How to Share a Taxi to the Middle of Nowhere
A Georgia Xmas Special, Part 3
As soon as I haul my bag out of the trunk of a taxi at the Isani metro station, I am surrounded by ten more taxi drivers.
“Sighnahi?” They yell. “Telavi!” They ask me questions in Georgian and talk over each other, but none of it is aggressive. I’m already getting used to how gentle Georgian people are. How much more often than not they’re trying to help you rather than sell you anything.
I pull out my phone and show them a dot on a map. They shake their heads, bewildered. One, who speaks English, explains what I had suspected: it’ll be hard to get me a shared taxi to my destination, since it’s in the middle of nowhere.
Unless I want a private taxi? No?
Then I’ll have to wait.
I am headed to Kakheti, Georgia’s famous wine region. It’s an hour and a half by car from Tbilisi, and I’ve been worried for days that it was a bad idea. For starters, I booked a guesthouse in (as mentioned) the middle of nowhere, rather than either of the two small cities that are hubs in the area (Signaghi and Telavi). In these places I would be within walking distance from shops, restaurants, and some wineries, and be able to join tours to the many vineyards, monasteries and churches the area is known for. In Melaani, where my guesthouse is… well, I’m not sure what I’ll do.
Normally I would have planned this better.
Normal is not what these last few weeks have been.
The kindly taxi drivers look at me, expectantly. I hold up a hand and my phone to signal, “Wait, I have an idea.”
Teona, who owns the guesthouse I’m heading to, answers my call. She gives directions on speaker to the three or four taxi drivers still hovering around. Someone disappears and comes back, and within minutes, I’m climbing into a van filled to the brim with boxes, my backpack balanced on top of them: a delivery car heading straight to Melaani.
My driver and I exchange smiles but no words, and he careens past slow trucks and around blind corners, just missing oncoming cars doing the same. I silently thank myself for having chosen not to rent a car in Georgia, while wondering, for the millionth time, why I put myself in situations when so many things could go wrong.
But also, that’s travel.
We snake through dry, rolling hills, past gas stations and herds of sheep. The sun is shining in through the windows, and I find myself starting to nod off when my driver pulls over to the side of the road, where Teona and her husband, Giorgi, are waiting. The whole trip costs about as much as two cups of coffee in Tbilisi.
Teona is bubbly, bright-eyed and warm, asking a barrage of questions. Within moments we’re pulling into the guesthouse property, as a baby cow gallops past.
She promises to return at dinnertime. I immediately climb into the white, cushy bed and fall asleep.
Later that evening, a fog descends over the hills. I walk to a nearby church—the only non-residential building within walkable distance. The doors are shut, but the courtyard and graveyard glow in the mist.
Later, I will learn that it was on her walks to this church as a child that Teona spotted the property where the guesthouse now sits, and her dream began.
I return to find her in the kitchen, cooking up the regional khachapuri, which has no egg on top, but is filled with melted cheese. Also, a salad of the freshest tomato and cucumber. And french fries, cooked in the local sunflower oil. And homemade cheese, homemade cherry juice, homemade churchkela (more on this later), and homemade amber wine from her family’s vineyard.
It’s a meal that would put any high end restaurant to shame.
Teona sits with me as I eat. She’s doing her PhD in eco-tourism (while raising her 4-month old daughter), and shares her passion about supporting the farmers and makers in the region. We talk about life for women in Georgia and in Turkiye, and what it’s like for people of her parents’ generation, who, like my own mother, had to learn Russian in school, and who are now catering to Russian tourists.
She raises her glass with me.
“I love having this guesthouse” she says, “because every guest becomes a friend.”
After she leaves, I see just how dark it us up here at night. The only lights are from the nearby town, off in the distance. There are no fancy doorways or wallpapers, and no wifi either, which I didn’t anticipate, but am suddenly grateful for.
Tonight, in fact, I am fully grateful. In the middle of nowhere, Georgia, I feel more connected than I have in recent memory.
I sit in the kitchen after she leaves, sipping cherry juice and amber wine, and writing late into the night.
The destination was worth it!
Just lovely Nat; I can tell you're in your element. Sending love and happy New Year wishes your way.😘😘😘