The Trinity of Mtskheta

Some millennium-and-a-half ago, the mountain peak where the Jvari Monastery of Mtskheta now stands was bald. Until a woman, St. Nino, stuck a cross at its highest point, drawing in questioning pagans en masse for conversions via her ministry. Today, the monastery stands resilient, still serving the same function, but swap pagans for tourists—bus loads of mostly Russians and Chinese these days, curious at the ancient Orthodox monument.

Light shines through the window openings inside, illuminating the drifting dust particles; one monk-priest chants while another sits quietly, observing people dropping coins into a small box and taking candles for their own prayers. It’s the standard gentle chaos of a Georgian church, and in a place where the age itself makes for the mysticism, as the murals have long faded and the outer walls long crumbled.

Down below, you can see the holy city of Mtskheta parked between the tight confluence of the Aragvi and Mtvari rivers. The Aragvi coming from the highlands, something pure and unblemished, crystalline waters that are perfect for the breweries further up north. The Mtkvari, muddy, polluted with the rubbish of dozens of towns and villages across Georgia and Türkiye, and with the runoff from the manganese mines of Chiatura and its black Kvirila River.

The confluence of the Aragvi and Mtkvari

The hills here are carved in steep trenches, with narrow ridges making the upper reliefs. I looked across the valley and saw a small wedding on one such ridge, daring the wind not to make off with a hat or veil. The wedding arch made an Insta-perfect view of Svetitskhoveli Cathedral far down below.

A wedding on the ridge

Jvari is part of the holy trinity of tourist destinations that every Tbiliseli Georgian will take a foreign guest on if given the chance. The other two places are Svetitskhoveli in the center of Mtskheta and Salobie, just outside of town. All three holy places in their own right.

As such, let’s take a quick tour of Mtskheta and the cathedral too. Though last weekend I only managed to squeeze in Jvari and Salobie, but c’est la vie, mes amis.

Mtskheta

It was one of the first capitals of Kartli and one of the oldest, continuously occupied cities in the world, with a founding date of sometime in the 2nd millennium BC. So old that the pagans (you know, the ones that were gathering around in interest at that strange lady on the hill propping up a cross) attributed its founding to the legendary founder of their people, Kartlos.

That’s, of course, the Netflix version, while historians generally just attribute the city to the Meskhian Georgians, since their name sounds like the city. And if that were the case, the city would be much younger, having been founded with their migration at around 500 BC. Either way, it’s pretty friggin’ old.

There’s not much to do in town other than the trinity of tourism that I mentioned (there is also the Samtavro Convent and part of an old bridge they say was built by a time traveling Pompeius Magnus, since the bridge is likely only 200 years or so old). Much of the center has been redone in “Georgian old town style”, with some newly cobbled streets lined with arts, crafts, and cheap plastic Chinese toys, making a kind of pilgrims’ walk to the cathedral.

Given the nice Georgian Old Town Style reconstruction, it also rivals Sighnaghi, City of Love, for wedding destinations, where a wedding signing building was constructed just for that purpose on the square outside Svetitskhoveli.

Svetitskhoveli Cathedral

Svetitskhoveli (Svet-its-throatclearing-o-vell-ee) is the big thing in Mtskheta. Literally. It towers over the entire town and is visible from all around, even the highway where the cars whizz by up the hill across the river.

The story goes that back in the time of Jesus, there was a Georgian in the crowd of His admirers. This man, named Elias, ended up with Jesus’s robe after the crucifixion (not His shroud, mind you, that’s an entirely different thing). He brought it back home to his sister Sidonia, who was so overwhelmed by its holiness that she naturally drops dead while clutching it. As nobody could pry it from her dead hands, she was buried with it.

And like with so many good religious stories, a tree grew at that place.

A few centuries later, St. Nino, who I mentioned above, came around, and decided that this tree marked the spot to build a church to Our Lord. They chopped it down and, from the wood, built six pillars, while the seventh they had meant to place hung in the air. It soon came down, with myrrh oozing out, and became known as the “Life-Giving Pillar” (which is what the name of the church translates to).

The current construction

The wood church was short-lived though and was soon replaced in the 5th century with a stone structure and then was greatly expanded in the 11th century in a story you can read about by Konstantin Gamsakhurdia, called The Right Hand of the Master.

Konstantin was out pondering why there was a big right hand carved into a stone block near the top of the church. And whether he gathered local legend or came up with it himself, it follows the tragic story of most famous architects of the past.

See the hand on the left under the arch?

The legend goes like this: After Arsukidze, the Grandmaster mason, finished his masterpiece, King Giorgi I was so impressed he had Arsukidze’s hand chopped off so he couldn’t build anything so magnificent.

Konstantin’s version, which is a little more believable, is that King Giorgi was so impressed about Arsukidze’s boldness in sleeping with the local hottie, that the king had his main man’s hand chopped off.

And to add an additional layer of meaning, both the Life-Giving Pillar and the church it was named for, represents a single, united Georgia, and as such is one of the holiest places in the country. Giorgi I didn’t have much left to unite, since his father King Bagrat III did most of the heavy lifting on that by 1008. But at least he was able to build the primary symbol of the nation’s unity. And just as he built upon a pre-existing foundation with the church, so did he with the nation in solidifying the dynastic rule.

The architecture

The cathedral is a classic Georgian cross-dome and has through history been plagued by fires, invaders, earthquakes, and more. Little of Arsukidze’s creation still exists, as much has been repaired over the years, hence the spotty carvings and mismatched bricks (the same violent and tragic story told on many churches across Georgia).

The gatehouse

The interior

The ground is paved with the graves of fallen kings and heroes of Georgian history, and this was the place most were crowned during their lives long before. On the rare occasion that the place is empty of tourists (good luck with that), you can almost feel the mysticism dripping form the ghost of the bleeding pillar.

The Life-Giving Pillar on the right

And that place is marked too: there’s another mini-chapel, house right, that stands over the place where they cut down the tree in St. Nino’s time, and thus also marks the spot of Christ’s garment.

The walls are somewhat of a patchwork.

Throughout the ages, the interiors of Georgian churches were covered in beautiful and colorful frescoes from floor to ceiling. But this was not in the Russian fashion, and all people whom the Russians love must of course follow their fashion. So, when Tsar Nicolas I decided to visit the holiest place of Georgia in the 1830s, they decided to spruce the place up to not offend his holiness and painted everything white.

Unfortunately, the Holy Tsar never showed up and they painted it all for nothing. But in later restorations, they managed to uncover some fragments.

You can see various Biblical scenes up to 400 years old, towards the dome you can see Christ Pantokrator (i.e., the Almighty), and to the back right, a 13th century “Beast of the Apocalypse” which features zodiac signs.

Christ Pantokrator, Christ Almighty

Jvari Monastery of Mtskheta

Another legend has it that from the royal palace, they had dug a tunnel under the river and up the hill, so that the royal family could escape in case of invaders. That tunnel exited at Jvari Monastery, a place nearly as holy as Svetitskhoveli. There is no evidence of the tunnel though, and no cool climb downs (I did climb through a tunnel nearly as crazy as that sounds at a Crusader castle in Israel).

Jvari is where we started the trip last weekend, with that grand view down.

The story goes that St. Nino (the one who had the original Svetitskhoveli built), had become good friends with King Mirian III, whom she was teaching about Christianity. And after his conversion, she set up a big wooden cross at the top of this hill declaring the victory of Christ over paganism.

A small church was built around the cross in the 6th century, and then the larger church of today in the 7th century. Jvari is a “four-apsed church with four-niches” and resembles something more like a Byzantine Church than other churches you might see in Georgia today. But for some time, Georgian churches did copy Jvari, and you see the style pop up in a few other places (e.g., Dzveli Shuamta and Manglisi Sioni).

Jvari Monastery

The strangest thing about the architecture of Jvari is the interior, where you can find a large, earthen mound filling the center. This marks the exact spot where St. Nino placed her cross and is still adorned with a wooden cross (a fancy new one, not the original).

That’s where the name comes from too, “Jvari”, which means “cross” in Georgian.

Salobie

Depending on who you’re with, it’s hard to tell which of the trinity is most beloved on the trip. Where Jvari and Svetitskhoveli are 80 percent packed with foreign tourists and 20 percent packed with Georgian ones, the former are largely disseminated by the various overpriced fares placed around town while the Georgians all split to hit Salobie.

“Salobie” (sa-lobe-ee-eh) in Georgian means, “place of beans”, or perhaps, “Bean House”. As such, beans must be ordered. And its fitting, because beans are a holy meal, becoming the main staple during the long haul that is the Great Fast before Easter. But at Salobie, they don’t only serve beans, as they also serve all the classic Georgian peasant food, at prices that can hardly be beat anywhere in the country.

Back to the translation. It’s specifically the “place of lobio”, and lobio can be described, as one American I was with put it, “like something almost like Mexican refried beans”. It’s long stewed beans, served here in the traditional clay pot. Properly you should order it with the mchadi on top of it like a cap. As hungry as I was, I failed to take a picture of it, so here I’ll post an after pic where you can see empty clay pots. And also to be honest, usually I'm out with friends and not so concerned about the blog. And then when I finally think about, shemogvichame (or something that I think means "we accidentally ate it all").

Empty clay pots that were once full of lobio

The place has been around for ages, perhaps even predating the Soviet era. Who knows. The place is huge, has tons of outdoor seating, and the indoor seating is very “ethnic chic”.

So, if you’re in Mtskheta making the pilgrimage to St. Nino’s cross, or paying your respects to Georgian heritage—whatever be your wiles—and you get hungry, then ditch the tourist fare and go where the locals go: the Bean House.

Coming to Tbilisi (Again)

Returning to Tbilisi has not been without its thrills. When coming to a developing country—especially with a child—you’ve got to expect some ups and downs. As our furniture wasn’t due to arrive in another three weeks since it had set sail from Antwerp rather than fly along with us, it meant we would be living in a basically empty apartment. And with a child and wife, after so long, it leads to a mild form of depression, mild in the same way as that fungus they found in the milk here this week.

Don’t get me wrong. Living without furniture isn’t that bad. It’s the wait that’s bad. It’s the fact that we don’t have anything we can do about it. It’s not something I can fix. No matter what we occupy ourselves with—painting walls, getting rid of old crap, fixing toilets/sinks/closets—we’re still unable to make ourselves more comfortable.

Then we get the notice that it will be a week late. Aaaand then again.

And it's double something I can’t set about fixing. At least if we simply had no furniture, we could run down to Saba Furniture Bazar and undo that for cheap. But here we have furniture coming.

Just not yet.

I hate that.

Making upgrades with the kid

We decided then it’s the best time to upgrade some of our house “features”. Namely, there was a hole in the paint in the ceiling due to past water damage, some damaged floorboards from when we installed the radiators years ago, a doorway we wanted to make between the kitchen and living room, and some paint to freshen up the place.

Naturally, while the place was empty and we were waiting for furniture, this was the best time.

For the work we couldn’t do, like sanding the floors, fixing the ceiling, and some various holes that required a hammer drill, we’d have to get professional help. Which isn’t always available/easy to find in Tbilisi.

It’s like Future USA in this regard.

That is to say, there are a lot of people without jobs who buy a drill or wrench thinking handyman work is easy enough.

And then they do wretched jobs, like the abomination that was done to my floorboards that covered the pipes connecting the radiators in the living room and the bathroom.

Like, man, I could have done that shoddy-ass job myself, that’s why I called you!

So how do you know the pros from the not-so-pros?

Luckily, Uber has inspired a whole generation of service apps. Here in Tbilisi, there’s Mister Master and Profy. Mister Master was the old go-to service, but I find Profy has a much better UI and the ability to rate the work of the handyman is great. It sucks for those starting out, but for guys who are doing regular and good work—power to them.

And so we took advantage of the empty apartment, made a hole int he wall, and started to paint.

Moving pains

As I write this, we’re still waiting for the furniture. We have a small desk, a small patio-furniture table, and two mattresses for our abundance of comfort.

Then in Tbilisi buildings, they often have this weird elevator system.

See that thing?

That is a coin box, I kid you not. It’s not uncommon for Tbilisi elevators to have them, especially when you’re not living in some posh hood, but with the real people, fam

Where in most countries, the residents of the building might cooperate in some sort of Homeowners Association, Syndic, or Commune structure with common fees that pay for this much taken-for-granted kind of thing, not Georgia.

In Georgia, it’s everyone for themselves.

It’s yell at each other in the stairwell and make cardboard fortress structures in the hallway like we’re kids at war (I-kid-you-not).

As it’s an extreme rarity for any neighbor to agree with any other neighbor here, getting money for collective causes like elevators, paint jobs, or parking lot updates is well-nigh impossible. The only time an upgrade to the building area might come your way is if elections are coming up and the local government is trying to win some incumbent votes by way of last-minute projects.

Four more years, and maybe we can get a tag-operated lift…

Childcare in Tbilisi

Add on top of all that, the little rugrat is getting restless. He needs his toys, his running around, some peers. 

Back in Brussels, childcare is magical. They provide it for free, and the daycare is actually pretty quality. At least ours was (Adolphe Max for those who are looking, never mind the aggressive German-sounding name). Not only did it help him make friends in an environment he wouldn’t naturally, since neither one of us were from Brussels, it helped him learn French. So that was cool.

In Tbilisi, they do offer public kindergarten, but it gets out at 13:00. Which doesn’t help a working-full-time family.

That leaves private kindergarten, which comes with a price tag.

Our little one doesn’t yet know Georgian (though he should). And frankly, after seeing his astronomical progress with French, I’m quite convinced the best way for him to learn Georgian is just to chuck him into a room full of other Georgian kids and have at it.

There are some English language (Georgian-American School) and French language (Ecole Francaise) options (which are all, of course, in the same neighborhood of Vake), and those are probably at a higher standard than the Georgian private kindergartens, but that’d also mean he’d be at a loss for Georgian. Luckily, the one we found seems phenomenal (pm me for deets). It’s got a Lego room, a “soft” gym, a “hard” gym, and an outdoor playground in all of their branches.

Not to mention five meals that our little one refuses to eat.

Adjusting to kindergarten

We expected it to take about a week for him to adapt. He still misses his friends and there is naturally a huge language pressure. It’s nice that with voip apps these days, it’s easy to have a quick call with his old mates and discuss snakes, ball sizes, and whatever else is super important in the minds of toddlers.

The first day at kindergarten/maternelle/whateveritscalled they came home soon after leaving. He was already crying after every moment that my wife tried to tear away. But each day after, and with much bribing with doudous (stuffed animals), he finally began to adjust.

I couldn’t help but feel some sympathy for the wifey (as perhaps husbands should feel). That was my job back in Brussels when our roles were swapped. I still remember the little two-year-old running down the stairs and trying to escape the creche (daycare), shrieking in tears.

That was a real struggle, man. And I knew right then that some sacrifices would have to be made. That I would never be able to do my job at full capacity (though as it was remote, I didn’t really have to tell them cough, which is probably why I ended up unemployed).  

But as Georgia, like any small country, has so many connections to other countries, it was just a matter of time before he discovered a few other English-speaking kids.

Though that makes his time at school easier, I just hope it doesn’t prevent him from picking up Georgian language. Else we’ll have to send him back to the farm with his grandparents.

Want to learn some travel with kids hacks and read more about my own failures? Of course you do! Check out my latest book on Amazon, A Facetious Guide to Traveling with a Kid. Get it today! Support a man, feed a family, make your preggo gypsy friend have a laugh.

And for a slightly different version of this:

Moving out of Brussels (and into the chaos)

The time has come for us to leave Brussels. Of course, we always knew the time would come eventually, since my wife was on a contract assignment good for a limited time only. Knowing this in advance keeps you somewhat off-put, like watching the city and its life through Netflix or a really good novel. And maybe that’s why I’m predisposed to write travel books and blogs, because for me life is somewhat of a travel book.

As an outsider, I have to try extra hard to experience the best parts of a city, whether that’s the people, food, places, or simply the sense of its being or its aroma. But it’s an extra-hard trial that has all kinds of limiting factors, like world-ravishing plagues, tantrumatic children, and the impending feeling of doom brought about by the news cycle or social media.

There are ways I’ve learned to deal with it—to drop into social scenes nearly automatically (though these are counteracted by reason: tantrumatic child). I’ve found playing accordion—indeed, any instrument—is such an easy way to make friends. When in Prague, I played regularly at open mics, which got me into a band and a close-knit network of some really good lads, and in Brussels I played and helped arrange the sound and music for a few Ukrainian fundraisers that got me meeting a string of friendly folks and my two closest Brusselois mates.

But then lethargy, injury, and fatherhood were some setbacks that were constantly pushing against my need for networking, and my no longer having regular job hit at the most inopportune time: When I had let my networking efforts fall totally lax. Never again, I say!

Feelings about the city

We dropped in on the city during covidtimes, and then my kid was also very needy in his early years, as they tend to be. These two factors gave me a difficult impression of the city. Of course, every city was a bit boring during COVID, with the disease ravishing social life and settings. The biggest events I could look forward to were watching the weekly protests pass below my window and the ensuing battle with the police that would happen after the blackguard anarchist protesters brought up the tail end. Amusing pastime, but ultimately useless.

Covid protest getting crazy at the 50

For a writer like myself, I rely on people for inspiration, whether it’s the stranger or the old friend whose gab is loosened up by a drop of whiskey or three. But after the city began to open up and I made a few friends and explored some neighborhoods, the city began to warm to me.

Brussels is a city of sidewalk cafes, of eclectic architecture, of some of the most beautiful, townhomes and tree-lined streets in the world, alongside some of the most blasé and mismatched planning atrocities (I even say that living now in a post-Soviet city).

Thoughts on how it impacts the kid

Moving is hard on kids. And I would even have liked simply to stay in Brussels, even watching our bank accounts dip into the negative, just for my kid. He’s as fluent as a five-year-old gets in French now, he’s got his first set of friends…

I remember it was hard when his best friend had moved to Paris. He kept asking to hang out with him and when he was going to be back. Even after six or seven months, which surprised me, since I didn’t know that kids even had that long of a memory (but then again, he had been friends for that long too).

the kid helping us move

Before he was busy all the time. With daycare, he got to hang out and spend time with other kids, which I think is paramount to being a kid. Say what you want about your feelings of institutionalized  childcare, but the socialization aspect alone is what makes it stellar. He’s constantly occupied, learning new things, making friends, and learning to conduct himself within his peer group, something he doesn’t at all get with us.

Now that we’ve moved, it’s just us. And we’re working on the house and finding new jobs, while he’s begging us to play. I don’t want to sound selfish about it, but in order for him to get proper play time—and here I agree with him, he should have more play time—he needs to be in an environment with other children.

If you’re a parent, what are your thoughts on that?

How to move from Brussels

Now, to the real nitty-gritty of this blog, one everyone can identify with. Moving in Brussels. Like everything in Belgium, it’s an overly complicated process, full of bureaucratic nonsense and lots of hidden fees.

The moving process: Booking the lift

The first step, after agreeing with your landlord that you’re leaving, is booking the lift. You see, in Belgium, the interior elevator (when there is one) is almost always tiny. Just a few people can squeeze in at a time. And when there is a larger elevator, almost always there’s a rule barring residents from using it to bring up their furniture—which nearly everyone always breaks anyway.

In order to do this, you have to know which city administration site to use. If you’re in Etterbeek, for example, you might have to use IRISbox, if you’re in Brussels (proper), then Osiris. For the other neighborhoods of Brussels, which are actually cities themselves, then you’ll have to do a quick Google search. But you should know the correct one, because that is the portal you also use for your healthcare, kid’s education, and so on. Except in our case, where we were right on the edge of Etterbeek and Brussels and seemed to have to use a separate system for every service.

the van and the lift

So, for Etterbeek, you need to book it 7 days in advance and that’s a one-stop service.

For Brussels, you first have to apply for the right to park (which is free and via OSIRIS) and then to reserve the parking using “panneaux”, those little signs they put out that bans parking from one time to the next, and that’s done through their other city site. And you have to do that within 10 working days.

panneaux forbidden parking after this point

panneaux forbidden parking until this point

We assumed we were in Etterbeek and applied 10 days in advance. The next day, Etterbeek replied that we should apply to Brussels. That was already past their 10 days! We applied anyway, contacted them, they said everything was okay and to let them know if there were no panneaux on Friday (we had the moving guys on Sunday).

Friday came.

Nothing.

We called. We emailed.

Nobody.

Luckily, there were no real parking spots in front of our apartment building anyway. Unluckily, people tend to park there anyway. Luckily, on that Sunday, nobody parked there, and we made the process smoothly.

The état des lieux and your deposit

For Brusselois, you might remember the first time you moved in, there was an inspector guy (the process is called an "état des lieux" or "condition of the place") going through the condition of the flat. Well, the inspector comes by at your move-out too, and tells the landlord in detail all the ways that the flat has changed, after which he offers his unwarranted opinion on how much of the deposit that landlord gets to keep.

Suffice it to say, this guy is not popular among renters.

We paid a two-month deposit, and because of the floor wearing down with an office chair (after a few months, we then saw it and covered it with a rug to not cause further damage), he deducted a month’s rent from the deposit! Ouch. Not sure why I bothered getting the rug.

Lesson learned though: Modern floors are weak. Nothing bothers our Soviet parquet in Tbilisi.

Don’t overstuff your bags

Next step was to sleep on our mattresses on the floor, where for a week we lived like Fentanyl addicts in a squat, with random clothes, suitcases, and other movers’ detritus sprawled out across the floor. With no furniture, it’s surprising how quickly something turns into a general mess.

This is when we found out we badly mismeasured how much luggage we’d need to check. Stuffing things one after the other into suitcases, we realized we had to buy a few more. We had chosen Lufthansa to fly with, for this benefit: you pay per extra suitcase. But with Turkish, for example, you pay per extra kilo. That itself made Lufthansa the better choice (though flying with them nowadays is almost like flying with Wizzair: no free food, no drinks, no TV screens, bleh… American brand carriers seem to have caught up with and passed Euro-brand in quality).

So, extra cheap Chinese luggage (you can actually find good prices on Rue Neuve, believe it or not, just not in Inno).  And I'll have to say, with an extra-large duffel (and fees to match), I was able to safely pack my widescreen curved monitor. I had the original packaging, carved out the styrofoam to just make a shell, and then packed clothes all around it, lining the bag with the original cardboard. And it worked!

The only thing we didn't think to bring was the car seat, not realizing how useful it would be to have even not having a car in Tbilisi. We evidently know a lot of people with cars. The last time we brought a carseat with us, it got lost in the lala land of airport luggage, but then I discovered having a carseat cover with wheels (like this one) would have saved us a lot of trouble. So if you're doing a lot of traveling and renting or riding with friends when you land, you can just take the car seat with you.

Our Indiana Jones supply route

From the lift to the van, our stuff drove up to Antwerp, where we met it in a truckyard. From there, I helped move it into a marshrutka (a utility van for the Russophobes out there), where the movers must have been experts at tetris, as they were able to fit our entire two-bed apartment into the small space.

After we left, the marshrutka was scheduled to be driven onto a boat, and the boat will meet us at customs in Batumi in a few weeks and then onward to our apartment. This kind of import/export is a common method in Georgia, especially when it comes to automotives. Anyone looking to ship large items often teams up with a shipping company importing cars, since the cars and vans can hold it.

The route

Anyway, from living on the floor of one apartment to an old, worn-out couch of another, isn’t the best of conditions. But we’ve almost completed the term, and we’ll be back to normal blogging and videoing then. Until then, bear with me and grab a copy of my upcoming book, A Facetious Guide to Traveling with a Kid. It’s more than just a collection of tips we’ve experienced, also a lot of anecdotes, fails, and general facetiousness.