So we’re reading the map. There are two alternative roads: one through the capital city, the other one a byway, but clearly and unambiguously an existing one. “Let’s not drag ourselves into Tbilisi, we’ll spend a whole day getting out of the city!” – Hania said wisely.

So we went. All three hitchhiking couples (I didn’t mention before? We had guests In Georgia!) got left on a dusty and intensely sunny crossroad. That should have been the first sign that something might not go as planned. I didn’t get it. The dirt road being closed for maintenance – that was the second sign. We followed a bulldozer and reached – as it appeared – the very last village. The only mean of transport available was a tractor going a couple of kilometers to the next field. After wandering hopelessly, two hours later I didn’t really give much choice to the next passing car.

On the map this was almost a highway.

On the map this was almost a highway.

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The driver’s face expression indicated: “Well, ok…”, as he invited us into the vehicle. Soon it changed into “They might turn out all right…” and he expanded his invitation to a supra (Georgian dinner) and picked up all of our friends from the road. The kitchen, located surprisingly enough on the patio, served simultaneously as a playground for three kids and a busy workshop for their mum.

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Soon, as we sat down by the table laden with various dishes, the first toasts started to accompany us. They were all most probably beautiful and poetic, if only I could understand them. Wine was drank down to our fatherlands, ancestors, women and, with time, less down to friendship, life, children. Slowly, more and more chairs were standing free, one by one we thanked and went to sleep. Only our host lasted until the party was over, stayed in the patio sipping wine, cognac and champagne in turns. Conclusion: do not attempt to outdrink a Georgian. Ever. Even being Polish. For you will fail as we failed.

 

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