Hitting a Slice off the 8th Tee… Into the Heart of Darkness

                In the fall of 2009, fate landed me in northern Uganda, about 30 km from the Sudanese border.  Uganda had always seemed like a mysterious destination full of strange sights, exotic animals, and unspeakable tragedy.  I never expected golf.

                Northern Uganda was stunningly simple in its beauty. From the air, you could see green, rolling plains; rivers and roads,;and countless little villages of mud and grass huts.  The ground was actually red clay… Something I’m very familiar with in my home outside Atlanta.  If you added pine trees, it would look like Southwest Georgia.  But of all that beauty, the greatest surprise was the Ugandan People.  Although a bit apprehensive at first, the local people were extraordinarily warm and welcoming. 

             Being on the equator, I was obsessively curious about the Coriolis Effect.  As one of those great abstract theories I learned in school, I was intrigued by the concept.  In physics, the Coriolis Effect is a “deflection of moving objects when they are viewed from a rotating reference frame”… whatever that means.  Moving past my freshman physics class (which I passed with a triumphant ‘C’) to a more practical application, I wanted to see if the legend of the Coriolis Effect was true: That if toilets swirled clockwise in the Northern Hemisphere and counterclockwise in the Southern Hemisphere, what happens directly on the equator? I was soon disappointed… No toilets.

                                  

               Probably my biggest hobby and greatest source of stress relief is running.  I’m not very fast, and my distance is far from… far, but I enjoy it.  I’ve always said that I’m a beer drinker with a running problem.  I enjoy running in new and different places.  I’ve run on five continents, and enjoyed some pretty unusual scenery.  I tried to squeeze in as many runs as I could, despite the rather austere conditions and busy schedule.  On an early morning run on the perimeter of our camp outside of Kitgum, two female colleagues ran by and one made a startled comment: “[Lance], you should run with a ‘buddy’ out here!  It could be dangerous!”  I ignored her advice.  Finally, after a few more days and a few more reminders, I was confronted by another member of the team back in the camp.  It went something like this:

 “Seriously [Lance], you need to run with someone out there!”

 I was getting annoyed… “Why? Seriously, what could possibly happen?”  A crowd started to gather.

Searching for something profound, he blurted “You could be eaten by a lion!”

A lion, I thought… I replied enthusiastically “Wow!  Actually, that would be pretty epic!”

               Both he and the crowd were stunned by my response.  I continued: “Back home, there’s a funeral home just up the street from me that’s like a mega-plex theater!  They can do like 24 funerals simultaneously!  It’s awesome!  I can see it now… in the first chapel is Old Lady Smith, died at age 89 in the rest home.  Next is Zippy, perished in a motorcycle wreck, then Al who had a heart attack watching Spiderman, then: ‘Lance… Eaten by lion in Africa’.  People would ditch the other funerals just to see mine!  I’d fill the big room!  And I know that you smartasses would probably hire a preacher that looks and dresses like Idi Amin, hang a fake lion’s tail out of my casket, and play ‘Hakuna Matada’ and ‘Circle of Life’ as hymns.  The actual getting-eaten-by-a-lion part would suck, but the funeral would be legendary!”

At that point, he just hung his head and walked away.  The crowd giggled, and I made it through the rest of the trip without a scratch let alone being eaten by anything.

 As our time wound down, we were preparing to move from northern Uganda back to Entebbe to prepare for our flight out.  The day before we left, the local community did a ‘cultural day’ for us complete with local dance groups and musicians.  It was an incredible day I will never forget.

We left early the next morning, and not long after reaching Entebbe we got the news: Our broken plane was stuck in Greece waiting for parts.  In my traveling life, I’ve noticed that aircraft, especially charter or military, tend to break down in interesting places like Greece, Germany, or Las Vegas.  Rarely do I hear about a plane breaking down in Albania, Armenia, or Hattiesburg, Mississippi.  This gave us some much-needed downtime, but no real timeline for departure. 

Other than a day trip to Kampala and a walk through the local Entebbe Zoo, our days were taken up with an occasional run, a meeting, or a walk to a local restaurant for more goat.  By day three we were starting to get anxious.  I had eaten goat in every possible way.  Fried goat, curried goat, sautéed goat, stuffed goat, goat on a stick, goat on rice, goat au jus, you get the idea. Other than the occasional nightmare about being chased by a Troll, the goat was tasty and filling. 

On day four, my friend called me over to the big table in our meeting room.  “Hey Lance… Check this out!”  He pointed to a spot on a large aerial photo of the Entebbe area.  “Here’s where we are, right?” he said.  “Sure” I answered.  “And here’s the zoo, right?” he quizzed.  “Sure is!” I replied.  Then he pointed to a large area on the map “What does this look like to you?”  “Holy crap” I exclaimed “a golf course!”    Within 20 seconds, we had a foursome assembled and called the course for information.  Yes, they were open, and the fee is 30,000 Shillings (about $16 USD) to play, 30,000 Shillings to rent the clubs, and 3,000 for the Caddy.  We quickly put on whatever clothes we had that could remotely be considered golf attire (jeans and a collared shirt) and headed to the Entebbe Golf Club. With a pocket full of Shillings and a belly full of goat, we were on our way to something we would surely talk about for years… Playing golf in Uganda.

We walked the kilometer or so to the course and strolled into the pro shop with great anticipation… paid the 60,000 Shillings, picked out some worn but suitable clubs, and headed out to the course.  First, I met my assigned Caddy, Sebastian.  I have never used a Caddy before and was a little uneasy about someone else carrying my clubs for me.  Especially someone who appeared to weigh about ½ of what I did.  When approaching the 1^st tee box, I felt better about having a Caddy.  To the left was the ten foot chain link fence for the zoo and on the right was a lot of deep brush.  There were lions behind the single fence and Black Mamba’s in the bush… The Caddy was worth every Shilling.  I did not feel better that he could probably outrun me even carrying the clubs, thus potentially leaving me as an easy meal for the lions. 

Me... Fence... Lion...

 If my map reading skills were correct, the course was directly on the equator.  Even though it was October, it was quite hot and humid. Living in Atlanta, I’m somewhat of an expert on hot and humid.  We all teed off, and proceeded to play an entertaining, though sweaty, round of golf punctuated by many strange and interesting sights. 

Gallery on the 4th tee box

Around about the 4^th fairway, I was lining up my 5 iron when an old Datsun pickup zipped across the fairway about 50 yards in front of me.  Although I have poor distance vision, I could see the unmistakable image of AK’s in the hands of some of the passengers in the bed.  My conversation with Sebastian went something like this:

“Sebastian… Did you see that?”

“Yes Mister Lance, I saw that”

“What was that all about?  Were they rebels?”

 Scenes from ‘The Last King of Scotland’ danced in my head.

“Oh no Mister Lance, not rebels.” He was being very coy. 

 “If not rebels, then who were they?”  My Coriolis-like curiosity had the best of me.

After an uncomfortable pause, he replied “They work for the zoo.”

I had a bad feeling.  “What do they do for the zoo?”

He finally fessed up: “They are hunters brought in by the zoo to catch escaped animals.”

“They have automatic weapons… ” I said “What do you think escaped?”

“Probably a lion.  They get out sometimes because of the holes in the fence.”

I shouldn’t have asked.  I’ve played golf where I’ve been warned about alligators and rattlesnakes, but never lions.  We decided to only play nine holes.

...Into the heart of darkness

 After the round, we hit the clubhouse to cool off.  Legend is that the old Colonial Governor liked to hang out there, and we even sat in his chair.  We turned in our clubs, tipped the Caddy (quite well, deservedly so), and headed back to the hotel. 

Leaving Africa...

A few days later, we finally flew out.  We took off at dawn and the sun was just starting to rise when I glanced out the window of the aging 737.  I could see the golf course, then Kampala, and then banked over Lake Victoria.  Never in my life did I imagine that I would spend a few weeks in Uganda, let alone play golf there.  It is said that once you visit Africa it never leaves you.  I doubt it will ever leave me. 

Rustaveli Avenue

                Shota Rustaveli (1172-1216) wrote the defining piece of early Georgian literature: The Knight of the Panthers Skin.  This epic poem talks of courage and friendship, love and chivalry, and the classic rescue of a princess in distress.  It is entirely proper that the grand thoroughfare that runs through the heart of Tbilisi is named for such a significant contributor to the rich Georgian culture.

                I’ve seen a lot of things on Rustaveli Avenue.  I watched a Russian made Lada automobile burn down to the frame in front of the Tbilisi Marriott Hotel.  I’ve gazed at the Christmas lights as they brought me an aura of peace while walking bundled against the cold December night.  There are families with their young children, old women selling seeds, and young lovers walking hand-in-hand oblivious to the swirl of activity.  I’ve seen concerts and car wrecks, parades and protests, and a dozen small kiosks where you can buy anything from popcorn to magazines to a single cigarette.  

All that said there is something you will never see on Rustaveli Avenue… A left turn.  I have often felt uneasy when the taxi driver whizzed past my turn without paying attention to my protests in a panicked combination of broken Georgian and Russian.  I know the street names in Georgian, but, embarrassingly, the words “left” and “street” only in Russian.  Our collective confusion ends quickly when we reach the unmarked, tacit turnaround near Rose Revolution Square.  Throughout the city, there are many traffic circles governed by some sort of unspoken creed and an occasional traffic signal which will save you from certain peril should you need to turn left.    

                In many ways, a walk down Rustaveli Avenue serves as a metaphor for life.  The wide, grand avenue ventures out boldly from its beginning at what is now called Freedom Square. Like a young man that enters out into the world with such great promise and looked upon proudly by the paternal eyes of a loving father, Rustaveli Avenue triumphantly begins its journey as the tall, golden statue of Saint George towers over the traffic circle where the voyage begins and the statue of the omniscient Mother of Georgia peers over the skyline. 

                Walking the avenue from Freedom Square, you are quickly surrounded by the dichotomy that is Tbilisi.  In an old stone building on the right, shops selling the latest in haute couture and Reebok athletic gear seem as foreign to the architecture as the concept of a ruling Tsar; the imperious sovereign at the time the structure was built.  On the left, the subway station bustles with activity as people move hurriedly back and forth paying little notice to the grandeur around them. 

                 The classic white marble of the Youth Palace seems to shine and contrasts the nearby buildings.  On the sidewalk, booksellers display textbooks, children’s books, and classic literature on long racks sitting out in the open air.  Across the street, the massive Georgian National Museum overwhelms its surroundings.

There are a number of underground crosswalks that are lined with shops offering a convenient way to avoid being struck by a myriad of buses, street cars, taxis, and speeding German sports cars.   Ignoring the underground walkways and sprinting across the street cost me knee surgery #3 after tumbling over a cobblestone trying to shoot the gap between a BMW and a Marshuka.

                Next on the left is the overpowering Parliament building with its imperial topaz colored stone, tall columns, and broad stairway leading into the legislative heart of the government.  There are 20 glass rectangles laid into the stone stairs and sidewalk representing the 20 victims of the April 9th, 1989 massacre that took place during a protest rally against the crumbling Soviet government.  That day is still honored as the Day of National Unity. 

                Across the street is the movie theater where it’s not uncommon to see American movies boldly advertised on posters in Georgian.  No matter what the language, Tom Cruse still looks like Tom Cruse.  The movies are mostly dubbed, and I have to admit I had a hard time adjusting to Will Smith speaking Georgian.  

                The old school sits next to the Parliament and peers across to the old Stone Church. It is said that in the 6^th century, St. David of Garejeli was accused of fathering a child with a nun. Incensed at the accusation, David decreed that she would give birth to a stone, which legend said she did, and that stone was laid at the base of the church. Next to the Church is the National Picture Gallery (Blue Gallery), behind which sits the large April 9^th Park.  Moving further, past the Tbilisi Marriott, Rustaveli Theatre, and Opera House, we now transition to shops, restaurants, banks, and the usual assortment of small stands selling seeds and some even offering a scale in case you want to weigh yourself for a mere 20 Tetri.  There are some quaint cafes and coffee shops, some that set up seating on the sidewalk so you can sit and observe the flurry of humanity passing by.  It’s here on Rustaveli Avenue where I convince myself to sit for a while, and enjoy a beer or a coffee before venturing onward.  Like any grand avenue in any European city, I know full well that if I wandered a block off the main street I would pay much less for that refreshment… but as always, you pay for the view… And it’s worth it.

                Soon the avenue seems to open up in the midst of a broad delta of busy traffic into Rose Revolution Square.  The new Radisson Blu Hotel, built from the skeleton of an old Soviet-era high rise stands gleaming in the sun behind the old Postal Service building.  The deep blue glass catches your eye and you momentarily lose track of where you are, only to focus back on the avenue as it subtly but sublimely changes names and bends left.  Commemorating the finale of this great thoroughfare, a statue of Shota Rustaveli stands tall and proud in a small park hidden ironically between the McDonald’s and the subway station; two iconic symbols of worldly progress and motion.  Like the young man, Rustaveli Avenue started out fast racing through a structured youth dominated by laws and learning, through cultural and spiritual revelation and social charm, towards a wide path leading to the modern, mature life of a gentleman who is confident in where he is going because of where he has been.

                Words can be powerful things.  They have started wars, and ended them; although it seems to take many more to end a war then to start one.  Words can be gracious, loving, and kind; they can be mean, hurtful, and cruel.  They can paint a picture of great beauty and splendor or depict immense ugliness and horror.  They help us through life by syncing our emotions with our physical being.  No matter what the language, words allow us to communicate thoughts great and small to an audience of one to millions.  Perhaps this is why great societies honor those that contribute so significantly to their cultures by naming some of their most elegant things after their poets and writers; Like Rustaveli Avenue.

When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy

Me, Junior, and the Volcano

                There is an old Chinese curse that says, “May you have an interesting journey. “  While traveling, there is always the possibility that the dragon will win despite the fairy tale illusion of fighting it off with a mighty sword and a pocket full of magic beans.  The key to being a successful and thus happy traveler is the ability to make the best out of any situation, no matter how doomed it appears.  Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, and sometimes there’s a volcano.

                In April 2010, my colleague Junior and I departed for Chisinau, Moldova for a week long workshop.  Junior is a good traveler.  He likes to explore and check out the local culture… As do I.  The flight over was noneventful: Delta from Atlanta to Frankfurt, a seven hour layover, and then Air Moldova to Chisinau.  The only item on the Delta flight that stands out in my mind was that the old gentleman sitting next to me appeared to have died.  Three times.   Each time he quit breathing for about 45 seconds only to make a horrifying chortle and resuscitate himself.  Being the great humanitarian that I am, I quickly scanned the pages of both the Duty Free and the Sky Mall catalogues for a defibrillator.  No such luck.  The old man did arrive conscious and breathing in Frankfurt, and I had the bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey that I bought while perusing the duty free catalogue for the above mentioned medical apparatus.

Boulevard Stefan cel Mare

                In Chisinau, old Soviet reminders and traces of the 21st century coexist everywhere. From the hammer and sickle embossed into the iron gates and the sparking electric streetcars lumbering down the Boulevard Stefan cel Mare, to the Cosmic Bowling at the Sun City mall and the presence of a cell phone in most everyone’s ear.  The people dress much like they do in the rest of Eastern Europe.  Lots of black.  While the young women were very fashion conscious, wearing designer (or knock-off designer) jackets and high heel boots, others seemed to have walked straight out of the train station from "Doctor Zhivago".  That being said, most everyone I met or came in contact with was friendly and welcoming.  I know absolutely zero Romanian, and my Russian is crude at best, but with the help of universally accepted hand and arm signals, I was consistently able to order a beer and get a decent meal. 

Chisinau Street 

                Our big group dinner was held on what was supposed to be our last night there.  There was lots of food, music, and a local dance troupe, all at a local winery.  Notice I said “supposed to be… “  Little did we know that while we were drinking wine and eating some sort of cold fish loaf, deep below the surface of the earth a cauldron of hot lava had exploded through the Eyjafjallajokull Volcano in Iceland.  Yes, that is the real name of the volcano.  That’s probably about 873 points in Scrabble. 

Wine and cold fish loaf... Yum!

                When we arrived at the Chisinau airport at 5:30 the next morning for our flight out, my hangover wasn’t ready for the news: All flights have been canceled due to volcanic ash from an eruption in Iceland.  Did I really think anyone would believe that?  Did I believe that?  Does anyone have a Motrin?  It was one of those surreal travel moments where you foggily mutter “Why does my mouth taste like fish loaf?”  So it was back to the hotel and checked back in to the same room I had just checked out of;  a routine repeated two more times over the next week. 

                During those seven days, I felt like a cross between a castaway on Gilligan’s Island and a Desperado waiting for a train.  We filled the days helping the local team where we could, and walking the city.  Every once in a while, we would hear from our travel agency, or the Embassy, usually with some sort of goofy idea like, “OK… We can get you on a train to Bucharest, and from there you can maybe get to Athens…”  My first rule of traveling: When you’re stuck in a hole, quit digging. 

"If you don't like my driving, stay off the sidewalk!"

                A week later, we eventually got out.  With my sanity barely hanging on, we boarded a plane for Istanbul, then on to Tel Aviv, where we could finally get a connecting flight to the US.  In Tel Aviv we had a 23 hour layover, where Junior had the Mother of All Ideas: “Let’s get a hotel in town and see the city before we fly out.  What else are we going to do for 23 hours?”  It was after midnight when the woman at the tourist information desk suggested the Crown Plaza and we figured that it would be worth the money for just one night.  By the time we checked in, it was after 1 AM.  We cracked open the Jameson and sat on the balcony of the room.  Soon, the warm sea breeze brought the sunrise and there we were… overlooking the Mediterranean from the 7^th floor.  Wow.

Night view from the balcony

Morning view

                While walking the beach, the melancholy melody of Blind Faith’s “Can’t find my way home” lured us into a beachside bar for a much needed beer.  Later, we ate dinner at an Irish pub, and headed back to the airport.  We barely made it through the legendary gauntlet of security and boarded the flight to Atlanta.  I usually have trouble sleeping on an airplane, but not this time.  Not even a chortle.

“...Still I Can’t find my way home”

                The following week we touched base with the others that attended the workshop.  Some took a train to Frankfurt, some to Kiev.  Some got out through Athens, some through Moscow.  Some even took the earlier train advice and were still stuck in Bucharest.  Eventually, all returned home safely.  Whoever the Chinese guy was that first uttered that curse was right: It certainly was an interesting journey.  Another chapter in an interesting life.    

Lancico’s Note:  This blog is dedicated to my friend Junior, who just retired from a great 30 plus year career.  From Savannah to Tbilisi to Chisinau and everywhere in between, it was a hoot!

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.