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When the Road Calls
Some trips we plan for months — reading guidebooks, booking excursions, mapping out every stop. But it’s often the unplanned journeys that leave the deepest mark. Georgia was one of those for me. I didn’t dream about it for years, I didn’t have a list of must-sees. One day I simply realized I needed to get away, opened a ticket site, and booked a flight to Tbilisi.
I thought it would be just a short break, a chance to breathe. Instead, this country turned into something much greater — a conversation with myself, carried by its roads, people, and landscapes.
First Steps in Tbilisi: A City That Welcomes You Like a Friend
The plane landed late at night. The autumn air smelled of smoke, coffee, and damp streets. My taxi driver smiled and said, “Welcome,” as we drove toward the center, the lights of the capital flickering outside.
The next morning I set out to walk through Tbilisi. The city revealed itself quickly. On one side were narrow alleys lined with wooden balconies, weathered walls, and dogs asleep in courtyards. On the other, the glass-and-steel Peace Bridge gleamed as teenagers filmed TikToks and tourists posed for photos.
Tbilisi reminded me of an old friend who’s lived through a lot: carrying scars, graying around the edges, but still smiling and telling stories.
I ducked into a small coffee shop in Avlabari. The barista, wearing a colorful blouse, looked at me and asked, “First time in Georgia?” I nodded, and without another word she placed a cup of coffee and a slice of baklava on the counter — “on the house.” That small gesture was my first taste of Georgian hospitality: unpretentious, but incredibly warm.
The Road to Kakheti: Learning to Trust
After spending two days exploring the capital, I knew it was time to move on. Renting a car in Tbilisi was surprisingly easy — right in the city center I found Getmancar (formerly RACE) at 10 Anton Katalikosi St. The staff quickly matched me with an affordable sedan and had the paperwork done in just ten minutes. With the keys in hand, I left the city behind and headed east toward Kakheti, the land of vineyards and wine. The drive should have taken only a couple of hours, but those miles gave me one of my most valuable lessons.
My GPS failed me in a village outside Telavi. I pulled over, confused. An elderly man stepped out onto his porch, wearing a wool hat. I showed him my phone, he shook his head, and pointed toward the road. Then, without a word, he walked with me all the way to the crossroads to make sure I turned the right way.
We couldn’t exchange a single sentence — he didn’t know English, I didn’t know Georgian. Yet we understood each other completely. Trust doesn’t always need language.
Vineyards of Telavi: The Taste of Simple Happiness
By the time I reached Telavi, the sun was setting. I stopped at a small family winery. The owner, a man in his fifties with thick mustache, noticed my fatigue and invited me to sit.
On the table he set bread, cheese, fresh tomatoes, greens, and a glass of wine poured from a clay amphora. Nothing fancy. But in that moment, it was better than any restaurant.
We ate, laughed, and spoke in a patchwork of gestures, broken English, and Russian. They showed me old photos of their vineyard; I told them about my journey. And I realized something: happiness doesn’t always come from grand plans. Often, it hides in simple moments — bread, wine, laughter, strangers who become companions for an evening.
Toward Kazbegi: Learning to Slow Down
A few days later, I steered my car north, toward Kazbegi and the high mountains. That road tested my patience.
At first, it seemed ordinary: trucks, villages, roadside stands. But as the road climbed higher, it grew narrower and sharper, with endless switchbacks. At one point, traffic stopped completely — a herd of cows blocked the way.
At first I was irritated. But then I turned off the music and simply watched. Around me were snowcapped peaks, rivers shining like glass, stone bridges spanning gorges. The road itself seemed alive, setting its own pace, demanding respect.
That’s when I understood: sometimes you don’t control time — the road does. And if you let it, slowing down becomes a gift.
Gergeti Monastery: A Lesson in Humility
My goal in Kazbegi was simple: to see the Trinity Monastery of Gergeti, perched on the mountainside. When I finally arrived, the sun was sinking. A sharp wind stung my face, but the view was overwhelming.
Standing there, I thought about how much we try to make ourselves the center of our worlds — planning, worrying, building. And then the mountains remind you: you’re small, just a fleeting presence. But it doesn’t feel belittling. It feels freeing.
The monastery stood silently, as if to say: people come and go, but the mountains remain. Sometimes you don’t need control. Sometimes it’s enough simply to belong.
Batumi: A Different Face of the Country
After the mountains, I drove west to the sea. Batumi felt like another world entirely: palm trees, sea breeze, skyscrapers glowing at night.
By day I walked the boardwalk, ate Adjarian khachapuri with egg and butter, and by night I watched the city light up in colors. Batumi showed me that Georgia is not just monasteries and tradition — it’s also modern, ambitious, and forward-looking.
The contrast didn’t divide the country, it completed it. And it reminded me that people, too, can be complex and whole at the same time.
The People You Don’t Forget
If you ask me what’s most important about Georgia, I won’t say the mountains or the sea. I’ll say the people.
The taxi driver who refused to take my money, saying, “You’re a guest — that’s what matters.” The shop clerk who patiently taught me to say gmadlobt — thank you. The elderly woman who handed me apples simply because I greeted her.
Each left a small trace in me. And those traces outlast the photos.
The Road Within
On my flight home, I thought: what did this journey really teach me?
It taught me to trust strangers, even when we couldn’t share a language. It reminded me to savor simple things — bread, wine, conversation. It forced me to slow down, both on winding mountain roads and in my own restless thoughts.
The Caucasus wasn’t just a route on the map. It was my inner road. And that journey hasn’t ended — it continues, every time I remember to look around, breathe, and be present.
Maybe that’s the true power of travel: not the photos we bring back, but the way the road keeps living inside us.
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This content is brought to you by Kyryk Oleksandr
Photo provided by the author.
