Check Out This Check Out

A couple of hours before I checked out of the HotelFirehazard in Tbilisi, I wanted to be sure of the final bill. We'd vaguely agreed on a sum for two weeks--oh wait-- there was no "we," as I was not part of the negotiations between the hotel clerk and my Georgian counterparts. So I needed to be sure that what I was TOLD was accurate. And that there wouldn't be any extra charges for, I dunno, the one-ply toilet paper, or the fancy smell coming from the clogged pipes.

So I go down at around 9:40 in the morning and the lobby is empty.
I rapped on the door of the little hidey-hole room I used to find them all in (looked like a private kitchen and living room--with meals always on the stove, tv always on, and a deck of cards laid out on the table).

The bouncer guy who controlled the padlock on the front gate came out.

I told him I needed to see the front desk clerk.

"She sleep."

"Riggghhht. Okay. Well, I need to see her."

"She sleep," he said, putting his prayered hands under his tilted head, to make sure I understood what he was saying. "It's Sunday."

"Right. She's sleeping and today is Sunday." I said, mirroring his prayered hands schtick. "And I need to see her. It's about my bill."

He reluctantly knocks on her door and not long after, Sleepyhead emerges, robed but shoeless. Her eyes are swollen from all that Sunday sleeping. I remind myself that it's: 9:40 IN THE MORNING. And this is HER JOB!

"I need to see my bill. I need to get the right amount from the ATM."

"But you already know the price. It hasn't changed."

"Right. Great. So, can I pay that in dollars or do you need it in lari?"

She bothered to shrug her shoulders high up to her ears--which I took to mean she didn't give a rat's ass--before shuffling back to bed.

Glamour Girl

This is my mother in the 1940s, presumably taken at her parents' house in Java, Virginia. Before she met Everett, before she had six children, after the war, and when it was still okay, in her mind, to put your feet on the table.

I wish I could see the bulletin board better, to find more clues about Ellen Lee Arendall before she was Mama.

More Tbilisi

I didn't venture down into this part of Tbilisi until this trip--I only remember going once, in 2001, when Joyce was showing me a carpet shop. I don't know what's housed in this domed building, but it's obviously been recently refurbished.

An Old Town

A look at Tbilisi. The city sits in a small valley. Note the mix of architecture.

Close Your Eyes and Hold On

Tires For Sale.
Spin nicely on ice or any other surface.

Brides of Tbilisi

On my last day, Margie and I wandered around Tbilisi, getting in the way of weddings. Here there were four or five brides gathered. I'm sure they didn't appreciate me clomping through in my jeans, and whipping out my camera. But that's what tourists do.

Not the Marriott

I'm writing this from the cafe inside Marriott in downtown Tbilisi.
To get online here, I had to go to the front desk to get a voucher.

"Are you a guest here?"

"Uh, no m'am."

"And where are you staying?"

"At the Hotel Gorda."

Blank stare.

The Hotel Gorda? Near the river? Overlooking the highway? Has a padlock on the front entrance so that every time I come and go, a bouncer guy goes with me to let me in and out? You know, the Hotel FireHazard?

Ohhhh... THAT hotel.

Anyhow, I've gotten used to the smell and the rickety stairway and the single fridge that has to be moved from one room to another, each time a guest requests one.

The bathroom, however, is a new one on me. It's tiny. And you have to step through the shower part to get to the toilet part. But the sink is in the shower part. I did discover, though, that if I leave the door open, I can take a shower while a) watching tv, b) brushing my teeth, and c) washing out my one dish, which I do before brushing my teeth.

Ugh

Stuck with a flu bug. In Tbilisi. Hotel didn't have electricity or heat last night, so I went to a colleague's apartment. I'm checking now to see if the hotel is up and running. I fee miserable and I want to go home.

Country Dog in the City

Dropped Remi off in Vienna, where she'll stay for two weeks, seeing the sights, peeing on park benches, sniffing city dogs' poo and having a jolly good time slummin' for crumbs at cafes--while I haul off to icy Tbilisi.

It's 55 degrees here and sunny. It's below freezing there and snowy. Pack the pullover.

It should be SHE that's going--it's HER birthplace. But no, she prefers Vienna.

She's staying with my friend Sue, who has generously agreed to have her hip, downtown apartment filled with fine, white dog hairs.

I'll miss my little girl. I miss her already.

McCrackenashvili Packs Like a Georgian

One wee morning hour when we'd been hauled off a plane and herded into Tbilisi airport, so many of us had to stand in line to report that we had black luggage, about yay big, with wheels, and oh, here's our local contact in Tbilisi and we'll get a call when the bags appear. On a direct flight from Vienna, my luggage did not show up the first three out of four trips to the Republic of Georgia. And of course my black bags w/wheels will get to me because they look so different from everyone else's black bag with wheels.

So on this early morning arrival, a well-dressed, over-coiffed, tiny but mighty Georgian woman is told to step out of line and have her luggage, which HAD made it, weighed.

Her arms start flailing wildly, and a heap of words escaped from her lips, all of which indicated incredulity, since she'd already had her luggage weighed back in Vienna. Before the flight. And she'd already been charged for it. And here she was being told it didn't matter, step out of line and have your luggage weighed. We're not here to make sense, we're here to take advantage.

So Tinymighty steps out of line and drags the luggage behind her, which is bulging with all kinds of goodies from the West that she was bringing back to relatives. She must have included the house and the car, and the body of her dead husband because this thing was dead heavy.

And now the so-called police exit the scene and return with a little bathroom scale--the kind that should have the little pink furry footies stuck onto it--and Tinymighty hurls the bag on.

She forked over all the cash in her pocket and was on her way.

When flying into Tbilisi, the luggage often got left back in Vienna because the bags were too heavy and the small plane just couldn't handle it. Georgians don't travel light.

And I think I've got a case of Georgianitis.

Every time I go there, I bring more and more. It started with just clothes, toiletries and a couple of books and dvd's to keep me company. That was 2001.

Fast forward to 2008: This time the extras include bedsheets, a pillow, a towel, a coffeemaker (and Vienna coffee), and a hotplate.

And I'm not even sure what else. Hope they don't bring out the bathroom scale.

Yes. I am.

Convinced.

Obama's the one.

News Flash: There's Been a Fire at.

I've got one eye on Bill Maher (guest on Larry King) while answering emails.

I see the news ticker flash across the screen: Baby Thrown From Burning Building.

How long do I have to watch to find out...

IF.
THE BABY.
WAS CAUGHT.

Big Sister

I used to wet on her lap.
I used to chew on her hair.
I used to lick my lips before I kissed her goodnight.
I used to make her stand outside the bedroom door and, in a babysitter's fury, say through clenched teeth: "Not. Another. PEEP out of you two!!!" (My sister Joellyn was the second part of "you two.)

peep.


I used to come to her, crying, when I'd scraped my knee.
I used to watch her expression while she read to me from the Tall Book of Make Believe.
I used to cry at her beautiful voice, because it could make an entire audience leap to their feet in a standing ovation during the middle of a play. And then I'd look over at my brother and he was crying, too.

Now we make faces at each other on webcams over Skype.

And I don't wet on her anymore.

Happy Birthday, Sarah

HaHaHaHaHaHa!!!!

Still really feeling under the weather. It's been an unhealthy start to the new year for me, so I'm hoping things get back on track--soon.

In any case, one thing that gets me to stop feeling sorry for myself is laughing at other people. Babies, to be specific. Here's an uproariously funny clip of a baby having a helluva good time. I dare you not to bust a gut.

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