Racha

The weekend was cold days and cold nights, cold fingers and cold toes. But it was gladness and that expansive feeling of being tiny. We are small sparks in the immensity of nature, but never so much as when the mountains cup the lake that stretches out in front of me, and reflect back on its partially frozen surface. Never so much as when we're surrounded by towering peaks and vast expanses of pristine snow.

The view is marked by abandoned buildings, gaping broken windows like eyes staring blankly at a soviet past. It feels like the apocalypse, or exploring an abandoned planet. I imagine myself alone, doggedly escaping distant pursuers, searching for a haven. I could take shelter in a long building that once housed children at summer camp, the only echoes of the past in rusted bed frames and faded cotton curtains in the windows. Under the pine tree, a slide miserably hunches in the first deep drifts of snow. The sheer amount of resources and effort to create mansions and resorts high up in the mountains on barely passable dirt roads is astounding, and saddening at the same time as everything falls slowly into decrepitude. Schools with rooms for 300 now offer classes to just fifteen boys and girls who barely attend for fear of freezing in the drafty rooms. Or I could mimic Georgian history and face my enemies from the refuge of posts used to defend the narrow mountain pass from invaders. There's space for me to sight my shot, and I could build a fire in the alcove, casting dancing shadows on the stone stretching high above my head. The river below runs cold and clear, and mineral springs well up with healing waters.

Not everything is abandoned. The towns on the way up the mountain boast churches and families and homemade wine. They will forever in my mind echo with too-loud strains from Flo Rida, One Direction, Lana del Ray and Lykke Li in an endless loop. Georgian music is suited to the high peaks and dangerous places, but pop makes a bizarre contrast to the visual delights. Nikortsminda sits atop a hill looking out to the mountains we slept in. It was built in the reign of king Bagrat III from 1010-1014, and is intricately carved with beautiful designs all across its stone surface. The inside every surface is covered in frescos. Visitors leave candles as offerings, lighting the thin sticks from the stumps of the old, then pressing them in, extinguishing the light from the burnt down candle with the stalk of the new. It's beautiful and unbearably old. Historically, I love it, but I don't feel comfortable there. The church carries such a weight of tradition, and it's one I do not share nor hope to share. In Argentina, the gigantic cathedrals with stained glass windows felt open and welcoming despite my non-Catholic upbringing. Here, even stepping inside feels like a violation, like the church itself disapproves of my modernity. I much prefer the silence of the mountains and the menace of the trees.

photo credit Serena

It's not winter yet, but the first snow has already fallen. Daytime sunlight reflecting off icy crystals makes 15 degrees feel warm as we carve trails through knee-high powder with an icy crust. Dogs sometimes accompany our excursions. The small one leaps joyfully from footprint to footprint, while Caucasian shepherd dogs the size of bear cubs plow through without a care. They are purebred giants, used for herding and security systems across the region. They will guide us, and protect us from monsters. The pipes froze with the air. Showers must be a matter of boiling water poured into buckets and onto shivering bodies, but for us it's better to stay dirty and clothed. A few days of snow sweat thawing and refreezing on arms and faces won't do much harm.

Meager warmth is provided by an electric heater. We pushed all of the beds into one small room so no one would have to face the nighttime chill alone with no heat. We crowd inches away from the heat with blankets and sleeping bags in a half circle, talking and playing games until sleep claims us. The circle of warmth is intimate. We share our past and our future. Conversation strays to relationships and inevitably to the appalling treatment of women around the world. We recall creepy encounters with men both at home and abroad, and wish the fight for gender equality didn't need to be a struggle for basic respect in every encounter. Even the weekend provided a perfect example. We played board games with the driver for a few hours in the evening and he was having a great time. His friend came in, and his immediate comment was that it's wrong for men to play with women; men play games, and women do women's work. To give him his due, the driver encouraged his friend to join in, but by that point we were all ready to make our escape to the room and our stories and avoid the uncomfortable situation and leering glances of the friend. I hate that we have to escape, though. I think the same thing every time I get catcalls (which is blessedly rarely here) because shared space and public space should never be dangerous to half of the population. Public space should be where I can walk unmolested just as any man can. I don't whistle, stalk, or say vulgar things to men or to other women, and I should be afforded the same respect and safety. Hungry wolves aren't the only monsters to fear.
But I try not to dwell. I try to seize each moment in this abandoned landscape and push other concerns aside. I revel in the cold. From a distance, the silent trees look like those tiny frosted pines from the train sets and villages we set out each holiday season as a child. In their frosty embrace, they hold more menace. Their immense boughs reach towards an intensely blue sky, occasionally dropping heavy loads of snow in a rushing whoosh. They rustle and grumble; I can almost hear their whispery voices wondering at the clumsy intruders in their silent world. 

Two cold nights, then it's back to the bustle, with much more to think about and a piece of calm lodged in my mind next to the glorious midnight summer stars of El Salvador. 

New Books Read: 114

Total Books Read: 156

Recommendation: Assassin's Quest by Robin Hobb. It's the third in a high fantasy series that I thoroughly enjoy.