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.

Oh Delta, Where Is Thy Sting?

                I have this odd love/hate relationship with Delta Airlines.  To be truthful, it’s mostly love.  At times however, not so much.  A previous post refers to Delta as the new Greyhound, likening them to a bus line toting the huddled masses around the country with really only one promise… They’ll do the driving.  Remember the old advertising line?  “Go Greyhound and leave the driving to us!”  Maybe Delta should try that.  How about “Fly Delta and leave the flying of the airplane to us… for everything else, you’re on your own!” 

                “LOOK HONEY, IT’S RED WINE…”   I was seated in economy on an overseas flight on my beloved Delta and, in a moment of cat-like curiosity, asked the flight attendant what kind of red wine they had on the cart during the initial beverage service.  The reply speaks for itself.  It didn’t help when I retorted “Would you mind if I sniffed the screw-off cap?”  I spent the next seven hours slunk down in my aisle seat trying to remain anonymous and averting my eyes during subsequent meal and beverage services.

                I must admit that I do miss Delta sometimes.  After a recent US Airways flight, I seriously considered writing a glowing thank you letter to the CEO of Delta.  The US Airways flight attendants (Let’s call them the Peanut NAZI’s) were a good bit less than jovial.  The aircraft was an older 737, and the boarding procedure was a little like Walmart at 5 a.m. on the Friday after Thanksgiving.   Lufthansa, with all its pretty planes and comfortable thin-profile seats, at times suffers from the same employee malaise.  They once nailed me for 300 Euro for checking a second bag (apparently, a crime akin to peeing on the Kaiser’s grave), and once they even flew me to Stavanger, Norway for no apparent reason.

      

                Here’s where I should probably admit that I am a Delta Medallion member, so I do receive some decent benefits from flying a crap-load of miles during the year; most all of that in overseas travel.  The access to the Sky Club is nice for international flights, especially the free wireless, but that is tempered by the fact that there is very little to eat and last time I was scolded for bringing in food from the outside.  I don’t get that.  Many times, I’ll just skip the club and hang out in the TGI Friday’s on the E Concourse in Atlanta where I can eat a hamburger and watch Sportscenter.  The people are more fun and the beer selection good, although it’s not cheap.

                It must be noted that not all airport sky lounges are created equal.  The Air France lounges are nice and have decent munchies… too bad some are in the Paris Airport.  Finding the Delta lounge in Munich is like the search for total consciousness.  I found both once, and both times had to leave to use the restroom.  The Korean Air lounge in Seoul?  One word: Awesome.  The Delta lounge in Terminal 3 at JFK? One word: Don’t.  The Turkish Airlines lounge in Istanbul?  I wouldn’t know… They wouldn’t let me in.

By far the biggest benefit to being a Medallion member is being able to board in Zone 1.  Nowadays, the most precious of all space in the aircraft is not the leg room, but the overhead bin space.  Load in Zone 1, and you might actually have room to store your carry-on near to where you sit.  Board in Zone 5 and your carry-on will arrive three days after you do. Unfortunately, now when the gate agent calls for Zone 1, half the passengers dart for the gate like ants to a dropped ice cream cone.

                I realize that this all sounds like whining and it probably is.  I’m just emotionally preparing myself for an upcoming trip to Munich in a couple weeks.  Delta, non-stop, piece of cake.   I’ll be traveling with two other guys who are good, savvy travelers.  That helps.  I’ll load up my carry-on with Cheez-its and Little Debbie Nutty Bars, stash a few free drink coupons in my passport, and charge up the Kindle. Upon boarding I’ll smile happily at the flight crew as I scan the overhead bins for space.  Inside I’ll just keep telling myself: Red wine is red wine, and Stavanger really wasn’t that bad.

  
Lancico's Note: The title was adapted from the Bible verse (Oh death, where is thy sting?) in 1^st Corinthians as an exclamation over the conquering of death.  Oh Delta, where is thy sting? is an exclamation of victory over the countless hassles in traveling… TSA checks, baggage fees, crowded planes, rude employees and fellow passengers, and all that makes air travel less than fun.  Nothing personal against Delta… simply insert the name of any airline/airport/hotel, etc.  Victory lives on in the heart of the traveler… Enjoy the journey!

VEGAS: Here's what I DON'T do...

            My oldest daughter teaches English in Seoul, South Korea.  Like all of my kids, she has a great sense of humor.  Each one unique, but very funny just the same.  When visiting her in October, we had some great conversations, usually fueled by Cass, a local Korean beer.  As my daughter pointed out, Cass rhymes with ass, which is consistent with its taste.  More on that in a different blog.  During one such conversation, she launched into a comic rant about “Here’s what I DON’T do” and “Here’s what I DO do”.  Like “Here’s what I DON’T do: Wear my Dolce and Gabbana’s to the market” or “Here’s what I DO do: Coffee Americana at the Paris Baguette”.  Great fun. 

             Over this past weekend, a friend and I flew to Las Vegas to spend a quiet, relaxing weekend.  I have been to Vegas numerous times, so there is no pressure of having to visit the big tourist sites or see the long-running production shows.   To keep things interesting, I try to stay at a different hotel each time I go.  Thanks to an email promotion and a momentary zero balance on my American Express Card, I decided to jump on a King Panoramic Suite at the Encore.  The weekend between the NFC/AFC Championship games and the Super Bowl is usually a pretty dead weekend.  Other than the Chinese New Year, not much else was going on.  The room rates and plane fares were a relative steal for this time of year.

Sunset view from the room

                Here’s what I DON’T do: Circus Circus.  I don’t do the Excalibur either.  Life is just too short.  Circus Circus is like staying at Disneyland except all the parents are drunk.  If I’m on vacation, I want to be on vacation.  After a long military career, I’ve had enough practice being miserable.  Take camping, for instance.  To paraphrase the comedian Jim Gaffigan, camping lost its luster for me when they invented the house.  Sure, when the kids were small, there was sort of an adventurous, pioneer feeling that you get by sleeping in a leaky tent in the rain or cooking your eggs in a frying pan that the youngest had just used for a sand shovel.  Thankfully, man has evolved and built great structures with clean, wondrous restaurants and warm, comfortable beds… Like The Encore in Las Vegas.

                Here’s what I DON’T do:  Hai Karate.  Like Brut, Hai Karate was THE scent of choice for the lounge lizards and disco dudes of the late 70’s.  It reminds me of a delicate alchemy of hibiscus and cat pee.  Although I was not even remotely curious about the fate of the musky mix, I was surprised to see (or smell) that apparently it has made quite a comeback in the Far East.  While in the elevator at the Encore, or strolling the Chinese New Year decorations at the Palazzo, or hanging out at the Fashion Mall food court, every time a group of Asian tourists walked by I got a good whiff.  Like the smell of burning flesh, one never forgets the smell of Hai Karate.  I envision a warehouse full of the aging concoction in the Philippines somewhere (left over from the presence of US GI’s) and a bright, young entrepreneur saying “Hey! Let’s sell this crap to the Chinese!”

                Here’s what I DON’T do:  When traveling, dress like I’m headed to the gym… Or bed.  Here’s the deal: If you dress like sh*t, look like sh*t, and talk like sh*t, guess what… You’re going to be treated like sh*t.  When checking in at a hotel in Las Vegas, unless you have a marker in the cage for 25 large, you are at the mercy of the check-in clerk and the rate you paid.  Any discretion that clerk has will go to the person who looks like the desired clientele.  Dress in your oversize Orlando Magic shorts and wife-beater T-shirt, and you may do OK at the Hooters Hotel and Casino.  When staying somewhere nice, dress like the people you would expect to see there. Try it.  You’ll be surprised.

The Palazzo

                 Here’s what I DO do:  The breakfast buffet at the Wynn, $2 beers and $1 foot-long hot dogs at Slots-O-Fun, Red Rock Canyon, $5 Blackjack at O’Shea’s, The In-N-Out Burger on Tropicana, Jameson & Ginger and a 3-card poker table at the Bellagio, Happy Hour at the House of Blues, Schweinshaxen and Dunkel at the Hofbrauhaus, afternoons at the Sports Book in Mandalay Bay, and a sports coat on the plane and at check-in.

$2 beer at Slots-O-Fun

               To me, a weekend in Las Vegas is the ultimate short vacation.  Lots to do, great food, lovely hotels, and you can carry a beer with you anywhere on the Strip. 

               After the long flight back to Atlanta, then a long drive home, we ease back into all that is normal life. Bags unpacked, dogs let out, clothes ready for work the next day, and the cat’s litter box cleaned out.  Still, the memories of the weekend linger like the sweet scent of hibiscus… and cat pee.

       

CDG is Dead to Me

              It would be interesting to hear what the great fathers of flight would have to say about the current state of commercial aviation. Millions of passengers and tons of cargo crisscross the globe constantly with such speed and efficiency that would surely delight the spirits of the Wright Brothers, Charles Lindbergh and Howard Hughes. The downside to this huge growth in relatively convenient and cheap transportation is that it is cheap and convenient. Bottom line: The airplane is the new bus. Delta is the new Greyhound. The airport is the new bus depot. There is no greater aberration of a bus depot than CDG.          

                For those not familiar with the parlance of air travel, CDG is the three letter identifier for Charles De Gaulle Airport in Paris, France. This great piece of architectural nonsense is the epitome of what is wrong with air travel today. Every time I look at an upcoming flight itinerary and see those three hideous letters, I get an uncomfortable pain deep in my stomach; like eating a Bojangles spicy chicken biscuit while running a 10K. By the time my flight is on final approach to this man-made catastrophe, the pain turns into a full scale, burning rectal itch.

                Please don’t confuse my contempt for the Paris airport with any contempt for the French people. I love the language, the food isn’t really my thing, and we did participate in a student exchange with a French girl and my daughter. The French people who work at CDG are rude, thoughtless, and uncaring because of their environment. If I had to work in that place every day, I wouldn’t give a crap either. If that same airport was in Germany, or Cameroon, or Atlanta, you would get the same behavior (well, you sort of DO in Atlanta).

                What makes CDG so miserable is the result of a perfect storm of poor design. It takes “form over function” to a new level. I sat on a plane a few months ago sitting next to an older American woman who was traveling with a group of retired teachers on vacation. She asked me about the airport and how difficult it was to navigate. I asked her:

“What are you doing here? Are you staying in Paris?”

“Why yes, we are staying in a wonderful boutique hotel just outside Paris!” She replied.

“Wow! That is probably the best scenario for the airport. Get through passport control, get your bags, and hop on the train.”

“What are you doing here?” She asked.

“I have the worst possible scenario… I’m changing planes.”

            Therein lies the agony. Changing planes in CDG is the air travel version of a colonoscopy, except without the anesthesia. From the vague and sparse signage to the archaic bus system, moving from terminal to terminal is akin to navigating the Oregon Trail in a Conestoga wagon. More than once, when asked for my name at the ticket counter, I replied “Donner… party of 1”.

                The possibility that passengers may actually land at one concourse and depart out of another must have seemed so remote that no provision was made for that transfer. One must first find, then decode the signage, which is a challenge in itself; then down the escalator to the bowels. The uncaring and non-communicative attendant will open the door when a bus arrives. Usually there is no guidance or announcement. Different buses go to different sets of terminals so getting on the wrong bus is a concern. The bus navigates the nonsensical route fighting traffic, aircraft, and stops at empty spaces for no apparent reason. Should one actually get on the correct bus, and end up at the correct terminal, the level of rejoice is measured by which terminal one ends up at.

                Like the caste system in India, there is a definite stratum of eminence when it comes to the terminals in our beloved CDG. If you end up in 2E, you have vast choices of gourmet food, restaurants, and duty free choices like Prada, Chanel, and Giorgio Armani. However, should you end up in terminal 2B, you realize that your luck just ran out. No Prada here. One small snack counter where a Heineken runs about 8 Euro and a small magazine shop that sells French newspapers and the usual assortment of M&Ms and giant Toblerone bars. Looking for the Air France lounge? Forget it. It is completely cleared out and filled with about 100 cots with blankets and pillows. Not a good sign. Apparently, Terminal 2B doubles as a refugee center.

                There is, of course, a reason for the rather Spartan facilities. Here is where the small, lonely airlines dwell. Air Cameroon, Uzbek Airlines, and my aerial host: Georgian Airways. I’m sure these airlines all have their own strengths and weaknesses. Either way, they certainly deserve a better fate than Terminal 2B.

                So I board the Georgian Airways flight headed for Tbilisi, that delightful and beautiful city nestled close to the Caucasus Mountains and a far cry from the Franco-Chaos that is CDG. As my flight lumbers off the runway and banks southeast, I breathe a sigh of relief. I made it through CDG with a few less Euros in my pocket and my sanity tested but intact. I wonder if my bags made the connection…