An Alaskan on the Black Sea

Batumi's bike share system was still in its infancy, so I decided to support a local business. I rented a rust-covered junk from a one-armed man by the beach. He adjusted the seat for me with a socket wrench, some dexterity, and his teeth. It was impressive. While biking alongside the boardwalk's bird zoo, I met an English-speaking Turk, also on a rust-covered junk. She was on vacation.

“I heard the wine is very good here,” Toluna said to me, her red hair flopping in the wind.

“I hate to disappoint. It's usually gross,” I said, “but I'm optimistic.” I'd been volunteering here for two months now, and despite Georgia's reputation, much of the wine had been strange and foul--like cranberries and turpentine. However, I'd heard of a corner store in Batumi's Old Town that sold choice stuff. We walked from store to store, asking in bad Georgian where they sold authentic village wine.

Amidst the clock towers and cobblestone streets, we gaped at the stranger sights. There's Alphabet Tower, a UFO on stilts. It lights up at night. There's a big Ferris wheel in an industrial junkyard. That lights up at night. There's a glass tower topped by a golden rhino horn. That lights up at night. There's the jagged Radisson Blu, which looks the way a normal skyscraper would, were it a cartoon character flattened by a falling piano, only to spring back up in an accordion fold with tweeting birds above its head. It lights up at night. The Soviet gangsters who'd planned the town seemed eager to convince you that, yes, Georgia is a Very Modern Country.

Finally we found it, tucked between an Orthodox church and an iPhone repair store. The owner, a smiling monkey of a man, waved us in.

“Is here good wine?” I asked, grammarless.

He went behind the counter to a refrigerator and pulled out a coke bottle. The label had been ripped off, and in its place, someone had hand-written “wine” on some masking tape. He twisted the cap and stopped at the hiss of escaping air. “Ho!” he exclaimed. He pulled the cap off with drama, smelled the air, closed his eyes. “Uff, mmm.” He brushed the air with the back of his hand, as if to dismiss the competition. He opened his eyes, performance complete, and smiled. “Kai mshrali.” Good wine. We laughed, paid and returned to the pebble beach, where the one-armed man stood as sentinel against the setting sun. He nodded at our choice of wine. Toluna and I sat on the beach. The Black Sea in front of us, the lights of Batumi behind us. It was delicious.