High in the mountains and monasteries of Georgia
There’s a certain sadness to visiting a tourist area off-season, like roaming the hallways of a school during summer vacation; the grounds of the convent were entirely free of visitors except for us. But as we sat in the smaller of two churches there, we did seem to encounter a ghost of sorts: The door would push slightly open and then close with a bang. It turned out, however, to be the dog who had joined us, trying to nose her way in. Alas, the cathedral was closed for renovation, so we took the hundreds of steps that curved down the hill to a holy spring where St. Nino was said to have prayed; the water now flows through a spout for visitors.
We turned our attention to a dirt road that extended into the distance. A pale white nun emerged from a modest building. It was still early afternoon, so we decided on an adventure, setting off past grazing horses and pomegranate orchards with shriveled, blackened fruits.
Hitting a paved road, where we were greeted by schoolchildren, we passed a cemetery where tombstones featured photo-like images of the deceased (a first for me) and bought snacks in a grocery where the clerk rang us up on an abacus (another first). The 4 lari we spent included two hot dogs I tossed to our canine pal, who leapt, chomped and swallowed each before she hit the ground.
Sakobo was adjacent to the bigger town of Tsnori, whose streets were busy but still rather humdrum. Though the looping Georgian alphabet is as undecipherable to an American as it is beautiful, I did figure out the sign for bakery (the smell gave it away); we pressed our noses against the window, behind which a man stretched boat-shaped pieces of dough and stuck them to the inner walls of a bulbous tandoor. Before long, the man beckoned us in for a close-up look and a free hot loaf of puri, a puffy flatbread - value, half a lari.
Our dog was waiting for us when we came out, but we lost her after a stop for pork ojakhuri - a sizzling, satisfying dish of pork and potatoes - at the empty Europa restaurant, the only “real” restaurant we found in town. It was for the best; she wouldn’t have been allowed in the 7-lari cab we took back to Nana’s.
There was essentially no way to see the sites of Kakheti without hiring a driver, so we ponied up 100 lari for Nana’s husband, Zaza, to drive us the next day. “Zaza quiet man,” said Nana, and we soon found out why: He spoke zero English and would simply pull up the car in front of attractions, point in the direction we were supposed to go, and smoke as he awaited our return.
At our first stop, Zaza pointed us through the woods to the ninth-century Kvelatsminda church, notable for its unusual double domes. Its brick interior rose three stories, with light poking in through arched windows above; on the ground level, golden icons hung on the walls and tombstones were inscribed with gorgeous Georgian calligraphy. The priest or monk who opened the door for us was picture perfect, with a long, straight salt and pepper beard and flowing brown robe. As a final adorable touch, his three puppies bounded toward us as we left the church. But that was enough for dogs and churches. We wanted wine.