By the time I left Gori, it was well past midday. The road to Surami was quiet,
winding through sleepy villages and sun-drenched fields. I arrived tired but
content, and found a guesthouse with a veranda, a kitchen, and a spacious
room. It was the kind of place that doesn’t try to impress—it simply offers
comfort.
That evening, I sat on the veranda, watching the light fade. The weight of the
day lingered—not just the kilometres, but the stories. Stalin’s childhood home.
The fortress. The quiet dignity of Surami. I thought about power, about memory,
about the strange intimacy of standing in places where history happened.