My Country-- the Obscene Post

Fuck this country and fuck its leaders.

Fuck its prisons, fuck its justice, fuck its courts.

Fuck its opposition.

Fuck us for pretending that everything was all right, when boys were imprisoned for ten years for stealing cell phones. Well, at least it is safe to walk the streets, we said. At least nobody steals our cell phones, we said.    And what about those, whose lives would be broken forever, cause of a relatively minor offence? How would they act, when stressed and traumatized, they’d leave prisons and colonies? Oh well, ten years is a long time, we’ll deal with them later, we thought.

Fuck this country, with its valleys and its mountains, with its traditions and its supras, with its ancestors and its folk songs. Fuck it, for all its singing and dancing and conformity.

Fuck the wine. Fuck the food. Fuck the democratic Georgia.

Fuck us, for being silent, for ignoring ombudsman’s reports for years, for caring only about our jobs, our lives, our comfort.

Fuck us, that it takes a video of beating and raping to get us out of our houses, to make us draw posters with brooms, for yelling and screaming, and getting it out, though most likely, this is just to silent our conscience, to do something.

What? What? Will anyone be held accountable? Anyone important? Will anyone be investigated, punished? Will they? Has that ever happened before?

people in the video might get prosecuted.  That’s something. But what about others? The ones on top? The puppeteers? Fuck them.

Oh this country, this poor excuse of a country, does it take elections to start airing things?

What, are we angry? Are we protesting? Is this the first time we heard about it? Really?

Fuck tv channels and journalist, fuck whoever controls them, fuck international organizations for supporting reports, fuck our government for concealing negative ones, fuck liars, fuck torturers, fuck the Orwelian world we live in.

Fuck them and fuck us all, me for example, like I did not know, like my friend’s brother hasn’t been in overcrowded prison with not enough beds, where inmates take turns sleeping for several hours on a bed, while others sit on another bed, and others stand in the room and yet some others stand in the courtyard—cause there is not enough space even to stand in a cell.  Like my friend was not imprisoned for no compelling reason, like he was not beaten, like he did not write about it.

Fuck this elections, when you have to choose between horrible and atrocious, fuck them for not giving us chance to vote, to actually go and vote for once, not stare into the ballot, lost between unworthy candidates.    

Why, why should I live here? Why? Fuck it. Fuck it if you stay and endure this and fuck it if you leave and run away.

What is it, Hunger Games? V for Vendetta? What, what kind of absurd theatre is this country?

My country is the country where some people torture other people, while others still yell ”hail  Georgia--gaumarjos”. Hail what?

Fuck my country.   

p.s. I opened facebook and everybody had these black squares as their profile pics. We mourn. 

There is a House in New Orleans...

     Before travelling, I do a thorough research. So, when my mom and I got off the Louis Armstrong airport in New Orleans, I knew exactly that the taxi fare to French Quarter—the famous touristy place where we decided to stay—was $33. It is the most efficient way to get to French Quarter for two people, shuttle costs more and the bus, while being cheap, takes forever.

    In 20 minutes, we found ourselves in French Quarter, looking hungrily at everything, the way you absorb unknown place for the first time. We stayed at a historic hotel called St. Helene. Let this post be a little ad for their nice service. It looked all white and clean, very European (even had square pillows!).

    After we settled our stuff, we wandered around still- unfamiliar streets. We walked upon an oyster bar (sorry bar, I forgot your name) and though I am not a huge fan of any seafood, I really enjoyed Rockefeller oysters, with cheese and spinach. That was our first meal in Louisiana.

     It was also the first time we had to listen to locals. We are, after all, foreigners. Accents are tough to handle.However, our server was nice enough to repeat things to us, until we got it. He even asked if we were mother and daughter and how is that possible (my mom looks young).

     Now, we look a lot alike, except she is prettier. For three days over there, people kept stopping us and asking if we are twins, sisters, coming up to us in restaurants and complimenting how lovely we look and generally stroking our egos. It felt nice.  Not gonna lie.

     I would also like to add that people in New Orleans are very friendly (either hospitable locals or happy drunk tourists) and service is the best I’ve seen in the states.

    After snacking on oysters, we walked in French Quarter, looking at the old colonial buildings. Now, I can’t describe the beauty of cast-iron balconies, 200-year-old houses, street performers, smells, Jazz.  You have to experience it. Little streets look like a movie set for a historic film. If you ignore the skyscrapers in the background, mandatory for every downtown of every state capital, you actually forget where you are. It is America, but then it is not. It has uniqueness that is scraped off in so many other places by franchises, exactly the same suburbia, comfort over style…

     We had dinner in a historic restaurant, Antoine’s, which has been a restaurant for more than a hundred years and was a boarding house before that. The food was excellent (hence the price), but the place seemed a bit …people around us in dinner jackets and dresses… we also wore evening attire, but felt a bit uncomfortable anyway...still it feels special to dine in a restaurant with so much history.

     Afterwards, we went to listen to Jazz at a preservation hall (and this is why you have to research where you want to spend your evenings) and listened to wonderful, raw, energetic music. Certainly a must-do.

Finally, we walked and walked and walked, crossing Bourbon street and mixing with crowd, until we  decided to have a drink  in this interesting-looking cabin with candles lit inside. Later, we discovered that it was the oldest building in French Quarter, where pirates used to plan their  future activities. And the interior of the bar has been untouched since then.

    Pirates! Streets named after French kings! Jazz out of every bar! Where am I? How is this possible?

   Tired and happy we went back to our own house in New Orleans. For tomorrow we would sail on the great river of Mississippi…
P.S.the pic--this is what I mean by beautiful cast-iron balconies. They are everywhere. 

Freedom

 Spending my days in tranquility. Riding motorcycles, seeing mountains, reading, getting nightly dose of high altitude mountain air, ahem, and then watching Amelie and Run Lola Run…

Days staying active, nights watching films and philosophy-ing…thinking of nature and films and meaning of life and of purple haze...

Saturday we drove up to a mountain peak. It was so hot everywhere and then we got to alpine zone and started shaking in our coats. The clouds were right above our heads.  We hurried back down on the serpentine road. Then, we walked around adorable historic town, ate in a Polish restaurant, got ice-cream. My favorite, mint ice-cream.

Sunday, my step father took me on a motorcycle ride, we went so fast, we drove to a ridge and saw fossils, dinosaur bones, red rocks.

This is such a pretty state, so much to do, so much to see, not enough time, as always, as always.

Deer everywhere. And bunnies.

Ate sushi for lunch today…

Cleaning my mom’s backyard. Lounging in the sun. Getting tanned and sunburned.

 Missing my hubby. Sad face.

I love getting out of Tbilisi for a while.

Gotta go pack.  Tomorrow we go on a trip to Louisiana. Packing for New Orleans. Researching food and French Quarter.  

Ah, that time in your vacation, when there are more days left ahead, then you’ve already spent.

Freedom. 

How long will it last?

  p.s. the pic: view from the peak we went on Saturday. Pikes peak

CO.

     I am back in Colorado and I am sore. Let’s  start from the beginning.

     So after 6 hours of Tbilisi--London flight, five hours in Heathrow airport, ten hours of transatlantic flight and inspection by customs in the states –where I discovered to my detriment that I actually did take honey comb my aunt gave me for my grandmother. Imagine, round brown ball of sticky stuff. Oh, the customs evil Grinch eyes lit with joy when they saw it—I was put into bed and woken up at an ungodly hour to be taken to the high mountains of the Colorado.   

      For two days we got up before sun and did wonderful things—it was amazing fun as my fav.  British celebrity likes to put it. Conquering and stomping my jet lag, we went fishing on the first day and witnessed an astounding sunrise.  I was not too enthusiastic about killing fish by lying to them that the shiny cylinder on my hook is actually food and that eating it will not result in getting hooked by your lip, so maybe that’s the reason we did not catch any. Well, I did catch one, but it got away before we could force it into the net and torture. However, combination of sleep deprivation, burning sun, rocking boat and cautiously-not-specified element--let’s call it high altitude mountain air, ahem—resulted in  this surreal state of mind, when waves seemed to be made of silver, clouds formed weird shapes, and the cars  on the highway seemed infinitely interesting.    caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaars.caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaars.

      Dizzy and overheated, I somehow managed to get out of the boat, with sunburned red face and red eyes, looking like a zombie, walking like one, and still thinking about moving cars. And then I had to endure lunch in a crowded restaurant. Talking about being anxious.

      The next day, determined to breath, walk and think like a normal person, I strictly stuck to water and put a sunscreen on my monkey-butt-colored face. I mounted a fourwheeler, the ones we call quadrocycle in Georgia, and rode it up the mountain summit, to the continental divide. There, I marveled, how on that exact spot the states divided into Atlantic and pacific sides, took pics of the Rocky mountains and chased chipmunks. Back on the motorcycle, I was riding over huge rocks and stones and praying for salvation. Have to survive. Have to survive. Have to survive and keep my bottom intact…ouch and ouch and ouch.

      So now, I am laying sleepless in my old room, it is six  a. m. ,everything  hurts and I can’t go back to sleep. But I am content. I think of the silver waves and the nature and peace. I think of the speed and thrill and riding over the mountain summits and energy and adrenaline. I think of different ways to feel life. To go from manicured, wearing high heels public servant to covered-in-dirt motorcycle-riding state of being. To pack all the excitement in this month. I am thinking of life and bacon. Real, crunchy American bacon. Time to get out of bed...

p.s. the pic--one of the places we rode on the fourwheeler.