The old town was a living museum. Twisting alleyways led me past buildings
that leaned into each other like old friends, their facades faded but proud. I
remembered these streets from seventeen years ago, but they felt different now
—more worn, more alive, more urgent in their beauty.
There was a quiet dignity in the decay. A kind of resilience. And amidst it all,
signs of renewal: scaffolding, fresh plaster, the hum of restoration. Tbilisi was
not frozen in time—it was evolving, but carefully, like someone rearranging
heirlooms on a shelf.
Again, I passed elderly women dressed in black, their movements deliberate,
their faces unreadable. They shuffled to markets with cloth bags and quiet
purpose, pausing to exchange murmured greetings. In a world obsessed with
speed, their pace felt radical. Sacred, even.
That night, I wandered the streets again, the city now glowing under amber
lights. Musicians played on corners, their melodies weaving through the air like
smoke. I felt both foreign and at home, a visitor and a witness. Tbilisi had
opened its arms not with fanfare, but with quiet grace.
I returned to my guesthouse and sat beneath the flickering light of a single bulb,
scribbling notes into my journal. Outside, the city exhaled. I listened to its breath
and thought: this is why I travel—not just to move, but to be moved.