Identity troubles

Last month readers joined me on a trip to Baku and the shores of the Caspian Sea. I also mentioned my stay in Tbilisi, Georgia, in the foothills of the Caucasian Mountains, but didn’t go into detail. This month—and next—that’s what I am going to do. I have a long tale to tell, where small details count. Read on to get the big picture…

The day of my departure for Tbilisi began early, or late—depending on your point of view. I was up before 3 in the morning, caught a taxi to the airport (no public transportation in Paris at that time of day), and then boarded a 5:30 flight to Kiev, where I would transfer to another plane to carry me to my final destination.

The airport in Kiev plunged me into the world of the Cyrillic alphabet. I spent the three hours of my layover deciphering ads, trying to understand words, and studying phrases in my Russian phrase book. I was under the illusion that in Tbilisi most people would speak Russian and a few basic phrases would serve me well.

When we boarded our plane, most of the passengers were speaking Ukrainian. Flying the national Ukrainian airline, they also knew the ropes. No complimentary food, no drinks, not even coffee; just one small glass of water and no refills. I’d found this out on the Paris-Kiev flight, my dreams of coffee and a roll dashed once the plane was in the air. My fellow passengers on the Tbilisi flight had come prepared. Bags of food, even some meals from McDonald’s and KFC. The plane smelled like an American fast-food restaurant, and the Big Mac the mother and daughter next to me were sharing was beginning to look pretty good.

Our plane landed in Tbilisi in the late afternoon. We claimed our luggage, passengers dispersed, I withdrew some money at a bank machine (the national currency is the lari), and I walked outside with the intention of catching a bus into town.

Immediately, however, a man came up to me and offered to take me into the city (a trip of about 12 miles) in a taxi. He named a price that, compared to Parisian prices, was cheap; I accepted and followed him to his car, a Japanese SUV. I noticed the steering wheel was on the right though Georgians, like Americans, drive on the right side of the road. This was my first contact with the thriving market in used cars imported from Japan, where, like in Britain, drivers drive on the left side of the road.

When we arrived in a neighborhood of rundown Soviet-built apartment blocks, the driver was convinced I had the wrong address. This was not a place where tourists stayed! I insisted (I had studied Google maps before leaving home) and even showed him the way to the building where I’d rented a flat.

A few minutes later, I was inside “my” apartment, and I was delighted. I had a view of mountains and the roar of the city seemed far away. I was also hungry. Eight hours earlier in Kiev, I’d eaten a hotdog, my sole meal of the day.

I headed out on a recognizance mission in my new neighborhood. Only once in the street did I realize how tired I was. I did manage to buy some of the delicious local bread, freshly baked and hot in my hands, tomatoes and cucumbers, olive oil and feta cheese. I also found a honey store and bought some fragrant mountain honey. I was set. I went home, took a shower, dined on simple, delicious food, and went to bed. The next morning at 9, my job as a visiting professor at Tbilisi State University was to begin.

I awoke refreshed, breakfasted on bread and honey, and prepared to pack my book bag: computer, some papers, and finally, the little pouch containing my passport, bank card, and extra cash. There was just one problem. I couldn’t find it. My throat went dry. I ripped the apartment apart searching. No, I couldn’t find it anywhere.

And time was passing. I had to leave. I had a class to teach. Once again, thanks to an on-line map, I found my way to a bus stop and got on a bus supposed to drop me at the front door of the university.

Before leaving France, I’d been told that in Tbilisi, “everyone” speaks English, and everything would be written in English. After less than 24 hours in the city, I’d already discovered this was not true. As for busses, information was written in the squiggly letters of the Georgian alphabet (for example, Tbilisi looks like this: თბილისი). Luckily, I could recognize the numbers: bus 51. I hopped on.

We sped across a bridge over the river Kura, crossed a huge square, and I panicked. Where did I get off? I looked around, saw a young woman, probably a student, and asked her in English. Next stop, she said.

I got off outside a university. I walked up the steps and went inside. Classroom 212, my correspondent had told me. I found the room and the students. I told them who I was. They burst out laughing: right room, wrong university. Theirs was an engineering school! Worse still, no one spoke English well enough to tell me where to go.

Finally, a security guard, in very good English, directed me to another university further down the road. I set off at a run along an 8-lane boulevard and sweating, shaking, arrived at another Classroom 212 only to find the door locked. Students, though, were waiting. One got the key. We went inside.

I poured out my story, and the lovely young women who were my students felt very sorry for me. Telling calmed me, and once the story was out of my system, I got busy and taught. When class was over, my correspondent, a professor from Tbilisi, was waiting for me. I told her about my loss. She shrugged her shoulders—it wasn’t her problem—and sent me back out into the streets, almost penniless and with no “official” identity.

Thank goodness for Lela, one of the students. She followed me and offered to lend me some money.

I caught another bus (the ticket cost about 20 cents), went home, searched again. No passport, no money, no bank card, everything gone.

Thus began my life in Tbilisi. I had less than ten dollars in my pocket and I’d been stripped of my identity… (to be continued in July).