Gettin' Iced Up

In case you want to go between Georgia and Azerbaijan, do exactly what I did the first time around and go through Lagodekhi.  It will be full of laughs and good times (GTs) all around and you’ll have a positive impression of the whole affair.  If you cross at Red Bridge, you’ll stare evil right in its eye and you’ll have to try your hardest not to blink.  I’m not just talking about the impetuous Soulja Boy who tried to steal my iPod (and failed).  At the gates they have corralled a bunch of old women carrying—surprise!—plastic burlap sacks full of whatever and there was much screaming.  I have no idea what was going on it but it reminded me of a cattle drive.

THE Red Bridge!

In any case the real problem was getting back into Georgia.  Apparently there is no queuing etiquette and standing at the back looking polite but slightly discouraged and holding a Canadian passport does not afford one special privileges.  Do others know this?  If you are planning on leaving Canada any time soon, I highly recommend that you take this into consideration.

So it took me an hour or so to get through customs, where they scanned my bag, asked me questions, and then refused me entry because there evidently wasn’t room on my passport.  There was room.  There was so much room.  But heaven forbid that these large red Georgian stamps touch another stamp on a page.  I told them that EU countries blindly stamp wherever they want with reckless abandon, so if Georgia wants in, they better let me in.  Well, I obviously didn’t say those exact words but in the end I got in so I’m pretty sure the message was clear.

I hadn’t made it far past the famed Red Bridge when I realized I had absolutely no idea where I was going. It was getting dark fast and starting to rain so I was thinking about ducking into a surprisingly conveniently placed motel of sorts just off the road.  But no sooner had I considered this than a black Mercedes speeding past screeched to a halt and a fat man hopped out and started hollering at me.

This happens all the time, so I wasn’t fazed at all.  Getting hollered at by fat people in Mercedes is like my bread and butter.  But this time it was different because there was a younger guy in the front who spoke English and he told me that they had seen me walking from Azerbaijan and wanted to offer me a ride.  I figured this was an “auto stop” situation where you end up paying an arbitrary amount to be defined once its too late so I told them I had no money.  They were insistent so I agreed because what can go wrong when you get into a Mercedes with tinted windows with three strange men?

Nothing.  What ended up happening was they asked me why I was travelling with no money and walking and what I was going to do next.  The younger guy insisted he would drive me to Tbilisi after we reached his home in Rustaveli.  The driver was absolutely dumbfounded that I even existed and he refused payment from the younger guy when we got out.  I said, “That was nice of him” and the younger guy, Ice, told me that no, he wasn’t nice.  The entire car ride the driver had been talking about what an idiot I was and how stupid I was to walking, etc. 

Ice lived with his family and they invited me in for dinner.  As it turned out, Ice was also one of the most famous rappers in Georgia, and his family was used to entertaining foreign dignitaries.  Then we piled into Ice’s Mercedes and drove to Tbilisi.  We first stopped to pick up his friends, three Nigerians who piled into the back.  I turned around, smiled, and asked, “So are you all musicians as well?” but no, as it turned out they studied medicine, management, and engineering.  One was named Obama.  For real.

Ice told me all about his rapping exploits and even how Jay-Z had been there. 

“Jay-Z?!?!  Are you serious?  He was in Tbilisi???”

“Yeah, he came for a show.  I was hanging out with him.”

“Are you kidding me?!  JAY-Z????  Was Beyonce there too?”

“What? No. Wait…oh, no it wasn’t Jay-Z.  It was, umm, oh!—Xibit.”

“…oh.”

But clearly Xibit had been there because this was one of the most pimped out rides in Georgia, and when we rolled into Tbilisi, windows down, music blaring and just a general thug ambiance and cavalier attitude towards life, I was dropped off at my hostel.  I had invited them for a drink—mainly because I wanted to get into a VIP room in one of Tbilisi’s hottest cluuubs and be spotted in the tabloids and begin my career as a Caucasian socialite trainwreck—but unfortunately he wasn’t drinking because had his car and it was a week night.  Thug life.  So he dropped me off, told me to contact him about going to one of his shows on the weekend—VIP!!!—and that we’d get our crunk on.  I would absolutely hate to be anyone who isn’t me right now.