Tourista?

by Maya Airoldi (United States of America)

Making a local connection Georgia

“I think if we just keep walking this way, we’ll find the marshrutka station,” Niall stated. I nodded dismissively, looking over Sam’s shoulder as she checked a map. Seconds later, I collided with Niall, who had stopped for a stout man who wanted our attention. “Tourista?” he asked. “Da,” Niall replied with a smile. The man grinned, beckoning us, “Come, come!” Through the doorway was a white room tinted with dirt. Metal shelves leaned against the walls housing what must have been the shop's wares: tools, pots, pans, and many sacks of chestnuts. A table contained a spread of meat, bread, and food I didn’t recognize plated on plastic bags. Two men welcomed us as we entered, ushering Niall onto a chair. A coke bottle filled with clear liquid was pulled from under the table— chacha, I assumed; a grape vodka. It’s homebrewed and shared with anyone who will stop to have some; guests in Georgia are seen as a gift from God. A fourth man rushed in with a chair made of old, soggy cardboard taped onto a metal frame. Our host clearly disapproved of his choice, causing the man to disappear and reappear with two different chairs. Sam got a metal one and I sat on one draped in fur— which I was certain covered the cardboard chair. The host asked again, “Tourista?” as he poured the clear liquid into shot glasses. “Da, Irlandia,” Niall pointed to himself enthusiastically. “Irlandia!” He cheered, passing Niall a shot, which he handed to me. Surprisingly, I felt safe enough to take it without questioning, ‘Should we drink this?’ “Chacha?” Niall asked. He confirmed, giving Niall a shot, as Sam tried— and failed— to refuse. We raised our glasses, yelling “Irlandia!” It burned. Before I could even get it all the way down, a knife piercing a mysterious hunk of food was shoved at me. I leaned into Niall, “What is it?” “Meat?” he queried. I looked back to the man, gesturing to myself, “Vegetarian.” The knife was thrust again, and the glass was taken away by our host. “Yes, no meat,” he claimed, eliminating my need to protest. I shrugged as I put the offering in my mouth. I didn’t understand what it was any more than before, but I liked it. They cheered when I smiled. Niall ate it too, and when Sam refused, the oldest man grabbed a hammer and began beating chestnuts out of their shells. He was eager to please, so when she accepted one, he began rapidly handing them to her even as she tried to say she had had enough. The host turned to me. “Tourista.” It was a statement, said as he poured more chacha. “Da, American.” “Amerikanskiy!” He corrected me, passing more shots out as we all toasted to America. This time I was offered khachapuri as a chaser; a tasty Georgian cheese bread. The attention went to Sam, “Tourista.” She drew the name out, “Malaysia.” They looked confused. She drew a map in the air, “Thailand—” “Thailand! Thailand!” “No, Malaysia!” “Malaysia?” he cocked his head. “Yes… Thailand,” she pointed, “down. Indonesia,” she pointed, “up.” She drew a circle in the air, “Malaysia between.” The man threw his head back, “Malaysia!” Three more shots were poured. Sam didn’t want any, yet she sipped out of politeness as we all cheered for her country. Another round was poured as Niall shouted, “Georgia! Georgia!” If names were exchanged, the three of us can’t remember. I hardly remember one of the men driving us to the marshrutka station we had been searching for over an hour before. Still, I will always recall the one time I didn’t fear random men beckoning me into their room to drink unlabelled alcohol. There weren’t any marshrutkas at the station going to the right place, but a man in all leather and dark sunglasses called a taxi for us— after asking if we wanted any marijuana. The driver was excited to have foreigners, not complaining about the language barrier or even the 50 km drive— only charging 40 lari, or around €13, for the whole journey from Chiatura back to Zestafoni.