Guest Writer

The blog-author of this blog lost a bet to a friend, the Guest Writer, and so agreed to post this story as a proper arrangement. His identity will not be revealed. Warning: the 'Religions of the World' image may be slightly offensive. Be warned. And, Enjoy.
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Machiavelli

A hidden door on Machiavelli Street read the letters ICCN. Inside the first to greet me is a short and pleasant subject. Somewhat of a machine with a mission, surprised by my arrival. She’s hard at work. She lets me in. Immediately offers tea or coffee. Tea, please.

A deep breath, a faint sense of cigarette smoke. This is the place. Slightly cold, dim lighting, but not unpleasant. I look around this familiar place, not straying too far, but maintaining a kosher distance. Smiles and serious-business looks. An intellectual walking around with his cup of coffee, glasses at his chest, medium length hair, a cigarette held in his mouth, rushes by unnoticing. I take a seat in an empty cubicle office room. A mix of shivering, excitement and nervousness overtakes me. A new face appears, a conversation begins.

I clutch the tea mug. It’s hot. Me, I’m cold. What do I do here? Patience, it will come. The ceilings are high; all the heat must be up there. A rich conversation. A woman, the Hague, a Masters, a Doctorate, a vision, a mission. She’s already my hero. A big family.

Great, let’s get you set up with an office. This desk is free, she’s on maternity leave. I set everything up. Is it cold? Yes. Take this desk instead. Good. (It is next to Ms Rose Revolution herself).

A place of intellectualism. Big ideas. Successful ideas. Observable change in society. Active ideas.

Hum Hum.

Am I an intellectual? Yes. No. Could be. Maybe.

Hum Hum.

Sporadically, voices rise to a level right below a shout. Dynamo. Laughter. Must have been a joke or misunderstanding.

“Religions of the World” on the wall. A stereotypically ‘truthful’ summary of religions. An uncontrollable inner laughter on my part. Why? Here, read.


It is tea time. Yay! I will meet others.
Ladies talking Georgian in the small kitchen in the hallway. I take a seat next to the radio. I try to make eye contact and then wonder if it is not appropriate at this time. I avoid it. I catch some words. Desperate Housewives. Lost. Oh gosh, this is here too?

The gas stove burner is still on, the pot is not over it. We’re wasting gas. A man down the hall is playing with his cigarette staring out the window through the shades. Furtively I look too, there are only Mercedes Benz, nothing too interesting. He looks around. Only women in the kitchen, and me.

Women. Here. Eat some salad. It’s tasty. I want more, but feel uncomfortable taking without permission. Oops. Someone just ate it all now. Try this. I don’t know how to say it in Inglisuri. Meat, walnut sauce, spicy. It looks a tad unattractive. What do you think? Anticipating having to use my acting skills to fake that I liked it, I find myself pleasantly surprised and overtaken by a natural affirmative smile. I could eat this every day actually.

I cannot eat it today, it’s Wednesday, I am Orthodox. Ok. I’ll eat more than… if you do not mind.

The man is now in front of the stove, I had not noticed when he moved. Another man with a limp walks in (it builds his character, it is not a sign of weakness). He has a different kind of cigarette. Lights it with the stove burner. Still no pot on the burner. Both men leave. I then notice the heater down the hall, where the one man had been standing before.

Your tea? How much sugar spoons? Three, four, five, six? Only two please.

Georgian cuisine. Generally, we as Georgians are accustomed to eating meat every meal. Georgians do not appreciate vegetables so much. If it was up to me, I would eat only vegetables. But my husband says it is not a meal without meat. I try me best to please him.

Supersticion. Protect your baby from black eyes, blue eyes, whatever. Evil eyes. My dream: Dutch ocean hikers in the bay. My friends wade into the water to see them pass. Some are dead, but somehow stay with the pack. The dead ones also laugh very loudly as they go by. How scary, how odd.

What is the meaning of this dream?

Well, do not concern yourself so much with this. According to old wives tales, water in a dream is good. Another tale is that if you tell your nightmare to the water as the faucet is on, it will go away with the water. My faucet was on all night already though. Well that’s good! Ok.

My mother-in-law put an iron sword underneath my baby’s crib to keep the evil eyes away. I found it and said this is ridiculous. A week later I found it under the rug. I threw it away. My mother-in-law, she is very superstitious. That is common here.

Back to work.

Still, the Dutch Ocean Hikers. This is so strange and unsettling.

An Armenian Apostolic Prayer Service. It is over. The top dog asks me how I am doing. I say good, but I have had a few nightmares. That is very good! With a truthful smirk on his face. That is very good. Welcome to Georgia.

In Georgia.

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Questions and Comments welcome. Disclaimer: Blog-author will do the best job possible to answer any questions about the Guest Writer’s story.