An Ode to Turkish Airlines

                Like many frequent flyers, I tend to stay “loyal” to an airline mostly out of a desire for comfort and predictability.  This is where airlines masterfully manipulate their customers through loyalty programs that promise great benefits to those whose loyalty is greatest.  The fallacy with this is the fact that most of the “benefits” were common features available to anybody just a few years ago.  As a Delta frequent flyer, mostly overseas, I get very comfortable with the lounge access, better seating, and of course the early boarding thus securing overhead bin space. 

                After being used to the “benefits” of status, it is sometimes difficult to embrace change. In my case, it usually has to be forced on me by schedule or price.  A recent trip to Rome from Tbilisi brought about a revelation:  Turkish Airlines is my new most favorite airline.  It also brought another revelation: The Istanbul airport (Ataturk) is my new least favorite airport.

                The Turkish Airlines planes were new Airbus 319’s; Comfortable seating, easy boarding, nice flight attendants that actually seemed happy to have a job, and most surprising… Great food.  Meals were served on both the Tbilisi-Istanbul leg (2 hours) and the Istanbul-Rome leg (2 ½ hours).  The lamb chunks on rice were incredible for airline food.

                 The only downside to Turkish Airlines is that you normally have to connect through Istanbul Ataturk Airport (IST).  What a mess.  Even though it is a major transfer point to destinations in Europe, Central Asia, the Middle East, and Africa, the transfer process appears to be completely made up as they go along.  The signage directs you to a security choke point that is about as organized as the Grand Bazaar in downtown Istanbul.  Pushing, shoving, cutting in line, and a general disregard for personal space is the order of the day.

                 Before hurling yourself into the security gauntlet, you must first get your boarding pass for the transfer flight if (if you don’t already have one).  In a microcosm of the Istanbul Airport, the clerk at the British Airways desk didn’t speak English.  In the interest of reinforcing the irony, I say again… The clerk at the British Airways desk didn’t speak English.  I had to wait 45 minutes sitting on the floor near the transfer desk for an English speaking attendant to show up.  Then, he was obviously annoyed and tossed me my boarding pass without a word being spoken.  Whether he spoke English or not is still a mystery.

                The best fate you can have as a transfer passenger is either a short layover (2 hours) or a long one (over 7 hours).  A short layover will get you through the airport and on your way in constant motion… eliminating the opportunity to pay $33 for 2 drinks in the bar.  The food and drink are some of the most expensive that I have experienced in any airport.  Although the short layover is preferred, watch out: Gate changes are only announced in Turkish so you have to be prepared to run if necessary.

Not sure what this was... $22 for combo #5 and beer

                The long layover gives you the opportunity to see one of the world’s great cities, Istanbul.  If you are an American citizen, you have to buy a $20 visa to enter the country.  Just get in the visa line and pay with cash.  Then store your carry-on bags at the airport and catch a taxi to the Blue Mosque area (about $22).  The bus is cheaper if you dare.  There you will find two great landmarks: The Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia.  There may be long lines at both so be prepared to wait or just wander over to a local café for a doner sandwich and a cold beer.  The donar is basically a Turkish gyro.  Lamb (or a mix of beef and veal) served on a pita bread with sauce and vegetables.  Too bad it’s normally served with Efes, the Turkish beer, which is awful. 

                The Hagia Sophia was built in the 6^th Century as a home to the Orthodox Patriarchy and was the largest church in Christendom until 1453 when the Ottomans seized Constantinople and turned the church into a mosque.  In 1931 it was converted to a museum.  The Christian frescoes were restored and the Muslim writing left intact. 

               The legendary Blue Mosque sits across a park area and is well worth the visit.  Again, there is usually a line to enter, and you must abide by the dress code.  Veils and gowns are available to women to adhere to the Muslim code.  Visitors are welcome and it is certainly worthy of your time.

     

               With a few hours to spare, I took one of the open-top tour buses for a 3 hour bus tour of Istanbul.  Although a little cheesy, it was worth the time.  Istanbul is a huge city and it gave me the chance to see more of the city than I ever could on foot.  This particular bus crossed the Bosphorus and into the Asian side of the city.

               Another taxi ride and I was back at the airport.  Make sure you tell the driver which airport you are going to (Ataturk) or you will end up with a very expensive ride to the wrong airport.  Entering the security gauntlet and wandering to the gate, I was tired but happy with the visit.  I was mostly relieved because I knew I would be heading home on a great airline with decent food that seems to appreciate my business… Turkish Airlines. 

To Be a Greek Dog

               The concept of Reincarnation has never really appealed to me.  I figured my return to earth would be the punishment or reward for my previous life.  Based on that, Karma would kick in and I’d end up as a mule, or a mosquito, or maybe an inanimate object like a Frisbee; spending perpetuity spinning around fast until I ended up on a garage roof for all of eternity.  That was my attitude until I found the one animate creation worth living a better life for… A Greek dog.

                In my travels, I have seen some wondrous sights.  To me, the most amazing natural spectacle was certainly the Grand Canyon.  The most incredible man-made spectacle had to be Saint Peters Basilica in Rome.  Combine those two qualities and you have the Island of Santorini, Greece.  In the village of Oia, The whitewashed buildings with bold azure roofs contrast the deep, navy blue sea.

This is a dreamy place where wandering the side streets and paths may lead to a small café, a quaint shop, or suddenly lead you out to a broad panorama of the sea and surrounding islands.

I can’t say that I’m an expert on Greek dogs, but every one of them that I came across had an odd canine grin on their face… like they knew something we mortal humans didn’t.  I imagine them gazing at us with a certain canine curiosity about why we would walk up and down the endless steps just to gaze at the sea while at the same time walking the opposite direction of a skewer of roasted lamb.  If they could talk, surely they would tell us which are the best blue roofs to lie on, who the kind dog lovers are, and what restaurant had the best souvlaki scraps. 

It’s pretty unbelievable that I would actually be envious of a dog.  Sniffing other dogs’ rear ends and drinking water from the toilet have never been my thing.  But dogs are happy to simply be petted, loved and slipped a few moussaka scraps under the table now and then.  We humans can learn a lot from the simple expectations of a dog.

          
              I can think of no better reincarnation fate than that of being a Greek dog.  Surely this would be the highest level of my soul’s earthly existence.  It would certainly beat spending eternity on the garage roof.

Shadowboxing the Apocalypse...

                 When the Mayans said that the world would end on December 21st, 2012, I wasn’t much of a believer; but just in case, I thought I better squeeze in one more trip to Las Vegas before the apocalypse would rob me of another opportunity to prove the existence of the horseshoe. 

                 I’m speaking of course of the lucky horseshoe (according to local household legend) that is firmly implanted up my posterior.  Some are lucky in life, some lucky in love, and I seem to be lucky in Las Vegas.  If the world were to end, a thousand years from now I envision my smiling skeleton lying under a pile of Bellagio chips and a future paleontologist saying “Hey!  How do you think that horseshoe got in there?”

If the world ends, my money's on Caesars Palace to survive



                The third weekend of December (the weekend that immediately preceded the end of the world) was perfect.  The college football bowl games would be starting on that Saturday and the NFL games on Sunday would give a once-in-an-end-of-the-world opportunity to go out of this earthy life with head high and horseshoe intact. 

                Thanks to frequent flyer miles, my flight cost me $7...  Round trip shuttle from the airport $13 (great tip to avoid the $20 cab fare each way)… and a cheap room at Planet Hollywood made the trip very affordable.  The most expensive part of the trip was the parking in Atlanta. 

                 As with every trip to Las Vegas, I learned something new: When the bartender at the sportsbook gives you a tip, bet on it.  It all happened like this…

                 I arrived late Friday night, ran into my co-conspirator Clark, and headed to the MGM Grand.  It was the last weekend of the National Rodeo Finals and the casino was filled with cowboy hats and lots of leather.  At the sportsbook, all the TV’s were tuned to the rodeo.  I asked a nearby cowboy “How do you bet on this?  They’re all named Cody!”  After playing cards with a table made up entirely of cowpokes from Abilene, Texas, this Greenhorn reckon’d he would mosey on back and retire for the night.

                The breakfast buffet is a must for me.  Linger, eat lots of carbs, and fill up on coffee.  As the day went on, the three pounds I gained would be all that I gained throughout the day.  I couldn’t win to save my life.  At one point, I swore that the loud ‘clanking’ sound I heard was that of the horseshoe dislodging and rolling down South Las Vegas Boulevard. I felt as if I were shadowboxing the apocalypse… wandering the land.*

The Horseshoe fell out right about here...

                Then came Sunday... While watching the NFL games at the Bellagio, a great tip came my way.  I was rebounding very well from the day before and was surrounded by my co-conspirator Clark on one side and Larry from Flagstaff on the other.  Larry, who I had never met before that day, was a pretty humorous character that brought some interesting insight to the day.  He and his wife were quite opinionated about the ‘big’ night game… New England at home against San Francisco.  New England was a 4 ½ point favorite, and the money was flying into the book in favor of the Patriots.  Larry was convinced that New England was the ‘lock’ of the day.

                During our heated discussion, I realized that my beer was empty.  The bartender, Vic, said “Lance… want another beer?”  “Of course!” I said.  Vic got stuck in a conversation with another bartender, and the delay in delivering my beer was unusual, but somewhat unnoticed due to the ongoing dialogue.  Vic apologized and at last brought my beer.  At this point, the other bartender waved me close as he leaned over the bar… “Sorry man” he said “I kept Vic from getting you your beer.”  “No problem!” I smiled calmly and waved it off.  He motioned me closer and said under his breath “Take San Francisco and the Money Line”.  He then whispered “Don’t spread that around!”

                To bet on the Money Line means to wager on a team regardless of the point spread.  An underdog, like San Francisco, pays about 2 to 1 with that kind of line.  I scurried off to make the wager.  When I got back to my seat, Clark and Larry were perplexed… “Where did you go?  What did you bet on?”  I let them in on the secret… I took SF.  “Huh?  What? EVERYONE is taking New England!”  They were stunned.

Lobby at the Bellagio... paid for by people who have a "system" for roulette



                San Francisco won 41-34.  The horseshoe was firmly back in its rightful place.  The world can end now.  I flew back on Monday ready to face the day of reckoning head on.

                Friday, December 21^st, 2012, came and went without a whisper of calamity.  Like the late night television preacher in the polyester suit and fake hair, the Mayans didn’t quite get it right.  That’s OK though.  Sometimes it takes an impending apocalypse to just get out and do something fun… Like taking the horseshoe for a little ride through Las Vegas.

* “Shadowboxing the apocalypse… wandering the land” is a lyric from the Grateful Dead’s "Esau’s Brother".  A very fitting theme.

Bavaria

                I was sitting outside of a ski lodge on a mountain high above Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany on a breezy, warm summer day.  After a 5 minute walk from the skytram to the lodge that faced the mountains opposite the city, I gazed out at the mighty snow-capped Bavarian Alps and realized that, although this was not heaven, I could probably see it from here.  My blood pressure dropped, stress melted away, and only the constraints of responsible adulthood kept me from lingering there to this day.

                I like Bavaria for a multitude of reasons.  The scenery is stunning, the food is magnificent, and the beer is legendary.  As the southern part of Germany straddling the Alps, the old Duchy of Bavaria holds a certain style and feel that’s different from the rest of Deutschland.  Nowhere in my bloodline is there any German, at least not that I know of, but if asked, I reply “No, but I’m willing to learn…”

                I have found that Germans are good people.  Sometimes it takes a little prodding, or asking an innocent question like “Excuse me, but is this the train to Frankfurter?” and the Germans I’ve met would soon warm up to you.  One thing you must know about Germans is that they are big on rules.  Don’t litter, don’t speed, and for the Kaiser’s sake, don’t jaywalk.   I was at a crosswalk waiting for the light to turn green and, since there wasn’t a car in sight, decided to just go ahead and cross the street even though the light was still red.  Armed with my typical American “You’re not the Boss of me!” attitude toward the red light, I looked up and was greeted by the angry stares of the dutiful Germans on the other side of the street.  They looked at me like I just sunk the Bismarck.

                There is a big positive to the whole law-abiding thing though.  The Germans have a law called the Reinheitsgebot (Beer Purity Law).  That’s right; these brilliant, insightful people have a beer law.  It says that only four ingredients can go into beer: Hops, Barley, Water, and Yeast.  That’s it.  No pumpkin seeds, or blueberries, or apple-mango spices; just beer.  Not only that, but if you order a Pilsner, it’s poured into a Pilsner glass.  A Hefeweizen in a Hefeweizen glass.  A Lager in a Lager mug.  Don’t ask for a Pilsner in a Hefeweizen glass, or you’ll get that “you sank the Bismarck” stare.

                Another awesome German quality is their pork.  You will never see a “Pork, the other white meat” billboard in Germany.  In the US, pork is bred very lean (hence the advertising) in an effort to make us Twinkie-eating, Big Gulp-slurping, Big Mac-attack sloths healthier.  There, the pigs are bred much fatter  (Note to the pork industry: It makes them even more awesome tasting).  This is the part where I put on my lederhosen, channel the Von Trapp family and sing “The Hills are alive… with the smell of Schweinhaxe!”  This giant pig knuckle is roasted over a flame until the skin is crisp and the fat juices ooze into the meat.  Usually served with a potato dumpling and sauerkraut, this is a meal to behold. 

                 Don’t get me wrong… I’ll never turn down a good Jagerschnitzel and Spaetzle, or even a good Weinerschnitzel.  But if there is schweinhaxe to be found, that’s where you’ll find me.  A mug of dunkel, a chunk of Schweinhaxe, and thou. 

                I can’t wait to go back.  Even the possibility of going there again starts my gastric juices flowing and blood pressure dropping.  I imagine sitting on the balcony of the little guesthouse in Garmisch watching the sun go down over the snow-capped Alps, sipping a Bavarian Lager and digesting a delightful pork dish… With heaven right in front of me.

The Beer Wall

              Every great city has its own distinctive landmarks.  Paris has the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, New York has the Statue of Liberty and Times Square, and London has Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey.  Although these fall into the “must see” category for the casual tourist, it’s the secondary, off-the-beaten-path sights that sometimes hold the greater allure.  Although not in any tourist guide or mentioned in any travel periodical, Tbilisi has one of my favorites… The Beer wall.

               I’m sure that this glorious respite from the drudgery of everyday life has an actual name, but to me and my colleagues it’s always been known simply as the Beer Wall.  I’m pretty sure it is part of the Kazbegi Brewery, a long-time maker of one of Georgia’s oldest beers.  On hot afternoons it’s not uncommon to see a large collection of blue collar patrons waiting in line at the teller-type windows anxious to fill up their own bottle or purchase one over the counter.  The concept is genius.  Bring your own bottle, either from home or conveniently sold by little old ladies close by, and fill it up with fresh, cold beer straight out of the tap.    

It costs 3 Lari ($1.80) to fill up a 1 ½ liter bottle.  To save you the effort of ciphering with your fingers, that’s $1.20 a liter.  Munich, eat your heart out.  That price included the plastic bottle.  Most patrons in line had 5 liter jugs so maybe there’s a volume discount.  The best part of the experience though, is the people.  No matter where on earth you travel, it’s beer that brings the everyday people together.  Buy your beer, dodge the traffic crossing the street, and hang out by the Mtkvari River and enjoy the company.  If you really want to go local, there’s usually someone selling dried fish nearby to gobble down as a beer snack.  Just think of them as big, salty pretzels with eyes.

                                                 

               So if you are ever in Tbilisi, by all means see the popular tourist sights.  There are many.  Then, after a couple days of absorbing the Georgian culture, walk on over to the Beer Wall late in the afternoon and enjoy the view… and the people… and the beer.

Hitting a Slice off the 8th Tee… Into the Heart of Darkness

                In the fall of 2009, fate landed me in northern Uganda, about 30 km from the Sudanese border.  Uganda had always seemed like a mysterious destination full of strange sights, exotic animals, and unspeakable tragedy.  I never expected golf.

                Northern Uganda was stunningly simple in its beauty. From the air, you could see green, rolling plains; rivers and roads,;and countless little villages of mud and grass huts.  The ground was actually red clay… Something I’m very familiar with in my home outside Atlanta.  If you added pine trees, it would look like Southwest Georgia.  But of all that beauty, the greatest surprise was the Ugandan People.  Although a bit apprehensive at first, the local people were extraordinarily warm and welcoming. 

             Being on the equator, I was obsessively curious about the Coriolis Effect.  As one of those great abstract theories I learned in school, I was intrigued by the concept.  In physics, the Coriolis Effect is a “deflection of moving objects when they are viewed from a rotating reference frame”… whatever that means.  Moving past my freshman physics class (which I passed with a triumphant ‘C’) to a more practical application, I wanted to see if the legend of the Coriolis Effect was true: That if toilets swirled clockwise in the Northern Hemisphere and counterclockwise in the Southern Hemisphere, what happens directly on the equator? I was soon disappointed… No toilets.

                                  

               Probably my biggest hobby and greatest source of stress relief is running.  I’m not very fast, and my distance is far from… far, but I enjoy it.  I’ve always said that I’m a beer drinker with a running problem.  I enjoy running in new and different places.  I’ve run on five continents, and enjoyed some pretty unusual scenery.  I tried to squeeze in as many runs as I could, despite the rather austere conditions and busy schedule.  On an early morning run on the perimeter of our camp outside of Kitgum, two female colleagues ran by and one made a startled comment: “[Lance], you should run with a ‘buddy’ out here!  It could be dangerous!”  I ignored her advice.  Finally, after a few more days and a few more reminders, I was confronted by another member of the team back in the camp.  It went something like this:

 “Seriously [Lance], you need to run with someone out there!”

 I was getting annoyed… “Why? Seriously, what could possibly happen?”  A crowd started to gather.

Searching for something profound, he blurted “You could be eaten by a lion!”

A lion, I thought… I replied enthusiastically “Wow!  Actually, that would be pretty epic!”

               Both he and the crowd were stunned by my response.  I continued: “Back home, there’s a funeral home just up the street from me that’s like a mega-plex theater!  They can do like 24 funerals simultaneously!  It’s awesome!  I can see it now… in the first chapel is Old Lady Smith, died at age 89 in the rest home.  Next is Zippy, perished in a motorcycle wreck, then Al who had a heart attack watching Spiderman, then: ‘Lance… Eaten by lion in Africa’.  People would ditch the other funerals just to see mine!  I’d fill the big room!  And I know that you smartasses would probably hire a preacher that looks and dresses like Idi Amin, hang a fake lion’s tail out of my casket, and play ‘Hakuna Matada’ and ‘Circle of Life’ as hymns.  The actual getting-eaten-by-a-lion part would suck, but the funeral would be legendary!”

At that point, he just hung his head and walked away.  The crowd giggled, and I made it through the rest of the trip without a scratch let alone being eaten by anything.

 As our time wound down, we were preparing to move from northern Uganda back to Entebbe to prepare for our flight out.  The day before we left, the local community did a ‘cultural day’ for us complete with local dance groups and musicians.  It was an incredible day I will never forget.

We left early the next morning, and not long after reaching Entebbe we got the news: Our broken plane was stuck in Greece waiting for parts.  In my traveling life, I’ve noticed that aircraft, especially charter or military, tend to break down in interesting places like Greece, Germany, or Las Vegas.  Rarely do I hear about a plane breaking down in Albania, Armenia, or Hattiesburg, Mississippi.  This gave us some much-needed downtime, but no real timeline for departure. 

Other than a day trip to Kampala and a walk through the local Entebbe Zoo, our days were taken up with an occasional run, a meeting, or a walk to a local restaurant for more goat.  By day three we were starting to get anxious.  I had eaten goat in every possible way.  Fried goat, curried goat, sautéed goat, stuffed goat, goat on a stick, goat on rice, goat au jus, you get the idea. Other than the occasional nightmare about being chased by a Troll, the goat was tasty and filling. 

On day four, my friend called me over to the big table in our meeting room.  “Hey Lance… Check this out!”  He pointed to a spot on a large aerial photo of the Entebbe area.  “Here’s where we are, right?” he said.  “Sure” I answered.  “And here’s the zoo, right?” he quizzed.  “Sure is!” I replied.  Then he pointed to a large area on the map “What does this look like to you?”  “Holy crap” I exclaimed “a golf course!”    Within 20 seconds, we had a foursome assembled and called the course for information.  Yes, they were open, and the fee is 30,000 Shillings (about $16 USD) to play, 30,000 Shillings to rent the clubs, and 3,000 for the Caddy.  We quickly put on whatever clothes we had that could remotely be considered golf attire (jeans and a collared shirt) and headed to the Entebbe Golf Club. With a pocket full of Shillings and a belly full of goat, we were on our way to something we would surely talk about for years… Playing golf in Uganda.

We walked the kilometer or so to the course and strolled into the pro shop with great anticipation… paid the 60,000 Shillings, picked out some worn but suitable clubs, and headed out to the course.  First, I met my assigned Caddy, Sebastian.  I have never used a Caddy before and was a little uneasy about someone else carrying my clubs for me.  Especially someone who appeared to weigh about ½ of what I did.  When approaching the 1^st tee box, I felt better about having a Caddy.  To the left was the ten foot chain link fence for the zoo and on the right was a lot of deep brush.  There were lions behind the single fence and Black Mamba’s in the bush… The Caddy was worth every Shilling.  I did not feel better that he could probably outrun me even carrying the clubs, thus potentially leaving me as an easy meal for the lions. 

Me... Fence... Lion...

 If my map reading skills were correct, the course was directly on the equator.  Even though it was October, it was quite hot and humid. Living in Atlanta, I’m somewhat of an expert on hot and humid.  We all teed off, and proceeded to play an entertaining, though sweaty, round of golf punctuated by many strange and interesting sights. 

Gallery on the 4th tee box

Around about the 4^th fairway, I was lining up my 5 iron when an old Datsun pickup zipped across the fairway about 50 yards in front of me.  Although I have poor distance vision, I could see the unmistakable image of AK’s in the hands of some of the passengers in the bed.  My conversation with Sebastian went something like this:

“Sebastian… Did you see that?”

“Yes Mister Lance, I saw that”

“What was that all about?  Were they rebels?”

 Scenes from ‘The Last King of Scotland’ danced in my head.

“Oh no Mister Lance, not rebels.” He was being very coy. 

 “If not rebels, then who were they?”  My Coriolis-like curiosity had the best of me.

After an uncomfortable pause, he replied “They work for the zoo.”

I had a bad feeling.  “What do they do for the zoo?”

He finally fessed up: “They are hunters brought in by the zoo to catch escaped animals.”

“They have automatic weapons… ” I said “What do you think escaped?”

“Probably a lion.  They get out sometimes because of the holes in the fence.”

I shouldn’t have asked.  I’ve played golf where I’ve been warned about alligators and rattlesnakes, but never lions.  We decided to only play nine holes.

...Into the heart of darkness

 After the round, we hit the clubhouse to cool off.  Legend is that the old Colonial Governor liked to hang out there, and we even sat in his chair.  We turned in our clubs, tipped the Caddy (quite well, deservedly so), and headed back to the hotel. 

Leaving Africa...

A few days later, we finally flew out.  We took off at dawn and the sun was just starting to rise when I glanced out the window of the aging 737.  I could see the golf course, then Kampala, and then banked over Lake Victoria.  Never in my life did I imagine that I would spend a few weeks in Uganda, let alone play golf there.  It is said that once you visit Africa it never leaves you.  I doubt it will ever leave me. 

Rustaveli Avenue

                Shota Rustaveli (1172-1216) wrote the defining piece of early Georgian literature: The Knight of the Panthers Skin.  This epic poem talks of courage and friendship, love and chivalry, and the classic rescue of a princess in distress.  It is entirely proper that the grand thoroughfare that runs through the heart of Tbilisi is named for such a significant contributor to the rich Georgian culture.

                I’ve seen a lot of things on Rustaveli Avenue.  I watched a Russian made Lada automobile burn down to the frame in front of the Tbilisi Marriott Hotel.  I’ve gazed at the Christmas lights as they brought me an aura of peace while walking bundled against the cold December night.  There are families with their young children, old women selling seeds, and young lovers walking hand-in-hand oblivious to the swirl of activity.  I’ve seen concerts and car wrecks, parades and protests, and a dozen small kiosks where you can buy anything from popcorn to magazines to a single cigarette.  

All that said there is something you will never see on Rustaveli Avenue… A left turn.  I have often felt uneasy when the taxi driver whizzed past my turn without paying attention to my protests in a panicked combination of broken Georgian and Russian.  I know the street names in Georgian, but, embarrassingly, the words “left” and “street” only in Russian.  Our collective confusion ends quickly when we reach the unmarked, tacit turnaround near Rose Revolution Square.  Throughout the city, there are many traffic circles governed by some sort of unspoken creed and an occasional traffic signal which will save you from certain peril should you need to turn left.    

                In many ways, a walk down Rustaveli Avenue serves as a metaphor for life.  The wide, grand avenue ventures out boldly from its beginning at what is now called Freedom Square. Like a young man that enters out into the world with such great promise and looked upon proudly by the paternal eyes of a loving father, Rustaveli Avenue triumphantly begins its journey as the tall, golden statue of Saint George towers over the traffic circle where the voyage begins and the statue of the omniscient Mother of Georgia peers over the skyline. 

                Walking the avenue from Freedom Square, you are quickly surrounded by the dichotomy that is Tbilisi.  In an old stone building on the right, shops selling the latest in haute couture and Reebok athletic gear seem as foreign to the architecture as the concept of a ruling Tsar; the imperious sovereign at the time the structure was built.  On the left, the subway station bustles with activity as people move hurriedly back and forth paying little notice to the grandeur around them. 

                 The classic white marble of the Youth Palace seems to shine and contrasts the nearby buildings.  On the sidewalk, booksellers display textbooks, children’s books, and classic literature on long racks sitting out in the open air.  Across the street, the massive Georgian National Museum overwhelms its surroundings.

There are a number of underground crosswalks that are lined with shops offering a convenient way to avoid being struck by a myriad of buses, street cars, taxis, and speeding German sports cars.   Ignoring the underground walkways and sprinting across the street cost me knee surgery #3 after tumbling over a cobblestone trying to shoot the gap between a BMW and a Marshuka.

                Next on the left is the overpowering Parliament building with its imperial topaz colored stone, tall columns, and broad stairway leading into the legislative heart of the government.  There are 20 glass rectangles laid into the stone stairs and sidewalk representing the 20 victims of the April 9th, 1989 massacre that took place during a protest rally against the crumbling Soviet government.  That day is still honored as the Day of National Unity. 

                Across the street is the movie theater where it’s not uncommon to see American movies boldly advertised on posters in Georgian.  No matter what the language, Tom Cruse still looks like Tom Cruse.  The movies are mostly dubbed, and I have to admit I had a hard time adjusting to Will Smith speaking Georgian.  

                The old school sits next to the Parliament and peers across to the old Stone Church. It is said that in the 6^th century, St. David of Garejeli was accused of fathering a child with a nun. Incensed at the accusation, David decreed that she would give birth to a stone, which legend said she did, and that stone was laid at the base of the church. Next to the Church is the National Picture Gallery (Blue Gallery), behind which sits the large April 9^th Park.  Moving further, past the Tbilisi Marriott, Rustaveli Theatre, and Opera House, we now transition to shops, restaurants, banks, and the usual assortment of small stands selling seeds and some even offering a scale in case you want to weigh yourself for a mere 20 Tetri.  There are some quaint cafes and coffee shops, some that set up seating on the sidewalk so you can sit and observe the flurry of humanity passing by.  It’s here on Rustaveli Avenue where I convince myself to sit for a while, and enjoy a beer or a coffee before venturing onward.  Like any grand avenue in any European city, I know full well that if I wandered a block off the main street I would pay much less for that refreshment… but as always, you pay for the view… And it’s worth it.

                Soon the avenue seems to open up in the midst of a broad delta of busy traffic into Rose Revolution Square.  The new Radisson Blu Hotel, built from the skeleton of an old Soviet-era high rise stands gleaming in the sun behind the old Postal Service building.  The deep blue glass catches your eye and you momentarily lose track of where you are, only to focus back on the avenue as it subtly but sublimely changes names and bends left.  Commemorating the finale of this great thoroughfare, a statue of Shota Rustaveli stands tall and proud in a small park hidden ironically between the McDonald’s and the subway station; two iconic symbols of worldly progress and motion.  Like the young man, Rustaveli Avenue started out fast racing through a structured youth dominated by laws and learning, through cultural and spiritual revelation and social charm, towards a wide path leading to the modern, mature life of a gentleman who is confident in where he is going because of where he has been.

                Words can be powerful things.  They have started wars, and ended them; although it seems to take many more to end a war then to start one.  Words can be gracious, loving, and kind; they can be mean, hurtful, and cruel.  They can paint a picture of great beauty and splendor or depict immense ugliness and horror.  They help us through life by syncing our emotions with our physical being.  No matter what the language, words allow us to communicate thoughts great and small to an audience of one to millions.  Perhaps this is why great societies honor those that contribute so significantly to their cultures by naming some of their most elegant things after their poets and writers; Like Rustaveli Avenue.

When power leads man towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses.

John Fitzgerald Kennedy