A day, An Age

I opened the steel door and left the apartment complex, walking down the soviet cement stairs, dilapidated and chipped stairs. The air was cold, but I was prepared. There I went with my little white beanie on my head. I have not seen anyone wearing a white beanie here, only black. I got two things right: my black jacket and my black gloves. Maybe my gray suit pants, but certainly not my black crocs. No one wears crocs here. I guess I am the genius to wear them in the winter in the first place.

I walked down the wide street towards the bus stop. You would never know that it was a bus stop; it was just a corner where people gather to catch the bus. There was no indication, other than the people, that it was a bus stop. I waited for my bus, or rather, my mini-bus, which come rather frequently, Number Six. It took me all the way to Freedom Square.

I took the first seat available. Ah, yes. This is without a doubt the mini bus. Exhaust fumes, people’s breath, and of course, the chauffeur’s cigarette smoke. The isle in the mini-bus is narrow. It does not lend itself to people like Mrs. Olga. She is old and fat, quite frankly. There are many Olgas. Sometimes she carries big bags too. She has trouble getting into the mini-bus and then has even more trouble walking down the isle to an open seat. She rubs against everyone on her way down. The mini-bus is a capricious vehicle and it is hard to maintain one’s balance when standing. Sometimes Olga loses her step and grabs on to someone to hold herself. And murmurs something. It’s a problem when there are many Olgas on the same mini-bus.

I sat in my seat observing. I looked out the window and saw the same thing I saw everyday. Mrs Olga was on the sidewalk sweeping, she’s got a hunched back. She can’t stand up straight. Olga is in many places. Sometimes you can see her in the store, or selling peanuts and sunflower seeds on the sidewalk. She is always around, dressed in grayish-black clothes with a black covering that covers her hair. Sometimes she is begging for money by the metro station.

I watched people walking to and fro, going to important places or places not so important. The music that the chain-smoker chauffeur had on the radio was depressing ‘lobby’ music. The instrument you can hear most is the uncreative saxophone tune. Sometimes the female voice says a few lines, and then back to the saxophone. It is music one would listen to right before committing suicide.

I stared out the window again looking for something interesting. Igor, the male representation of Olga, has a mustache. His hair is gray. He has a black hat and a black leather jacket and black leather gloves. It would be really stylish if he had black leather pants, but those are not too common, and certainly not Igor’s style. He does some of the same things as Olga. He sells peanuts and sunflower seeds on the street at his little stand. He minds his own business and sometimes walks stealthily along with everyone else.

I listened to the music again. I mean, I paid attention to it again. I heard an opera-like sound. I could not hear it too well because the engine of the mini-bus was rather loud and we were going up a hill, getting close to my destination and the final mini-bus stop. I am certain that it was opera though, or something quite similar. It was a sad sound. It was a sound of death. Not of a violent and bloody death, but the sound of an expected, old-age death.

I took my two Laris out of my pocket and paid the chauffeur. He gave me one Lari and fifty Tetri back. I stepped off the mini-bus.

I headed toward Freedom Square, where George’s statue is located. It is a gold-plated statue of George on a horse. A very victorious statue. Behind George, on the mountain, is Lady Georgia. She has a wine cup in one had and a sword in the other. Hospitality for friends and death to enemies. She is a very ugly statue though. I see these two everyday.

I walked through the little park, where young soldiers gather to joke and laugh before they have to return to duty. I directed my steps toward the underpass, where the vendors sit and sell. I have to get to the other side of the street, where the Marriot Courtyard sits. It is a rather awkward experience. There are always escort vehicles in front of the Marriott, waiting to take an important diplomat to a meeting or to the airport. While on the sidewalk there is Mrs Olga begging and unsuspectingly spitting her sunflower seeds at the pedestrians’ feet as they walk by. Probably cursing you

Mrs Olga and Mr Igor, very beautiful people, very strangely people, and maybe very poor people. There they sit or stand, as the rest go by. There they stare or gaze, as the rest pay no attention.

I make my way back home. The day is over. I must get to the mini-bus stop to catch mini-bus #6. Olga and Igor have vanished. Nowhere to be seen. I hop on the mini-bus, and to my surprise John Lennon is playing on the radio. Imagine. Young people are vividly chatting on the mini-bus. It’s a lively environment. A young scene.

I sit and listen… and think. This is the new generation. A generation in an unreliable medium. I generation of youth with wild ideas. Imagine. It is evening, no longer do we see Olga and Igor. I see Nino and Davit. I see Tako and Shalko. A young generation, facetiously heading into the night. What will this bring? How long will it last? What’s the future here? The old has gone and the new has come, hasn’t it?