Potent Poti

Ew, Poti.  The only thing I remember about Poti was the mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds that started to devour me when I tried to sleep on the beach.  I didn’t necessarily plan my time in Poti well.  I went with the initial plan of inquiring about the ferry to Odessa.  Evidently I needed to go to Batumi but when I was in Batumi they told me that Poti was the port of call.  I believe I got the freshest information available on the subject when in Poti, however, as instead of dealing with a surly and disinterested receptionist in Batumi, I was dealing with screaming soldiers at the Port of Poti who pointed their guns at me yelling while I walked towards them smiling and holding out my passport (that’s my trick in any situation).  My key takeaway from this experience was learning that the boat I wanted was not here.  Perhaps it never would be.

As I spent most of the day causing a ruckus at the port authority, I figured I would need to spend the night but you try finding an affordable place to sleep in Poti.  Much less a place to sleep in general.  I wandered around for several hours before it became apparent that I was going to need to sleep outside.  I even asked an old lady sitting on her stoop where a cheap hotel was—which, come on, old lady, everyone knows is code for “let me sleep on your couch and I’ll pay you handsomely—but she shook her head.  Since I couldn’t get into the abandoned mansion in town (I believe it was across from the po-po station), I tried for the abandoned amusement park on the beach, which is just as scary as it sound.

I found a little cluster of trees and some tall grass and decided that this would be the place.  I set to work setting up a campsite and a bed of grass and leaves, and then I put on my jeans, hoodie, jacket, and hood, then wrapped a scarf around my face and lay down.  Not 10 minutes had passed before suddenly ripped the scarf and the hoodie off, sweating and panting and exclaimed (reflexively),  “omfg it’s 35 degrees out and only 8:30pm, the mosquitoes are piercing through three layers of clothing, what the $&#% am I doing?!”  Ugh. UGH!  I was not willing to go through the night like that.

I decided that I needed to use all the tact and delicacy graciously endowed upon me by fate to finagle my way into the one hotel in town.  I suppose it was stupid of me to have not even initially inquired as to the price of the hotel, but I was right when I learned it was 100 lari and almost entirely sold out owing to some Orthodox Priest convention happening in town.  Looking dejected and forlorn (the hot new look for summer 2010), I somehow tacitly conveyed the message to the receptionist that someone needed to solve my problem quickly or there would be a dead foreigner to clean up off the beach the next day.

Success!  The receptionist called the custodian who knew someone next door or owned an apartment and rented it out.  40 lari a night.  Not great, but you know how grateful I am for anything when I am desperate.  As soon as I got inside I started undressing to take a shower and suddenly the door burst open and a bunch of people barged in with sheets and towels and instructions on how to use complex appliances.  I apologized for being only in my underwear (being Canadian, I use apologies as my chief and most dangerous weapon) and the woman was all, “@#%&$, please!  I have a son!”  My modest Victorian sensibilities still didn’t think that made it okay.

So I crawled into bed with some tea and watched Sex and the City in Georgian and then fell asleep.  The real kicker was when I was repeatedly woken during the night by mosquitoes eating me alive.  Is that irony?