Tbilisi: A Maze of Wine and Warmth

May 2022

Tbilisi doesn’t let you just visit—it pulls you in, spins you around, and leaves you dizzy with its charm. I arrived in Georgia’s capital with a vague plan: wander the old town, maybe find a decent khachapuri. What I didn’t expect was to get gloriously lost in its labyrinthine streets, each corner a collision of crumbling Soviet facades, Ottoman arches, and neon signs hawking cheap wine. The city feels like a diary left open, its pages stained with history and spilled chacha.

I started in the Old Town, where the streets twist like a drunk poet’s thoughts. My map was useless; every alley led to another, lined with wooden balconies that looked ready to collapse but somehow held firm. I wandered past churches with domes like cracked eggshells, their frescoes fading but fierce. The air smelled of sulfur from the bathhouses, a reminder of Tbilisi’s hot springs, and occasionally, the scent of fresh bread wafted from a hole-in-the-wall bakery. I was aiming for Narikala Fortress, but direction felt irrelevant. The city seemed to say, “Forget your plans, just walk.”

That’s how I stumbled into a supra, the traditional Georgian feast that’s less a meal and more a marathon of toasts and emotions. I’d taken a wrong turn near Meidan Bazaar and heard laughter spilling from a courtyard. A man with a mustache like a broom waved me over. “Come, eat!” he bellowed, as if I’d been invited all along. His name was Giorgi, a taxi driver with a penchant for storytelling. Over a table groaning with khinkali dumplings, pkhali spreads, and jugs of amber wine, he and his friends welcomed me—a stranger with a notebook—into their fold.

Interview with Giorgi, the Taxi Driver

Giorgi, 48, has lived in Tbilisi his whole life. Over a glass of homemade wine, he shared his take on the city. “Tbilisi is like a big family,” he said, his eyes crinkling. “We fight, we love, we cry, but we always come together. The supra is our heart—you can’t understand Georgia without it.” He explained how the city’s mix of Persian, Russian, and Soviet influences shapes its identity. “We’re not just one thing. We’ve been invaded, rebuilt, torn apart, but we keep singing.” His favorite spot? A tiny bridge over the Mtkvari River at dusk, where the city’s lights flicker like a promise. “Go there,” he urged. “Feel Tbilisi breathe.”

The supra lasted hours, each toast a mini-sermon—to family, to Georgia, to lost friends. I tried keeping up, sipping wine that tasted like earth and sunshine, but I was outclassed. Giorgi laughed at my attempt to fold a khinkali properly, showing me how to twist the dough to trap the broth. “You’re Georgian now,” he joked, slapping my back. I left with a full stomach and a fuller heart, the kind of warmth that lingers long after the wine wears off.

Skip the crowded Rustaveli Avenue and head to the Dry Bridge Market, where vendors sell everything from Soviet medals to hand-painted icons. It’s a treasure hunt, chaotic and unpolished. For a quieter escape, hike up to the Mother of Georgia statue at dawn. The view of Tbilisi’s red roofs and green hills feels like a secret the city’s sharing just with you. If you’re craving a quirky detour, check out the Leaning Clock Tower in the Old Town—a rickety, fairytale-like structure that looks like it’s had one too many chachas.

Reflections on Culture, Food, and Habits

Tbilisi’s culture is a paradox: fiercely traditional yet open to strangers. The supra embodies this—hospitality is non-negotiable, but it’s not performative. It’s as if Georgians have decided life’s too short for small talk, so they go straight for the soul. The food mirrors this: bold, unapologetic, messy. Khachapuri, with its gooey cheese and egg yolk, is less a dish and more an experience, demanding you dive in with both hands. Locals eat slowly, savoring every bite, a habit that feels like a rebellion against the rush of modern life.

The city’s rhythm is another story. Tbilisi doesn’t hurry. Cafés stay open late, filled with people debating politics or poetry over qvevri wine. Yet there’s a restless energy, a sense that the city’s still figuring itself out after centuries of upheaval. You see it in the graffiti on Soviet-era buildings, in the mix of hipster bars and ancient churches. Tbilisi doesn’t just tell you its history—it makes you feel it, like a pulse under your feet.

By the time I left, I realized Tbilisi isn’t a place you “see.” It’s a place you live, even if just for a few days. It’s the kind of city that leaves you a little changed, a little braver, and a lot hungrier for more.

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