Tbilisi, The City That Loves You (Or So The Slogan Says)

Tough love, perhaps? Let me take you back to the start.

One balmy Georgian morning, my elbow was perched on the edge of an immigration counter in Tbilisi International Airport. My foot, tapping in impatience. I couldn't read the officer's face.

"Shall I transfer to the visa on arrival counter?", I whispered to the hubby. "I think I need to pay."

"Huh?", was his only response. He was red-eyed, and probably on a sleepwalk.

Tbilisi's Freedom Square.  

We just flew in, sleep deprived, from Turkey where we traveled for half a month. After tiptoeing our way around a gang of uniform-clad, gigantic South African football players at the aerobridge, we hustled for a short immigration line. It didn't take long before our turn. The officer, however, took ages scrutinizing my beaten passport. She also asked long questions from the officer beside her cube.

"I probably need to pay for the visa. Where are our dollars?", I began to worry.

"Huh?!"

  Have you been? Did you feel the love?  

I started digging in hubby's backpack when I heard the glorious sound of stamping action. Our passports were handed back to us without a word. Without the slightest smile. Oh that standard immigration welcome. We left the officer a muffled 'thanks' and made our way to the luggage belt where we were once again dwarfed by football players shuttling to and fro, searching for their sponsored bags that all look the same.

Luna and I stood far from the giants, thinking we'll be safe from being crushed while hubby fetched our bags. Then came a ground staff who angrily shooed us away because he wanted to push a bunch of airport trolleys along our path. Mind you, it's one spacious hall. I swiftly scooped our daughter Luna and jumped out of the way.

Then my eyes landed on the sign: 'Tbilisi. The city that loves you.'... Wow.

Rock n' roll grandpa. Our airport pickup service.  

Before I could even toss my head back and laugh out loud at the irony, hubby lazily gestured for the exit. He finally got all our stuff.

The guesthouse that we booked is an unpopular one. We chose it because of its location (a mere five minutes' walk from Freedom Square), and more importantly, its cheap rate that is a rarity in the capital. Based on a review we read online, there's no sign outside the building which makes it tricky to find (makes it seem dodgy too). So we requested the guesthouse owner to arrange a pickup for us. We were charged €12.

St. George Statue, Freedom Square, Tbilisi. A five-minute walk from our guesthouse.  

We found the driver at the end of the fenced lane outside the arrivals area. He was holding a sign that says 'Solo Lucky Hostel'. It didn't indicate a guest's name. The man who seemed to have a hunched back, bore the saddest expression I've seen in a while. I approached him and asked the dumbest question I asked in a while, "Solo Lucky?". Now ain't that a special kind of stupid?

His face mildly lit up.

After a brief stop at the ATM machine, he escorted us to the parking lot.

Old, beautiful buildings surround Freedom Square but not all or well-preserved.

  The car's as old as the classic rock tunes in the cassette (yes you read that right, cassette) that was playing, but it worked mighty fine. Approaching the city center, the driver pointed out places of interest and tried to describe each with his limited English words.

Even with a few jams in the business district, we got to the guesthouse in half an hour. The owner's daughter, Natalie, was waiting for us on the street. She assisted us in taking our luggage up the few steps to our room. Our room's an old living area on the first level of an apartment and it's ridiculously spacious. There's a fridge, a water heater, a dining table, and a couch. Nothing short of perfect.

Georgian omelette, our first meal in the country.   "Did you eat breakfast?", Natalie's English was pretty good. "There's a restaurant next door and the owners are our friends."

She came along to In Vino Veritas — obviously a watering hole — to translate our orders. The owners didn't speak a single English word. And apparently, didn't know how smile too. Or were they having a bad morn? It's a bit of a disappointment when prior your visit you read about the Georgians' "legendary hospitality" and uhm, you don't experience what you expect.

Yes, we love you back, Tbilisi.  

Perhaps we just had encounters with the wrong people (like that grumpy supermarket lunch lady who refused to reheat our orders)? Or maybe, because I'm from the Philippines, the word hospitality conjures images of ubiquitous smiles and random waves from strangers. For a post-Soviet state, the word is most likely defined differently.

But hey, we're only talking about day one. Did this impression last?

Ah, a story for another day.

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