, family, and of course, their guests.  Some toasts are to be drunk to the bottom of the glass (or bowl, or horn).  Some are smaller gulps.  If a guest is a non-drinker for whatever reason, then they are excused from the wine.  Participating in the ritual is still expected, however.  If you are imbibing, hold on.  Eat lots of bread and pace yourself.

            Having been an active participant in dozens of Supras of many different shapes and sizes, I am actually quite at ease with the process.  The toasts go roughly like this:

1.  A toast to Peace.                                                                                                             

2.  A toast to our ancestors.                                                                                                

3.  A toast to our families.                                                                                                   

4.  A toast to our Countries and our friendship.                                                                           

5.  A toast to our fallen colleagues.                                                                                                

6.  My memory starts getting fuzzy right about here.

            Depending on the Tamada and the occasion, toasting can go on for hours. Sometimes the toasts are very long and descriptive. Sometimes they are unique in their wording.  Sometimes they are short and simple, but heartfelt. The ritual and the sentiment are still the same.  The toasts come from the heart and it’s expected that the guests honor the tradition.   

            Last fall, I heard a new toast.  Every once in a while, after the traditional toasts are finished, someone at the Supra will propose a toast that is unique and suited to the occasion.  This toast touched my heart so deeply, that this blog entry is named after it.  This toast truly shows how deeply passionate the Georgian people are about their lives, their families, and their country.  I am simplifying and paraphrasing considerably, but you must understand that great amounts of wine had been consumed at this point (I also made the mistake of sitting very near the Tamada therefore my consumption was heavily scrutinized!).  It went something like this….

            “Mister Tamada! I would like to toast the two kisses!  The first kiss is the one that a Mother gives to her son when he is new to this world… a small baby.  A Mother’s love of her son is eternal and lives in this kiss.  The second kiss is supposed to be when the Mother passes on to heaven and the loving son kisses her goodbye.  This toast is to the second kiss that should never be but has been given so many times.  It is the kiss a Mother gives her son when he has died in battle for his country.  A kiss so true and full of sorrow that only God can understand.  A kiss goodbye given to a son that gave his life so that his mother could be safe from danger. God bless this kiss and the son that receives it”

            Near where the fortress rests on the hillside above Tbilisi, there is a statue of the Mother of Georgia.  She holds in one hand a sword and the other a bowl of wine.  The sword is for her enemies and the wine for her friends.  I’ve always admired that as a symbol of the simple philosophy of the Georgian people.  Ever since that Supra, where that toast was given with such passion, I now see a statue of a Mother that also has a heart broken by having to give so many kisses to the sons of Georgia who have fought for thousands of years to keep her safe.  May God bless my friends there and their families, and bless that small country and a people that count their riches in the number of guests they have hosted.  Riches no invader can ever pillage or plunder.