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Ten years ago I did not expect that I will be writing this article, that I will have a blog and a proper camera that allows me to capture a beauty that I bump into during my journeys. I was only sure two things – my thirst of leaping into the unknown, discovering this world from its best side and of course my determination to do so. Ten years ago I visited Georgia for the first time in my life. Only half year after the war with Russia relatively few foreigners were deciding to come to this Caucasian country and its citizens were not sure about their future. Sights of Tbilisi, delicious cuisine and bumpy roads did not get into my mind as deeply as incredibly friendly attitude of locals toward foreigners from the West. I found it out on a very first day of my stay in Georgia. A friend of a friend that I had not seen before not only offered me a place to sleep but also proudly invited me for a dinner at his father’s house. After a full day of sightseeing of the capital with my new buddy and a long walk across a muddy suburban road we finally arrived home. At the dinner there was everything what you can expect from a Georgian feast including strong homemade wine. I learned how to eat khinkali properly and what ceremony accompanies the raising of toasts. Those are just endless, loud, pathetic and simply very important for people there. They do not drink wine just for a pleasure and toasting itself is part of the culture, a way of expression their thoughts, prayers and I think, a sign of common identity in some sense. At one point boiled pork was served on the table. As I was told, a pig was killed in my honour. A small panic attack swept over me, hart started beating stronger. I must admit that I had to make an effort not to offend my hosts and in the same time maintain an integrity with my own beliefs regarding eating meat or I should say eliminating it completely from my diet. I managed not to hurt their feelings but at the price of drinking too much of wine. A new day came and it turned out that red wine did not cause such devastation in my body that I thought a day before when I was emptying a twelfth glass. When we were about to leave to the city after a breakfast I remembered my dirty shoes completely covered by mud and left outside. I did not want to show up like that among people, especially since I had noticed that Georgians pay special attention to appearance. At that moment I saw cleaned shoes waiting for me in the entryway. For a minute I was even wondering if they were mine or whether being intoxicated with wine I unconsciously washed them up in a middle of a night. They were mine, white cheap trainers, size 8.5. Who does things like that? Maybe only a mother to her children. I did not even thank for this gesture. I did not how or what to say as it was so surprising, so surreal – someone completely strange cleaned my shoes! I had to leave the family but during the rest of my stay in Georgia I could not stop smiling when I was looking at my shoes. Ten years ago I visited Stalin’s hometown and wild Borjomi National Park. I walked around old town of Tbilisi. I tried amazing vanilla lemonade. I saw numerous abandoned houses, socialist blocks of flats, streets filled with Ladas and Volgas. I discovered something that I would never even think of before – I might be important for strangers somewhere in this big world. The thirst of leaping into the unknown only escalated.