And then, there was the food. Oh, the food. Khachapuri, Georgia’s beloved
cheese bread, is comfort incarnate. That morning, I devoured a Penovani
khachapuri—flaky pastry wrapped around molten cheese, topped with a golden
egg. Each bite was a revelation. Later, I savoured pelmeni in a clay pot,
dumplings swimming in broth and sour cream, sealed with a baked dough lid. It
was hearty, humble, and deeply satisfying.
Tbilisi had welcomed me with open arms and full plates. It was a city that didn’t
rush to impress but quietly revealed its magic to those willing to linger. And
linger I did, knowing that the road ahead would be long, but that this—this
moment of stillness and warmth—was the perfect beginning.
The following morning I again woke before the city did. I stood in the little
courtyard of my guesthouse, cradling a steaming cup of coffee, the aroma
curling into the quiet like incense.
Outside, the city stirred slowly. I stepped into the streets, camera slung over one
shoulder, heart wide open. The morning light in Tbilisi has a way of slipping
through the cracks—between shutters, over rooftops, across cobbled lanes—
like a whispered invitation.
Tbilisi, with its fifth-century bones and twenty-first-century heartbeat, unfolded
before me like a palimpsest—layer upon layer of history, memory, and
reinvention.