The first time I went to Georgia was in June 2018…
It was a cool spring evening in Baku. We could still dine with the window open in the city, before the sweltering summer heat. The ever-present crisp breeze of the Azerbaijani metropolis breezed through our flat, while the chatter of the children in our neighbourhood enlivened the night as we were packing up. All we had in our bodies was a feverish curiosity, the frenzy of the expedition, an exciting fear of the unknown.
I went with Elena to Tbilisi that time. My roommate, fellow Russian student and work colleague in Baku. That night we left the dark Baku station at 9.40pm. We had long since decided to embark on the Baku-Tbilisi night train journey, as daughters of post-Soviet academics, mindful of long Russian bibliographies celebrating the fascination of the Soviet train, this means almost personified, omnipresent in the various Tolstoy, Ĉechov, Dostoevsky, and others. Thirteen hours of long travel awaited us. On the threshold of the train, we were greeted by our Charon, an authoritative, steadfast Azerbaijani train conductor.
We travelled in a four-person berth. In our carriage circulated groups of festive Poles, Azerbaijanis, Ukrainians, and finally, a Petersburg couple. Their names were Gianna and Nikolai, our travelling companions. A beautiful blond, blue-eyed woman of Siberian descent, and a huge Russian man, funny, witty, sweet, two middle-class Petersburgers. They were equally headed for Tbilisi, and would then continue on to Armenia, as planned. Strict Azerbaijani legislation badly welcomes tourists from neighbouring Armenia at the borders, for the well-known reasons relating to the long-running Nagorno Karabakh conflict. As a result, travelers who want to visit the whole Caucasus normally follow the route Azerbaijan-Georgia- Armenia (last stop), just as our bunkmates.
We talked for much of the night with Gianna and Nikolaj, before being cradled in the arms of Morpheus in the heart of the Azerbaijani steppe.. about the white cherry jam we tasted in the old city of Baku, about Gianna’s hometown of Surgut, about Petersburg, about Russia, about Italy, about the time in Crimea when Gianna decided to have a child with Nikolaj, about her love for Putin, about Berlusconi, of the newly born Italian government, of our comparing cultures, of travel, of Eros Ramazzotti, of the imminent World Cup, of the volleyball champions Ivan Zaytzev, Natalya Goncharova, and Earvin Ngapeth’s arrival at Zenit Kazan, the European champion team. Nikolaj himself told me that the current mayor of Tbilisi was a former Milan player, Kakhaber Kaladze.
From time to time I would think about the dedication with which he used to help his wife reach the bed on top of Elena’s head. He had packed all the bags, he had a wide smile, he was madly in love with his wife. Gianna was a strong and curious woman, talkative and ironic. It was a different night, in the deep darkness of the flat, uniform and eerie landscape, in which our convoy slowly proceeded.
The next day we reached the border, it was seven o’clock in the morning. What woke us up was the typical Azeri pop song. It didn’t stop, the whole passengers were standing, Gianna was asking for Eros Ramazzotti at least to sing. The train conductor was frantically circulating to wake up the remaining passengers. The queue at the services was noisy and unnerving, the heat was beginning to be felt in the overcrowded corridor. After an hour of passport control we were finally in Georgia. The Georgian border immediately appeared new on the horizon: the icon of a small Orthodox chapel welcomed us just outside the train on that sunny, already warm morning when we stepped out for a breath of air. It was no big deal, but immediately I began to feel at home, in the bosom of Christianity.
In the background there were a few cows, and some semi-abandoned Soviet factory buildings, a generic coffee shop, already proudly displaying the first bottles of Georgian wine, an ubiquitous presence in the country. I tried a coffee, classifying it as the worst I had ever tasted, but I was happy with it. The Poles drank beer and fed the stray dogs. I said a few words to the sullen train conductor, who thought of pleasing me by offering a diabetic latte; she had probably filled it with those sugar cubes that Azeris suck on their palates before drinking çay. The party continued in the adjoining bunks, where the Azeris drank their morning çay to the sound of their portable speakers, shouting traditional music. We set off again. The controls at both borders had lasted two hours. We would arrive in Tbilisi an hour later, generously late. We said goodbye to Gianna and Nikolai, who invited us to Petersburg as guests, when a Russian invites в гости (guest), it is a very serious thing. It was a beautiful farewell, or perhaps a goodbye.
