The Autumn Festival in Signaghi

Hello, again! It’s been a long time. I am now starting my fifth (FIFTH!) year here in Georgia, and I’ve seen just about everything Georgia and the Caucasus region has to offer. But I still get excited every year in the fall because that’s when the villages hold their autumn, or harvest, festivals. The best one I’ve ever found is in the town of Signaghi, about two hours southeast of Tbilisi.

First, a bit of background information. Signaghi (Sig-NA-gee) (Georgian: სიღნაღი) is in Georgia's easternmost region of Kakheti. Kakheti borders Azerbaijan and is the heart of Georgian wine country. (My neighbor, Wasso, who lives downstairs from me, is the stomach of wine country, consuming more wine per capita by himself than many small countries. In fact, when he tried to stop drinking a while ago, it led to the Grape Depression. What’s a bottle of wine between me and my friends? Empty. Debbie, my wife, likes wine, too. She says I had her at “merlot.” Anyway…) The population of Signaghi is about 2,500 and they make their money from wine and traditional carpets. Signaghi, in fact the whole Kakheti region, is known for its beautiful landscapes and historical monuments, such as the wall that surrounds the city, thus making it a very popular tourist spot.

Being so far away from Tbilisi, the infrastructure of the town could use some work. You know that when you see signs like this one:

Frankly, I’ve always suspected there was a department in the national government that makes life frustrating and hard. Now I know that it at least has been busy.

But I digress. I stayed in a nice, small bed and breakfast right in the center of Signaghi. A very friendly place. So friendly, in fact, I got up the next morning to step out on the balcony and when I returned a local inhabitant had made herself at home in my bed. She pretty much stayed with me my entire stay there.

These festivals are so great because the streets are taken over by the local bakers, butchers, restaurants, etc. who display their wares. They also set up their ovens, etc. on the streets so you can see how they make their products. The bread, for instance, is baked on the inside of these round ovens. The bakers make the dough, stretch it out to about two feet long, and slap it on the inside walls of the oven where it bakes for about 15 minutes. It is absolutely delicious! I asked one of the bakers for her recipe, but she refused. She said I had no knead to know. She said she used to make doughnuts, but got tired of the hole routine so she switched back to bread.

I also saw a number of women making churchkhela (just like it looks – CHURCH-kel-la). Churchkhela is a traditional candy shaped like a sausage or a candle. They call it “Georgian Snickers.” The main ingredients are grape juice, nuts, and flour. They primarily use walnuts, but I’ve seen them made with hazelnuts, almonds, and raisins. It’s eaten all year ‘round, but is especially popular at Christmas. You start by threading your nuts into a long string about a foot long (it’s not as painful as it sounds, but I did prick myself while doing it).

The grape juice is boiled in a large pot, usually copper. Since the grape juice is pressed along with the skins, seeds, and even stems of the grape, there are some impurities. The cook gets rid of these by either adding some white clay or about a liter of lager beer. The impurities rise to the surface where they’re skimmed off. Then flour is added. In typical Georgian fashion, nothing is measured precisely and there are varied opinions about how much flour to add and when. Bottom line is, you want a thick, gooey paste that takes a lot of effort to stir with a small boat paddle. The women I talked to said they can judge the proper consistency by looking at the size and frequency of the bubbles from the boiling mixture. No sugar is added at all; the sweetness comes from the grape juice.

When the consistency is right, your nuts are dipped into the boiling pot. Again, not as painful as it sounds. (Certainly not as painful as that time at Dairy Queen when the girl behind the counter asked if I wanted my nuts crushed on top of my sundae.) The string is dipped three times, with a short period of time between dippings for the mixture (called palouzes – PAUL-oozes) to slightly harden. After the third trip through the pot, the string is hung to dry, usually for 4-5 days, but some people like to eat their churchkhela as soon as it cools.

I have eaten churchkhela, but I had never seen it made before, and the women were very glad to let me be a part of the process. (I really just think they didn’t want to stir the pot with that boat paddle-thingy anymore, so they suckered me into doing it for them.) I wanted something a little more solid to eat with my churchkhela, and the women just down the street were making khinkali (KING-ka-lee). Khinkali are Georgian dumplings, normally stuffed with meat, onions, herbs, cilantro, and beef broth. The Kakheti region, however, is unique in that their khinkalis are usually stuffed with a cheese and potato mix and no broth. As with the churchkela, the local women were quite happy to let me try my hand at making them.

I actually prefer the Kakheti khinkalis (say that three times fast) because they usually don’t contain garlic or cilantro. They’re also easier to eat without making a mess from dripping beef broth.

And, of course, you have to have something to wash it all down with. And when in Rome, as they say…

Traditionally, Kakhetian wine is drunk from either bowls or from ram or goat horns. Either way, you’re expected to empty the vessel completely – no sipping in this country. I usually drink the first glass for its health benefits and to be sociable. The next two glasses are for my witty comebacks and awesome dance moves. Any glasses after that are for my karaoke skills. The Georgians have a saying: “I have a wine glass in my hand and joy in my heart.” I don’t think that’s merely a coincidence.

Another traditional part of the autumn harvest is the supra, or banquet. Supra literally translates to “tablecloth” in Georgian, and it makes sense as the entire table is covered with food and wine. Restaurants during the festivals set out “samples” of their supra tables.

And what’s a good meal without a band?

As much as I dislike winter, I always look forward to the fall harvest festivals. It’s just another opportunity for me to partake in Georgian hospitality, friendship, and good food and drink! As the Romans would say, Carpe Vinum – Seize the wine! Thanks for reading.

Pétanque you very much

First, a disclaimer:  my wife, Debbie, thought of the title for this blog.  I stole it.

Every July, the French community in Tbilisi invites the entire city to join them in celebrating Bastille Day.  It’s held in Vakhtang Square in Old Town, sponsored by my favorite French brasserie, Tartine.  I frequent the Tartine often, enjoying a glass (or twelve) of pastis, a large charcuterie, and a baked-on-the-premises baguette.  For those of you unfamiliar with the joys of pastis, think Ouzo or some other anisette-flavored aperitif.  It is, unfortunately, a temptation I rarely overcome. 

The French community in Tbilisi is larger than you’d think.  There is, of course, the staff at the French Embassy and Consulate.  There’s also the senior management of Carrefour, one of the largest grocery/department stores in the Caucasus, along with the faculty of L’École Française, and many NGOs based in Tbilisi.  (The NGOs work in the displaced personnel camps, where refugees from South Ossetia and Abkhazia were settled after the 2008 war.)  It’s a surprisingly large number. 

Besides having the opportunity to practice my French (that sound you just heard was my wife, mother-in-law, and former French teachers cringing out loud), I sign up for the pétanque (pronounced pay-TONK) tournament. 

 

Pétanque is a game similar to bocci, where competitors try to throw hollow metal balls as close as possible to a small wooden ball called a cochonnet (literally "piglet").  You have to stay within a throwing circle and keep both feet on the ground during the throw.  It’s normally played on hard dirt or gravel, but here Vakhtang Square is covered with sand for the tournament.  The tournament takes all day and Tartine provides free pastis, bread, and water throughout the day.  (Frankly, the free pastis and bread is why I sign up to play.)

 

 

I showed up at 9am, dressed in my best pétanque clothes (blue jeans, a red polo shirt, and white sneakers – as close as I could get to the red, white, and blue of the French tricolor), with pastis glass in hand.  (Normally, I don’t normally start daydrinking at 9am.  This, however, was a special occasion, so I started an hour and a half earlier than I normally would.)  Dave, my playing partner, co-worker, and running/drinking buddy, showed up a little late – 3-1/2 hours late, to be precise.  So I was forced to draft some local Georgian girls to play alongside me.  Fortunately, they knew absolutely nothing about the game, so they had no bad habits to unlearn.

After a welcoming speech by the French Ambassador to Georgia and the playing of the French national anthem, the tournament began.  The game is pretty simple to play, the most difficult part being tossing the balls without spilling your pastis.  The balls are heavier than they look, approximately two pounds each, and they make a wonderful “tonk, tonk” sound when banged together, perhaps the origin of the game’s name.  Simple to play, yes, but not so simple to play well.  I’m blaming it on my partners’ inexperience (and my overindulgence in pastis), but we lost in the first round, 13-4. 

Undeterred by our ignominious exit from the tournament, I volunteered to take over the pastis table so the former occupant could play his round.  Of course, when he was done playing, I refused to give his position back to him (a purely noble gesture, I’m sure you understand).  From my new duty post, I had a perfect view of the final rounds of the tournament and I was right next to the Tartine’s “house band” – two middle aged Frenchmen playing an accordion and a large bass violin playing traditional French favorites. 

As the sun began to set over the Mtkavi River, the tournament winners – the team from Carrefour – were crowned and we all adjourned to the tables inside for more pastis, charcuterie, and bread.  I had a great day, and I’m already practicing for next year’s tournament.

 

Thanks for reading.

Georgia -- the Land of Castles

My running buddy, Dave, left Georgia for good this week.  So before he left we decided to visit the only two castles in Georgia we haven’t seen.  Let me back up. 

Dave is an engineer by training and an historian by hobby.  Here in Georgia, he combined those traits and specialized in castles.  Castles, in order to fulfill their burden, were built on top of the highest and steepest ground overlooking a village or villages.  Trails, even roads, were built so building materials and supplies could be more easily transported to the site.  Those roads, naturally, no longer exist.  The castles themselves have not been maintained so for the most part they have collapsed and now exist as a pile of stones and blocks.  That was Dave’s playground.  He enjoyed nothing more than climbing up to some pile of rubble and trying to figure out how things would have been a thousand years ago.  He liked to envision how the castle would have looked in its prime and what each pile of rubble would have been. 

There were two castles we had put off because of the remarkable inconvenience of getting to them.  As I said before, there is no road to get there, the terrain is always steep and rich with every type of thorn bush known to man, and what pathways may exist are littered with stones and rocks that have rolled down from the castle site.  Two in particular are particularly noteworthy for their pain in the ass factor:  the Manavi Fortress in a town called Sagarejo (don’t ask me how to pronounce it; even the locals can’t decide how to pronounce the “-jo”) and a castle outside a small village called Korjori. 

 

The Manavi Fortress also called the "Come and See Castle" because enemies could only see it and never could take it (guess they couldn't find the road, either).  It was never captured or destroyed.  It was the summer residence of the kings of Kakheti, one of the regions here in Georgia.  Since the temperature was only in the low 90s last weekend, and the humidity only in the upper 80s, it seemed like a good time to climb two miles up a steep hill to see a pile of rocks.  (Because, certainly, this pile of rocks would look different than the other 10,000 piles of rocks we’ve seen all over this country.) 

Arriving at Manavi, after catching our breaths, fighting back the urge to throw up, and overcoming the strong desire to pick up one of those ancient building blocks and braining Dave with it for talking me into making this “hike,” we each immediately fall into our “castle exploring duties.”  For Dave, that means putting on his engineer hat and walking the grounds.  He paces out the distances, looks for places where a cistern would have been, searches for where the pens for the animals would have been located, and tries to determine what the chapel would have looked like.  For me, that means going to the highest point and seeing how far I can throw rocks downhill.  If there are herds of cattle or goats or sheep in sight, it means seeing how close to the animals (or the shepherd) I can get with a rock.  There’s no worry about the shepherd confronting me about my hobby because shepherds are smarter than we are and know better than to climb straight up a hill that goats avoid just to yell at us in a language we don’t understand. 

When I get bored throwing rocks at livestock or shepherds, I try to see how close I can get to Dave with a rock.  That’s simply a way to pass the time until Dave starts to ask questions, and he’s going to ask some questions.

 

 

Typical Q:  “If you were attacking this castle, from which direction would you approach?”  Smartass A:  “I wouldn’t.  I’d ransack the village since everyone is in the castle, and move on to the next village.”  Next typical Q:  “How would you attack this castle?”  Next smartass A:  “Slowly, on horseback, and at night when it isn’t so damn hot.”  I try to turn this around by asking my own questions:  “Why in the hell would I want to attack this castle, anyway?  What’s in it that I want badly enough to climb this steep mountain where goats don’t even want to go while angry people throw rocks and shoot arrows at me?  These people haven’t done anything to me.”  Dave’s A:  “Because you’re a raider, a marauder; that’s what you do.”  Seems to me someone could have made a lucrative career back then out of job placement services.  “So, young man, do you want to be marauder, marching long distances in the heat of summer and cold of winter with little to eat or drink so you can climb a steep hill with no roads but plenty of sticker bushes while people try to kill you?  Or would you rather stay home and be a shepherd or a blacksmith or something that allows you to pay attention to the wives and daughters of those idiots who left the village to go marauding?”  I know what I’d choose. 

 

 

But I digress.  As I expected, we learned nothing new from the Manavi Fortress.  So it was time to move on to Kojori.  I did learn several things from Kojori.  I learned that no one goes up to Kojori.  I learned that the climb to Kojori is so steep and difficult that the government actually built a metal staircase so you can get up there.  (Of course, the staircase hasn’t been maintained since it was built, so you have to climb over missing steps, rusted handrails, and support bolts that only have about 1/32” left in the rock.) 

 

Then, once you get off the staircase and you think you’re there, you get to crawl on your hands and knees through what once was the outer wall to get to the inner courtyards.

 

I learned that once you do finally get to the inner courtyard – after the dry heaves have ceased and the vertigo has stopped – that it is a beautiful view.  I learned that beautiful views aren’t always worth the effort of getting to where you can see them.  Finally, I learned that climbing ridiculously steep hills just to look at piles of rocks is not a bad way to spend an afternoon.

 

Thanks for reading.

      

A quick trip to Istanbul

 Istanbul was Constantinople

 Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople

 Been a long time gone, Constantinople

 Now it's Turkish delight on a moonlit night

 Every gal in Constantinople

 Lives in Istanbul, not Constantinople

 So if you've a date in Constantinople

 She'll be waiting in Istanbul

 Even old New York was once New Amsterdam

 Why they changed it I can't say

 People just liked it better that way

 So take me back to Constantinople

 No, you can't go back to Constantinople

 Been a long time gone, Constantinople

 Why did Constantinople get the works?

 That's nobody's business but the Turks

Don’t believe it for a second.  Istanbul has, miraculously, managed to hang on to both identities – the ancient and mysterious Constantinople and the modern, European Istanbul.  It’s a fascinating, but crowded and frenetic, city, worth a short trip.

And that’s what we did.  Last week was spring break here so my running buddy, Dave, and I decided to visit the extraordinary city of Istanbul where dervishes whirl, muezzins duel from countless minarets, and continents are crossed several times in a day.  (It was that or stay in Tbilisi and drink.  Since we’ve mastered that skill, we decided to apply our hard won knowledge to other cities to see if we could drink like the locals there.  Spoiler alert – we couldn’t.  Not even close.)

Founded in 660 BCE as Byzantium, modern Istanbul is a city of 14 million people, the second largest city in the Middle East (behind Cairo) and the third-largest city in the world by population within city limits (Shanghai, then Lagos).  It is a Moslem city, the fourth most populous Muslim city in the world (Karachi, Dhaka, Cairo, then Istanbul), but it’s easy to forget you’re in a Muslim city when you’re there.  While I’d say a third of the women wear head scarves, the remainder is dressed very European.  There are bars, clubs, cafes, lingerie stores, liquor stores, and European restaurants on every block.  While the muezzins announce prayer calls five times a day, unlike the Middle East, stores don’t shut their doors and life doesn’t stop until after prayer time.  Some stores shutter their front doors and one café asked us if we wouldn’t mind waiting until after prayer time to be served, but for the most part, religion is transparent in Istanbul, completely unlike other Muslim cities I’ve visited.

The weather during our stay was typical spring weather – rainy, chilly, and a bit windy.  We had one nice day out of the four we were there, but no stupid rain shower is going to keep us from doing the tourist thing.  Not a chance.  So after a typical Turkish breakfast at the slow food restaurant next door to our hotel (note the awning), off we went.

There are five absolutely “must see’s” in Istanbul.  They are the Aya Sofya mosque, the Blue Mosque, the Topkapi Palace, the Grand Bazaar and spice market, and the Bosporus Strait.  There are, of course, lots of other “minor” sights – the Basilica Cistern, the Beyazit Mosque, Ortakoy neighborhood, the Galata Tower, and Suleymaniye Mosque – but if you have limited time or energy, the “must see’s” will quench your thirst for something Istanbul-ish.  We, of course, being of unlimited energy, common sense, and an unquenchable thirst for all things Istanbul-ish, saw all of these as well as the top five.  We started with the Bosporus Strait neighborhood.  The Bosporus Strait (Bosphorus if you’re European; Bosporus is the Turkish pronunciation) bisects Istanbul and separates the continents of Asia and Europe.  It’s about 19 miles long and is one of the heaviest traveled waterways in the world.  By walking over the Galata Bridge, a distance of maybe 400 meters, you go from Asia to Europe and vice versa.  The bridge is a haven for fishermen, water and juice carts, and shoeshine men.  Thus began our first adventure. 

Dave decided to take advantage of the “American only!!” offer of a shoeshine for 5 Turkish lira ($1 = 2.2 TL, so 5 TL is roughly $2.25).  The guy did a nice job, tucked his shoeshine kit under his arm, smiled at Dave, and held out his hand for the 5 lira.  He must have worked in a binoculars store for a while, because he sure saw Dave coming.  Dave pulls out his cash and peels off bills looking for a 5 TL bill.  When he peels off a 50 TL bill, the shoeshine guy, obviously related to Usain Bolt, snatched the 50 lira bill from Dave’s hand and took off into the crowd, shoeshine kit under his arm.  We stood there; paralyzed with astonishment for about 3 seconds before we took off after him, just long enough to let him meld into the crowd (I did mention Istanbul has 14 million people, right?  Well, on this day, it seems every one of that 14 million were between us and the shoeshine guy.).  We thought of coming back the next day to look for the guy, but decided to write off the 50 TL as tuition costs at the School of Street Smarts.  Probably the best $23 Dave ever spent.

We wandered around the neighborhood for a while and then after a refreshing cup of salgam (sour turnip juice with a pickle), we headed to the Grand Bazaar and spice market.  

The Grand Bazaar is just that:  grand and bizarre.  The Grand Bazaar (GB for our purposes) began in 1455 and is the heart of Istanbul.  It is huge, with 61 covered streets and over 3,000 shops which attract between 250,000 and 400,000 visitors daily.  It’s surprisingly easy to navigate, though; much easier than Tbilisi’s Dinamo Market which is a rabbit’s warren of alleys and aisleways.  Like products are bunched together – clothes on this street, gold over there, silk down that way, etc.  The only bad thing about the GB is the aggressiveness of the shop owners.  I learned that the hard way when I noticed a leather jacket.  I stopped to look at it and was immediately accosted by the owner.  Even though I said I was just looking, he managed to convince me to come inside and try the jacket on.  It was a beautiful jacket, made of Canadian bison, but the price was a bit extreme for me – 1500 TL or about $700.  I tried to leave the store, but found my way blocked by the owner’s helper.  This gave the owner the chance to drop his price to 1000 TL.  Still out of my price range, I smiled politely and tried to step around the helper in a very narrow shop.  He backed up but I still couldn’t get around him.  The price dropped to 500TL ($225), then to 300 ($135).  I would have paid 300 lira for the jacket, but now I was so aggravated (a polite way of saying I was really pissed), I told the helper to either move or be prepared to get knocked on his ass.  He stepped aside and I left the store, the owner shadowing me another 200 meters down the street holding up the jacket and begging me to make him an offer.  This sort of aggressive salesmanship is, unfortunately, the rule rather than the exception in the GB, especially if you’re an obvious American.

I did, however, run into an interesting store where I bought some things for Debbie. 

            Right next to the GB is the spice market where you can find everything you’d need in the kitchen in unlimited quantities.  The smell is unbelievable!  In a good way, that is.  The salesmen aren’t as pushy here, but that might be because you don’t haggle in the spice market.  The price posted is the price paid.    Surprisingly, textiles are a part of the spice market as well, and you can even take a tour of the soon-to-be world famous zipper museum (how can it not be?).  You can tell it’s a good store when there are stuffed goats outside.

Day 2 was mosque day.  The Aya Sofya mosque and the Blue Mosque were both less than a five minute walk from our hotel.  They’re both very beautiful, but constantly crowded, and let’s face it, after a while all mosques start to look alike.  They are, however, two of those things you have to see so we spent most of the day dutifully oohing and ahhing at blue tiles, thick carpets, amazing chandeliers, and hundreds of Japanese tourists taking pictures. 

Day 3 was probably the most fun day we had, mostly because we got away from the tourist section of Istanbul and walked into the university section, a neighborhood called Ortakoy across the bridge on the European side.  Two highlights here:  the seagull phones, and a street where every stall sells stuffed baked potatoes.  That’s all they sell – stuff baked potatoes and Cokes.  My kind of place. 

We finished the day back at our hotel where we found, to our great joy, a reggae bar.  Yup, a reggae bar in Istanbul.  We spent a great afternoon and early evening there, sipping Turkish beer and talking to the locals.  At the table next to us was a group of Turkish school girls celebrating the 16^th birthday of one of their own.  They invited us to our party and we spent a couple of wonderful hours with what Dave would later label, “Rick’s harem.”  They had obviously dealt with drunken tourists before because posted over the toilet was very specific instructions. 

So, that was our week.  We spent four great days in Istanbul, despite the lousy weather.  I strongly recommend it as a tourist stop and offer my service as tour guide.  Especially if you’re interested in seeing the Reggae Bar.  The people are friendly, they like Americans, prices are reasonable, and there’s plenty to see.  But no swimming in the fountains, though. 

Thanks for reading.