Meeting with Georgians

In this job, I spend a lot of time in meetings.  That’s not a good thing because normally my schedule has fewer holes in it than Stevie Wonder’s dartboard.  Georgians, however, rarely make a decision without having a meeting.  Unfortunately, they are rarely productive.  The effectiveness of a meeting is not judged on whether it produces any tangible results or products.  Instead, Georgians, as best I can figure, hold meetings for three reasons.  The first reason is to appear busy without really working.  Meetings are indispensible when you don't want to do anything.

The second reason is to appear important.  And, since everyone wants to appear important, meetings are very popular.  It is not uncommon to be called to a meeting in a large conference room just to find out you’re only meeting with one other person.  But, it’s in a conference room, so big things must be happening.  Inevitably, your meeting will be interrupted by someone who wants to join the meeting so he or she can appear important, too.  S/he rarely has anything to contribute, but they want to be able to say, “Well, we held a meeting in the conference room to…” whatever the goal of the meeting was.

This is usually hard to figure out since Georgians view agendas the same way they view traffic laws and wedding vows – as mere suggestions at best or foolish wastes of time at worst.  What gets discussed in meetings depends on the ADD factor of those in the room.  Agendas are, in a word, fluid.  More fluid, in fact, than the contents of the town drunk’s lunch tray.  Thus, in Georgian meetings, topics change rapidly as something new and shiny is introduced and moves immediately to the top of the agenda where it remains until someone else thinks of something new and shiny to displace it.   

But I digress.  The final reason Georgians are so fond of meetings is that it gives those attending the meeting the opportunity to affix blame for issues that should have been resolved in the last meeting.  Naturally, the “fixee” is the one person who misses this meeting.  Great wailing and gnashing of teeth occur as garments are torn and breasts beaten while the absent member of the group is excoriated for everything from the weather to the roughness of the toilet paper in the executive washroom to the fact that the sun is going to burn out in a couple of billion years.  Picture Mel Gibson at a traffic stop, and you get the idea.  In a way, it’s healthy.  It’s cathartic for those attending; less so for the poor slob who missed the meeting, usually because s/he is attending some other equally as important meeting in the other conference room.

Regardless of the meeting’s purpose, all meetings are run the same way.  They never – never – start on time.  They start when everyone finally arrives.  Time is measured here by what we call “GMT” or “Georgian Maybe Time.”  The meeting, scheduled to start at 10, will start at 10-something.  10:10, 10:30; even 10:50.  Time is not all that important.  In fact, a chalk outline is being drawn around punctuality and most Georgians can't even identify the victim.

If there is a TV in the room, it will be on.  Loud.  The most popular shows seem to be Spanish soap operas dubbed into Kartouli.  Remember what I said about the ADD level in the room?  Spanish soap operas, which obviously are filmed in third world countries where even the minimum amount of clothing is impossible to find, don’t help as meetings come to a standstill whenever a scantily-clad actress is shown.  Fortunately, this only makes up about 95% of the soap opera’s allotted air time, allowing at least 10 minutes an hour for business.  Why is the TV on all the time?  I have no idea.  None.  But you can bet it will be, further stretching the already challenged attention spans in the room thinner than the elastic on Rosie O’Donnell’s G-string. 

And keep in mind that a primary goal of the meeting is to look important.  So, few meetings are actually “chaired.”  Instead, attendees compete heatedly to make sure their opinions are heard.  So there’s a lot of shouting, gesturing, finger pointing, table slamming, and paper rattling.  One’s opinion must be presented even if it is in total agreement with whatever’s already been said.  Otherwise, how would everyone know how important you are?

Keep in mind that even in America, a meeting moves at the speed of the slowest mind in the room.  In other words, all but one participant will be bored, all but one mind underused.  So, eventually, the meeting peters out after everyone has made his/her point.  The meeting doesn’t so much adjourn as slowly dissipate as members leave to attend equally important meetings in other conference rooms.  Interestingly and usually, most meetings end when the soap opera does.

Oops, gotta run.  I’m late for my next meeting.  Thanks for reading.   

Random thoughts on the way to Sh'vilo

Thanks for staying with me.  I'm a bit caffeinated this morning, so this one may jump around a bit.  So hang on and stay with me.  I'll try to make it worthwhile. 

There are innumerable castles in this country, and many of them are located within 30 miles of Tbilisi.  For some reason, they fascinate me.  You’d think after looking at two or three, I’d start thinking, “Oh, look, another castle.  It looks just like the other fourteen I’ve seen.  Let’s go drink another beer.”  But no.  I see them, perched on top of these mountains where even goats don’t think of going, and I think, “Oh, look, another castle.  Let’s go see if this pile of rocks is different from the last fifteen piles of rocks I’ve seen.”  And off I go. 

Sh’vilo castle (Shhh-veelo) was once, like most other castles, the main source of protection for the neighboring villages.  Inevitably, there was a small village in close proximity to the castle that was occupied solely by those craftsman, architects, builders, stonemasons, and soldiers who worked at the castle.  It’s hard to imagine sometimes:  many of these castles took hundreds of years to complete.  So you had generations of stonemasons, for example, who did nothing their whole lives but work on this one castle doing the same tasks.  Their sons picked up the trowel, so to speak, as did their sons.  And I’m sure a lot of these tasks were so menial and dull, they made selling corn dogs at the traveling carnival seem like a stint in the double-0 sector of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  Yet there they were. 

This castle also protected all the other villages in the valley.  Some of these villages grew crops and raised livestock for the castle’s use; others just carried on their daily activities until the marauders came through.  Then everyone dashed into the castle, bringing their livestock and everything they could carry, seeking protection from the landlord to whom they’d all been paying taxes for the last couple of years.  They’d stay in these unconquerable castles, usually under siege, until either the attackers got tired or bored and left, the weather made gathering food for the attackers impossible, or the castle ran out of food and water and surrendered.  Rarely were there actual attacks on the castles; they were just too impregnable.  You can see that in these pictures.  Imagine being the ground commander getting the order to climb this very steep hill, under constant observation and fire from the castle’s archers, until you get to the base of the walls where you be subject to attack from crossbows and having boiling water and human waste dumped on you from the castle’s turrets.  From there you have to find some way to either scale the walls or knock them down.  And the walls at Sh’vilo are approximately 20 feet thick at their base.  And Sh’vilo was only a middle-sized castle.  Makes you think a career in the Navy might have been a better choice. 

On to another subject:  Euro 2012 is in full flight here and Georgians are huge soccer fans.  Each bar “adopts” a country playing in the tournament (Georgia isn’t playing or every bar, naturally, would be cheering for the home team).  The establishment in which I spend too much of my time has chosen Spain.  The bar then displays that country’s flag in the window or hanging in the front.  So, if you want to cheer for Germany, you find the bar where the German flag flies.  That way, everyone in the bar is cheering for the same team.  This eliminates fights in the bars.  It’s actually pretty ingenious.  It also demonstrates how the Georgians have had it bred into them over dozens of generations that conflicts are to be avoided. 

Georgia’s president, Mikheil Saakashvili, has announced a campaign against software piracy.  Apparently, 91% of all non-business related software in this country is illegally pirated.  Think about that – 91% of all software – Microsoft Office suite, for example – is illegally copied and sold at less than market value.  And the president’s going to stop that.  Not sure how he intends to do that – random searches of laptops, maybe?  But it’s another example of Georgia bending over backwards to reach out to the West. 

I’ve seen two fights in the past week involving Gypsies.  First, some background:  Gypsies have lived in Georgia for hundreds of years.  They are considered second-class citizens, the “untouchables” of Georgian society.  While technically citizens of Georgia, they are outcasts.  They are the criminal element of society, if you will.  Their primary source of income is begging and theft, mostly pickpocketing or “strap cutting.”  At most money exchange sites and in the tourist areas, gypsy children, some as young as 4 or 5, will stop you on the sidewalk to ask for money.  Immediately, put your hand on your wallet.  The scam is, while one or two are asking for money, another one is behind you lifting your wallet.  They’re not very smooth at it, so you feel the wallet being lifted, but they’re very quick.  Then they all run like crazy.  Or, if you have a fanny pack or a camera on a strap, they’ll run up on you from behind, cut the strap with a box cutter, grab the pack or camera, and run like the wind.

Each group or family has its own “turf” and fights often occur when one group encroaches on the territory of another.  This was the cause of one of the fights I saw this week.  So you have a half dozen children (none of whom, apparently, go to school since they’re out on the streets every day) fighting while their teenaged Fagins are commanding the battle.  (The leaders are always teenaged girls; I’ve never seen a male gypsy over 13, and I’ve never seen adult leadership of these wolf packs.) 

The Gypsies also rush into stores, grabbing as much merchandise as they can, and then rush out.  The idea is, he can’t catch us all, and what’s he going to do with the 8-year old girl he does catch?  Well, I saw the answer to that question when a shop owner did catch an 8-year old girl.  He promptly took her out into the street, took off his shoe, and paddled her.  The girl’s Fagin came running, staying just out of the shopkeeper’s reach, while screeching and throwing rocks at the shopkeeper.  Finally, after exhausting himself spanking the child, the shopkeeper let her go, picked up some rocks of his own to throw at the leader, and then retired to his shop.  Passers-by treated this whole incident as street theater.  No one attempted to intervene.  One local, obviously seeing the distress on my face as I watched this, told me, in English, “They get what they deserve.  They are criminals.”  Thus the life of the Gypsy minority of Georgia.

Finally, we’ve had some real thunder boomers this week.  As I’ve said, I live in a valley that runs east to west.  Since the weather rolls in from the west generally, you can see storms coming from a long way off.   We had a ferocious storm this week, hail and rain like a cow peeing on a flat rock.  The storms roll through quickly, however, and leave some beautiful rainbows.  These were right outside my balcony, so close I thought I could reach out and touch them. 

It really is a lovely country.  Thanks for reading.

Georgia's Stonehenge

Good morning, all, and I apologize for the long absence.  I have been busy, both doing what they’re paying me for, and seeing and experiencing as much of this lovely country as I can.  This post is going to jump around a bit, so stay w/ me.

I visited two of the local sites:  the Georgian Stonehenge and a castle called Sh’vilo (Shhh-veelo).  This posting will deal with Stonehenge and I’ll post another one just on Sh’vilo and some other random thoughts.

This still-under-construction monument is being built on one of the tallest hills surrounding Tbilisi.  It’s designed to honor past Georgian kings while graphically showing the life of Christ.  It’s a large structure, consisting of nine large monoliths, the upper half of each having a carving of a particular king.  The bottom half of each pillar shows a Biblical scene.  There is no separation of church and state in Georgia.  They are completely intertwined in daily lives and any Georgian would consider any attempt to separate the two as ludicrous.  OK, since a picture is worth a 1000 words let me just show you some of the highlights.

This is a photo of the entire complex.  As I said, it’s damn big. 

This is one of my favorite carvings.  It depicts Satan’s temptation of Christ.

I was impressed with some of the details of these carvings.  These show the betrayal and arrest of Christ.  Note the detail on Christ’s face in the second photo.

And what representation of Christ’s life could neglect the crucifixion.

My favorites, though, might be these.  They show Christ being removed from the cross.  Again, note the fine details.

I can’t wait for this site to be finished.  It promises to be magnificent.  OK, while I’m on a roll I’m going to put together another posting of random thoughts and the Sh’vilo castle complex. 

Thanks for reading.

Enjoying Easter weekend

Hello, again! 

Yesterday was Easter in Georgia.  (There is a disconnect between the western and Orthodox calendars, so the holidays don’t quite match up.  Christmas, for example, is celebrated on January 7^th and New Year’s Day is Jan. 14^th.)  Easter brings with it two significant events in the life of the average Georgian:  Easter Monday is the day when Georgians return to their “home village” to decorate the graves of their ancestors and to enjoy a large feast with family, and it’s the end of Lent.  I’m not sure which one is more important.

Georgians define “home village” as the home of the family patriarch.  Since most of these home villages are not Tbilisi, the city itself is relatively empty during the weekend.  This is probably a good thing because Easter also brings the end of Lent.  Georgians observe Lent on three levels:  the most devout abstain from meat, dairy, and eggs during the entire 40-day Lent period; the “average” Georgian abstains on Wednesdays and Fridays, and the “Easter Orthodox” (equivalent to the “Christmas and Easter” Christians in America) fast only on Fridays.  There are those, of course, who don’t observe Lent at all, but they are a definite minority.  Georgians additionally are expected to give up something for Lent, just as we do in the US.  For many Georgians, that’s alcohol.  (Thank God wine isn’t considered alcohol in Georgia, at least for the purposes of Lent; for the purposes of Lent, alcohol is defined as distilled spirits.  Vodka sales plummet during Lent, but the smart businessman makes up for it by increasing his wine stock.)  So, Easter Sunday is when Georgians can go back to their vodka.  Thankfully, as I said, that’s usually done away from the city.

So that leaves we few Americans practically alone in Tbilisi for four days (Good Friday is usually taken as a vacation day by the Georgians and Easter Monday is a national holiday).  Since it was a beautiful weekend, and since staying in our quarters for four days should be outlawed by the Geneva Convention’s protocols prohibiting torture, I went out to see the sights.  I decided to visit two places that I’ve wanted to see since I got here:  the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and the zoo. 

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier is in the center of Vake Park, what used to be known, and is still known by the older generation, as Victory Park.  The Tomb cradles the remains of a Georgian soldier from World War II, but since he’s unknown, it’s impossible to know if he fought for the Russians or the Germans during the war.  (Most Georgians fought with the Red Army as draftees, but tens of thousands fought alongside the Germans against the hated Soviets.  Some volunteered to join the Germans but many more were fighting in the Red Army when they were captured by the Germans and given the choice of joining the Wehrmacht or being executed.)  There is a place next to the Tomb for an eternal flame, but like so many things in this country, it’s not working at the moment.  Every year on May 9^th (Victory Over Fascism Day) the dwindling number of WWII veterans gather in Vake Park to place a wreath on the Tomb, the President or Defense Minister gives a speech, and the younger generation marches to the Victory Statue to place a wreath and catch their breath before climbing back down.  You get an idea of the climb from these pictures.

I also visited the zoo, a saddening but educational experience at the same time.  The zoo is small and shares space with a kids’ amusement park.  The zoo is right out of the 1950s:  small enclosures with little for the animals to do but pace and sleep.  While there are the requisite pair of old and dusty lions, a monkey cage, and a llama or two, a lot of space is dedicated to the animals that most fascinate Georgians:  bears, horses, and birds.  There must have been a dozen bears in the zoo – brown and black bears (no polar bears, which disappointed me greatly) kept in small and dirty enclosures and in some cases, cages.  There was a very large pasture filled with horses and ponies, some of which are attached to a cart for kiddie rides.  And there was a whole row of cages filled with birds of all sizes and colors.  My trip to the zoo confirmed what I had been thinking:  Georgians are bird brains.  They love birds here.  Many people travel out of the city on weekends for bird watching tours, and many, many apartments and houses display a cage or two filled with everything from small songbirds to larger parrots and macaws.  When you walk into a pet store (which doubles as a veterinarian clinic and animal supply store), you’re immediately overwhelmed by the noise (and stench) of dozens of birds.  Older ladies often carry a small amount of bird seed in their pockets or purses to feed the pigeons while they wait for the bus, and chickens are prized not only for their eggs and meat but as pets. 

I get the birds thing, and I’m pretty fascinated with bears of all colors, but I’m still at a loss for the enthrallment with horses.  The villages surrounding Tbilisi and Gori are filled with horses, donkeys, and ponies.  In other words, it’s not like they’re rare or endangered creatures. Yet, the chance to ride a pony or to ride in a cart pulled by a couple of horses appeals to Georgian children just as it would to American kids, I guess.  Even the most popular ride in the zoo’s amusement park is, what else – a merry-go-‘round. 

So another weekend in Georgia is over.  And only four work days until the next one!  Thanks for reading.       

A Georgian feast

Last weekend we went to a supra.  A supra is a traditional Georgian feast and an important part of Georgian social culture. In Georgian, "supra" literally means "tablecloth.”  Large public meals are never held in Georgia without a supra; when there are no tables, the supra is laid on the ground.  The Rector of the Academy where I work, Deputy Minister Andro Barnovi, invited several of the department chairs (all Georgian, of course) and the entire NDA Advisory Team (that’s us Americans) for a supra.  He rented the entire restaurant for the supra and it was very elegant and impressive.  What I remember of it, anyway.  And I blame that shortcoming on the tamada.  Regardless of size and type, a supra is always led by a tamada, or toastmaster, who introduces each toast during the feast. The tamada is elected by the banqueting guests or chosen by the host. A successful tamada must possess great rhetorical skill and be able to consume a large amount of alcohol without showing signs of drunkenness.

There are various levels of formality in a supra. The most formal supras usually mark weddings, baptisms or funerals. Usually these are men-only; the women serve and cook and may have their own supra in another room.  The only exception is at weddings where the bride, and occasionally the mother of the bride, joins the table.  The level of formality also depends on the location (usually a village supra tends to be more formal) and the age of the participants (older = more formal).  This supra was what I’d call semi-formal.  There were rules, but there was also a lot of “making it up as you go.” 

When we arrived (on time, of course) we entered an empty restaurant.  That’s because Georgians follow GMT – Georgian Maybe Time.  They may be on time; most likely they won’t.  Dinner started at 7p; the first Georgian showed up around 7:40.  That’s about right.  We’ve learned that a meeting scheduled for 11 means “11-something” – 11:15, 11:30, 11:50; it’s all the same to the Georgians.  At first the American in you gets annoyed; after all, in the US 11 means 11.  Then you learn not to sweat the small stuff and to stuff a magazine in your bag so you have something to do while you wait.  Fortunately, bottled water, tea and/or coffee are usually served while you wait, along with a bowl of nuts, fruit, or chocolate.  Sometimes I deliberately show up early for meetings just for the refreshments.

When you arrive at the supra, the table is already set.  That means, of course, the first course is cold.  On our table were plates of fried fish (cold); fried chicken (cold); chicken salad; beef tongue (cold); olives; a large variety of cheeses; Georgian salad (cucumbers, onions, and tomatoes); breads; and pastry horns stuffed with a mixture of cream cheese, sour cream, local cheeses, and herbs.  As the supra goes on, more food is brought out.  The food keeps coming, but the empty plates are not removed so, by the end of the meal, the plates of food are literally stacked on top of each other. 

The second course is stew and soups.  We had a “choice” (I put “choice” in quotation marks because you really don’t have a choice.  You’re expected to at least try every dish.  You have to try everything in small doses, though; otherwise you’ll fill up fast.) of lamb stew, a tomato-bisque kind of soup, and fish soup.  The next course is liver. 

Of course, each of these courses is interrupted by toasts.  When Andro arrived, he assured us that no alcohol would be served at the table.  Silly me forgetting that Georgians don’t consider wine alcohol.  (What Andro meant was, there would be no vodka at this supra; a huge distinction and sacrifice on their behalf.)  The wine is as important as the food.  Georgians claim that they invented toasting (as well as wine itself), so it is taken very, very seriously. As I said, at the beginning of the supra, the tamada (accent is on the first syllable) is named. Usually, this is the most respected, most eloquent person at the table. The tamada is part ringmaster, part comedian, part storyteller, and part referee. He is expected to give beautiful toasts and keep the supra-goers entertained at all times. Most importantly, the tamada must always drink the most at the table but can never act drunk.  Our tamada was the Dean of the Academy, a large, serious man who rarely says anything at meetings.  Prior to the supra, I had considered him bereft of a sense of humor or personality.  Again, silly me.  We quickly discovered that the Dean is a force to be reckoned with as tamada.  He did a superb job, offering what are considered the prerequisite toasts – to Georgia, to the U.S., to our families, to the President of Georgia, to the President of the US, to the Georgian Army, to the US Army, to the women (four of the department chairs at the Academy are female, so they joined us at the table; another reason why this supra could be considered semi-formal), and to future generations.  After the required toasts are complete, each of which requires the diner to completely empty his/her glass so it can be refilled for the next round of toasts, the tamada then has his fun – he calls on various members of the table to give their own toast.  We had been warned that this was a tradition so every American had a toast in mind, ready to be called on.  Problem is, you’re not allowed to repeat a toast.  So if your buddy jumps up to offer a toast you had planned, you have to come up with another one quickly.  Then, after the diner has submitted his/her toast, and glasses emptied, the tamada offers a toast to the toaster.  You just can’t win.

In some rural supras, the third course is offal – sweetbreads, liver, kidneys, hearts, and lungs.  Sadly, our third course was limited to chicken livers sautéed with onions.  It was wonderful.  So, let’s review – a first course of cold appetizers, with toasts; a second course of stews and soups, with toasts; a third course of chicken livers, with toasts.  And during all this, the plates are piling up on the table.  I’m not sure of the protocol, but after some courses our plates were exchanged for new plates.  After other courses, clean plates were simply placed on the plate containing the prior course.  So you have a stack of plates containing food growing precipitously in the center of the table and a smaller stack of plates in front of each diner.  That’s important because we still have three courses to go. 

The fourth course is beef and lamb (in some supras, fish comes before meat, adding an additional course and opportunities for more toasts, but we went directly to the beef and lamb round).  We had lamb chops and beef medallions, served separately in hot, crackling pans.  Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful.  The meat is staying on the table about as long as a balsa wood chair in Rosie O’Donnell’s dressing room.  Oh, yeah, and more toasts.  We’ve already toasted the chef and restaurant staff, the farmers who raised the meat, the butchers who cut the meat, grocers in general, the construction crew who built the restaurant, the highway department for maintaining the road to the restaurant, the guy who dug up the clay for the restaurant’s bricks, and the inventor of the flush toilet.  But still we soldier on.   

For the next round, it’s pork; in this case, pork chops, pork medallions, and roasted pork.  There aren’t a lot of vegetables or starches with the meat – it’s just meat, grilled or fried mostly, with onions and herbs.  Sometime during the evening, a large bowl of fried potatoes, along with a smaller plate of stuffed mushrooms, and another of eggplant have found their way to the table, but who cares about those?  I’m there for the meat.  And I’m loving it.  I would have shoveled it in with both hands, except I have to leave one hand free for the toasts.  We had begun the evening with a rose wine.  For the pork course, it was changed to white.  It all comes in large carafes that look like they should be carried by two men and a small boy.  Each carafe must hold at least 6 liters of wine (about a gallon and a half).  The carafes are manned by restaurant staff that leap forward to fill your glass the instant it touches the tablecloth. After all, the evening’s young and a toast’s a toast.

The end of the supra is signified by serving fruit.  The fruit is pre-sliced and arranged beautifully on large platters.  It is, of course, accompanied by a dessert wine with which we make more toasts – these to the berry farmers, banana growers, and merchant marine captains who transport the produce.  (At least I think that’s who we were toasting; my memory’s a bit fuzzy.  We could have been toasting the ghost of King David the Builder and his horse for all I know.)  When the last morsel of fruit is consumed, the supra ends.  We all make one final toast (well, actually, it’s about four final toasts) to the host, to the tamada, to our continued friendship, and to a safe trip home (sounds kind of ironic, doesn’t it – drinking wine to ensure a safe car ride home).  There are hugs and handshakes all around, and then we stagger back to our bus (we’re no fools) for the trip home. 

Our supra lasted about four hours. I managed to make it through this supra without making too many mistakes. The supra table is one place in Georgia where the rules actually apply, but Georgian hospitality trumps tradition and they're forgiving when the foreign guest looks a little clueless.  (OK, a lot clueless and more than a little inebriated.) 

I would say this was a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime experience, but knowing the Georgians, it won’t be the last time we meet again at the supra table.  Especially since it’s now our turn to host the next one.  Anyone know a good, non-alcoholic wine? 

Thanks for reading.  And, as the Georgians say with each toast, Gaumargos!

Pushing pawns at the Chess Palace

I like chess.  I know this isn’t the most popular of confessions.  For some, chess is so slow, dull, and boring, it makes selling corn dogs at the Goshen Fair seem like a stint in the double-0 sector of Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  And I’m not even that good at chess.  Yet, even though I am not a very good player, I am drawn to the game.  The idea of competing one-on-one, my strength against yours, has always been very inviting to me.  So it should be no surprise that, during one of my weekend walkabouts through Tbilisi, I found the Tbilisi Chess Palace, home to the Georgia Chess Federation (my wife thinks I thought they misspelled it and was drawn to it for more nefarious reasons). 

Georgians love chess.  It has been a part of their national identity for over a century.  Stalin was a passionate pawn pusher as is the current president.  And they’ve been good at it.  Georgia has produced a world champion, Tigran Petrosian, in the 1960s, two women’s world champions (in the 1980s and 1990s), two US champions (in the early 1980s), and two world junior champions (1970s and 1980s).  Not bad for a country of less than a couple of million players.

The Chess Palace is an unappealing two story building of typical Soviet architecture.  It severely cries out for maintenance and a new coat of paint.  In the lobby sits a small table of chess books, pocket chess sets, membership applications, and large TV screens mounted on two walls.  It was a bit of shock – this decrepit building, with its bare bulbs swinging from single wires in the ceiling, chipped and cracking concrete staircases, and two state of the art flat screen TVs mounted on peeling, cracked plaster walls.  The TV was showing a large room, filled with children doing what children do – running around the room, yelling, playing, etc.  The room is also filled with 46 chess boards.  I walked around the lobby of this building but quickly became irritated.  A group of chess enthusiasts were standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories.  I had to leave because if there one thing I can't stand, it’s chess-nuts boasting in an open foyer.  Sorry, that was a bad pawn, I mean pun.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yes.  With just a few questions to the woman manning the table in the lobby, I was escorted up to the board room (yeah, I know; they’re getting worse) even though all the other adults had to be satisfied with standing in the lobby and watching the TV sets.  It turned out that yesterday was the qualifying tournament for the city’s upcoming Junior Chess Tournament.

A quick sidebar here – how, you may ask, did I get to go up to the room where the kids were playing even though I didn’t even had a kid in the tournament, when the parents couldn’t?  That’s an interesting anomaly of Georgia.  Georgians are much attuned to the English language.  They like the British and western Europeans as a species, but they love Americans.  Americans are treated special here, often being given perks that are unavailable to all others; for example, it’s not uncommon for bars to “forget” to add a round to your tab once they hear you speaking English.  Restaurant hostesses sweep the “reserved” sign off the best table to give it to Americans.  I’m not sure if it’s because they think all Americans are rich, or if they’re laying the groundwork for the day when Georgia asks the US for a favor.  Anyway, it does come in handy once in a while, like when you want to watch kids play chess.

So I was escorted into the tournament room.  Every table was filled with two kids waiting to start play.  They’re matched up by age and experience, I’m told.  Gender is not considered; in fact, at most tables it seems boys were competing against girls.  The ages range from eight to 12.  At precisely 11am, the arbiter (head official) calls out and play begins.  I’m immediately taken by the different styles of the kids.  Some are aggressive, slamming pieces down onto their new positions.  Others move the pieces almost shyly, embarrassed, it seems, to be making such a move.  Some favor attacking, pushing their pieces rapidly into enemy territory, while others build strong defenses and wait for the attack.  All are deeply in concentration.  No one’s looking around, leaning back in their chairs, or talking.  All are focused on the board.  Occasionally, you hear a chair squeak as a game ends and the participants report the results at the arbiter’s table.  Other than that, it’s just the sounds of wheels turning, and electrons sparking. 

When the game ends, the personalities come out:  some kids grin maniacally and high five other winners.  Some losers shrug as if it doesn’t matter, while others burst into tears.  Others take a more business-like approach and look for their next opponents.  Some, freed from the burden of acting as an adult, sprint outside to play on the neighboring park’s swing set.  The personalities of the parents’ also come out when the games are over.  Some beam with pride as they escort their future world champion out the door.  Others immediately whip out pocket chess sets to analyze their prodigy’s game.  A few merely fold the newspaper they were reading, pull out their “to do” list, and move on to the next item.  A few, sadly, berate their child for losing.  It’s a lot like Little League parents in the US, actually, but no one yells at the referee.  All the parents, it seems, are happy to be the Fischer of men (OK, that’s a REAL chess pun; just google Bobby Fischer, if you didn’t get it.  If you don’t want to take the trouble, trust me – that was funny.).

Sorry.

After the tournament had ended, several children approached me, some out of curiosity, some out of a desire to practice English, and some to challenge me to a game.  I ended up playing three games:  one against an 8-year old boy (Win in about 20 moves!  Yes!), another against a 10-11 year old boy (Another win!  Woohoo!), and a final game against a 12-year old girl (wearing a red sweater in the picture below, and yes, she is, too, 12; I asked her twice) who proceeded to wipe the board with me in about 30 moves (OK, you can’t win ‘em all).  At that point, discretion being the better part of humiliation, I left the Chess Palace. 

But not until being invited back to the adult qualifying tournament in April.  Time to get my game on. 

And as for the puns, I had hoped that if I worked in ten puns, a couple might actually draw some laughs.  Alas, no pun in ten did.  Thanks for reading.

Taking the baths in Tbilisi

As I might have mentioned in a previous posting, Tbilisi sits atop a hot sulfur spring.  In fact, the name “Tbilisi” is literally translated as “warm place.”  As legend has it, in the 5^th century King Vakhtang I was hunting in a forest with his trained falcon.  The falcon caught a pheasant but the weight of the bird dragged both the hunter and the hunted into a hot spring where both birds died.  King Vakhtang was so impressed with the discovery that he decided to build a city on this location.

Fast forward to yesterday.  There are still numerous hot spring baths in the center of town.  They’re quite popular and some are pretty opulent.  I’ve been curious as to what they were like so yesterday I took the plunge (pun intended and, hopefully, appreciated).  It was a good day for it as well – about 40F, snow flurrying around, and the wind going off in more directions than Don King’s hair in an electrical storm. 

You walk into what appears to be a hotel lobby:  reception desk, a waiting room with a TV blaring (all TVs produced or imported into Georgia have only two volume settings:  off and ear-splitting), and a small bar.  There’s a bill of fare posted behind the reception desk – in Georgian, of course, which makes me wonder if Americans don’t frequent the baths (my guess) or if there’s intent to discourage Americans from frequenting the baths.  Either way, between a mixture of English, Georgian, German, and pantomime, I rapidly deduce the cost to be 30 Lari (about $18) for your basic bath. 

A small sidebar here – besides English, I speak passable French and pretty good German (that is, of course, my opinion.  My wife would tell you I speak passable English, embarrassing German, and French that would make a Parisian stick hot candles in his ears rather than hear me butcher his language any further.)  My point, however, is this:  as Tbilisi becomes more westernized, the number of polyglot business owners has increased dramatically.  It makes for a comedy sketch, therefore, when I walk into a store asking, in very rapid order and without waiting for an answer between questions, my standard opening litany:  “Gamorjaba (hello in Georgian)!  Does anyone speak English?  Sprechen-sie Deutsch?  Parlez-vous Francais?”  Nevertheless, I eventually get more point across, usually in a combination of Georgian, English, and the ever popular pantomime.

So back to the baths.  As I’m being escorted to the bath area, the lady behind the counter asks me if I want a “scrub massage,” to which I say sure, why not?  Then she asks if I want towels.  Well, duh, I think; it’s a bath, of course I want a towel.  Then, I’m offered tea which I also accept.  All of these, of course, are extras, driving the cost of my bath to an eventual 40 Lari ($24). 

Another sidebar – sorry, but I’ve had two Diet Cokes this morning and I’m a bit caffeinated.  This business method of adding “extras” to a basic menu is standard in Georgia.  If you go to a restaurant, for example, you’re asked if you want bread while you peruse the menu.  That’s extra.  Do you want ketchup or some other condiment?  Extra.  Would you like rice with that order of curry?  Extra.  How about some nuts with your beer while you wait?  That’s extra, too.  It’s never a large addition to the bill – all those items I’ve just named might run a total of 2-3 Lari, about $2 extra at most – but it’s the standard way of doing business here.

OK, so I’ve decided I want the royal package – an hour’s bath, a “scrub massage,” whatever the hell that is, and towels.  I’m led to a small room with a chair, couch, coffee table, and a black and white TV showing a soccer game with the volume set to the “off” option.  On one wall are mounted coat hooks over a small shelf.  Next to the hooks and shelf is a door.  The lady motions that I’m to get undressed here and go through the door to the baths where I’m supposed to take a shower.  As they say in the furniture business, sofa so good. 

I undress and enter the room and am quickly taken back to 11^th grade English class where we read Dante’s Inferno.  In the room is a square marble tub, 6’ x 6’ x 4’ deep.  There’s a marble slab affixed to one wall, and a single CVC pipe from the ceiling running a stream of unbelievably hot water.  There are no valves to change the temperature or pressure of the water.  Presuming that to be the shower, I jump in and out of the scalding water until I’m wet.  The room smells like rotten eggs (the sulfur, obviously) and there’s a misty fog of steam throughout the entire room.  I ease myself into the tub.  There are no jets like a Jacuzzi, just a single pipe that pours water continuously into the tub, the overflow running into a series of drains across the tiled floor.  The steam rises to a domed ceiling and out vents at the very top of the dome so there’s a constant layer of steam across the baths visible from the street. 

The water is hot.  Not Jacuzzi hot, but HOT.  It’s the hottest water I’ve ever been in (well, there was that one time when I came home late and a bit under the influence, but that’s a different type of hot water…), and I have to ease myself into it by degrees.  Finally, I’m sitting on the shelf built into the tub, soaking in the sulfurous waters.  You quickly stop noticing the rotten egg smell, and just sit back and let the warmth soak into you.  It’s quiet in the baths and the water has a bit of a feel to it sort of like mineral oil.  It’s not a thick texture, but it’s heavier, it seems, than normal water.  For 45 minutes, I sit in the tub, sipping hot tea, letting my mind wander and feeling more and more relaxed. 

The door opens and a very large man enters wearing a bath robe.  This guy must be close to a Shatner and a half.  I probably need to explain that.  In Iraq, a “Shatner” became a unit of measurement for weight.  A Shatner is about 300 pounds and is named, naturally, after the actor William Shatner of Star Trek and Boston Legal fame.  We developed the unit of measurement after seeing Shatner on a talk show.  He was, to say the least, a large man.  You could sell advertising space on him, and he was using the Equator as his belt.

So the robed man goes a good 350 pounds, 90% of it gut.  He’s carrying a bucket which he sets down and hangs up his robe.  Wearing nothing but boxer shorts and shower shoes, and holding his bucket, he motions me to the marble slab.  As I walk, reluctantly, to the slab, the man dips the bucket into the tub and pours water onto the slab.  I lie down on the slab face down.  Mr. Shatner then puts on a glove with a coarse loofa imbedded in it and proceeds to scrub me from head to toe.  It’s not a massage, and it’s not rough or unpleasant.  When he’s done with one side, he slaps me on the hip, grunts something in Georgian, and steps back.  I take that as my cue to roll over.  He scrubs my front and motions me to sit up.  As I’m sitting there, Mr. Shatner scrubs my head. 

For the second round, I’m motioned to lie back down on my stomach.  A large mesh bag is placed on my back and Shatner pulls on another glove, this one consisting of what must be 40-grit sandpaper in the palm.  The routine is repeated, except this time with soap and the sandpaper glove.  It is, essentially, a dermal abrasion as my first layer of skin is removed.  Finally, Shatner sits me up, finishes scrubbing me and pours two buckets of water over my head.  He motions me back to the tub, bows, and leaves.  I’m bright red from head to toe.  My skin (or what’s left of it) is undecided if it should tingle or burn.  I hop back into the tub, the water even hotter this time as there’s no layer of skin to protect my internal organs from being braised in the tub.  After about 10 minutes comes a knock on the door.  My bath time is done. 

You don’t get dressed right away after a bath like this.  Instead, you put on a towel which really isn’t a towel after all but a bed sheet torn in half.  You’re expected to wrap it around you like a toga and sit in the outer room until your body temperature returns to normal.  I imagine this lesson was learned the hard way after watching several clients collapse with heart attacks after transitioning from the heat of the baths to the winter temperatures outside.  Thus, the TV – it gives you something to do while you wait.  After another ten minutes or so, I dry off with the bed sheet (now there’s a challenge – bed sheets don’t absorb water like a towel as much as they move it from one part of your body to another.  Essentially, you’re air drying while standing like a Roman statue), get dressed and leave the baths.

I feel wonderful – I’m energized and relaxed at the same time.  I have the same feeling I do when I get out of a sauna – drained almost, but vigorous.  And thirsty.  I stop at a local market and buy two bottles of water, chugging them one after the other while walking to the bus stop.  On the bus, I’m so relaxed I almost fall asleep and come close to missing my stop. 

It’s a terrific experience and one I’m looking forward to repeating since it appears winter has decided to stay a while longer this year.  It’s definitely not a summer experience, but for a relaxing way to spend a winter’s day, you can’t beat it. 

Thanks for reading.