Still, the hostel was worth it. Budget-friendly, buzzing, and brimming with
travellers from every corner of the globe. I arrived sweaty and breathless,
expecting solitude, and instead found a vibrant community. Among them was a
South African artist now living in Russia, he’s stories as layered and textured as
the paintings he described. We swapped tales over laundry and tea, each
conversation a thread in the tapestry of shared experience.
That night, I sat around the common table, surrounded by laughter, languages,
and the quiet hum of connection. Kutaisi had offered me more than shelter—it
had offered belonging.
Cycle touring is often solitary. You ride alone, think alone, eat alone. But
sometimes, you arrive at a place where the walls are thin and the stories spill
over. Friends Hostel was one of those places. A pause in the journey. A
reminder that even on the loneliest roads, you’re never alone.
I extended my stay in Kutaisi, drawn not just by the comfort of Friends Hostel
but by the promise of something strange and beautiful just beyond the city
limits. Tskaltubo. A name that sounded like a whisper from another time.
I set out early, pedalling through crisp morning air, the road quiet, the sky pale
with promise. Tskaltubo was once a jewel in the Soviet crown—a balneological
resort famed for its radon-carbonate mineral springs. But I wasn’t chasing
wellness. I was chasing ghosts.