Travel to Georgia: An Honest First-Timer’s Story
Landing in Georgia
I didn’t really know what to expect. Georgia wasn’t on my “big list” like Italy or Spain. I came because a friend wouldn’t stop talking about it. Tbilisi hit me first — the air smelled like sulfur near the baths, the streets tilted at odd angles, and balconies leaned like they were tired of standing. But somehow, it felt alive.
People stared a bit, but the second you said hello, they opened up. One man actually walked with me ten minutes just to show me the right bus stop. And then he handed me grapes from his bag. Just like that. No explanation.
When to Go (and What I Felt)
I was lucky — I came in autumn. Grapes everywhere. Families shouting across courtyards, laughing, pouring wine from plastic bottles like it was water. They called it Rtveli, the harvest. I helped pick grapes for ten minutes, dropped half of them, and they still cheered like I was useful.
Spring, they said, is calm and green. Summer? Hot. Too hot in Tbilisi. Winter? Ski resorts. Honestly, I’m not a skier, but people swore by Gudauri. If you only come once, I’d say spring or autumn. The balance feels right.
Places That Stuck With Me
Tbilisi’s Old Town looks like it could collapse in the best way. Crooked houses, colorful balconies, cats everywhere. The Narikala Fortress looms above. I climbed up without water. Dumb idea. Thought I’d quit halfway. Didn’t. The view — city, river, mountains beyond — worth the sweat.
The sulfur baths? Okay, the smell hits you hard. I almost walked out. But twenty minutes in the hot pool, and I felt like melted butter.
Out of town, Mtskheta is calm, almost too calm. Churches older than most countries. Uplistsikhe, a cave city, felt surreal. Rooms carved from rock, silence heavy.
Then Kazbegi. The Gergeti Trinity Church under Mount Kazbek. I got there on a cloudy day. Couldn’t see the mountain at first. Then the clouds moved. The peak showed itself for five seconds. That was it. But I’ll never forget it.
Batumi was chaos — palm trees, casinos, neon lights. Not really my style, but fun for a day. Svaneti felt like another world. Medieval towers, misty mountains, people still baking bread in clay ovens.
Eating (And Failing Gracefully)
Food… wow. Khachapuri ruined me. Cheese, bread, butter, egg. You think you’ll have one slice, then you’re staring at crumbs wondering where it all went.
Khinkali — dumplings with broth inside. Everyone warned me, “Don’t spill.” Of course, I spilled the first one. Hot juice down my hand. Locals laughed, showed me again. I still spilled the second. Third one? Success. Small victories.
There was also grilled mtsvadi, vegetable spreads called pkhali, and churchkhela — walnuts dipped in grape juice, hanging like candles in the markets. They looked odd but tasted great.
And the wine. My God, the wine. Served in clay pots, poured like it’s endless. At a supra, the traditional feast, I lost count of the toasts. The toastmaster, the tamada, stood after every glass. Long speeches. I didn’t understand half of it, but I clapped anyway.
Nights in Georgia
Tbilisi doesn’t sleep. Bars, clubs, rooftops. Shardeni Street — loud, crowded, music spilling out. I stayed until 3 a.m. and still left early by local standards.
Batumi in summer felt like a carnival. Beach bars, concerts, fireworks. Over the top, but fun.
In villages, though, nights are simple. A neighbor waved me in, poured homemade wine into a chipped glass, and suddenly I was part of their evening. No club beats, no lights. Just laughter and bad translation apps. Honestly, I preferred that.
Why It Stays With Me
Georgia isn’t smooth travel. Buses late. Roads cracked. I mispronounced every name. But the people filled the gaps. Someone always stepped in. Someone always smiled.
It’s not a checklist destination. It’s a collection of moments. That five-second glimpse of Mount Kazbek. A dumpling that finally didn’t spill. A stranger’s toast that made me tear up even though I didn’t get the words.
That’s why it stays. Georgia isn’t just a trip. It becomes part of your memory.
Relined Messy Version
Georgia. Didn’t plan it. Ended up here.
Tbilisi. Streets uneven. Balconies leaning. Cats everywhere. Smell of sulfur. Thought I’d hate it. Didn’t. Loved it.
Climbed Narikala. No water. Dumb. Nearly quit. View hit me. Worth it.
Sulfur baths. Smell bad. Stayed anyway. Felt amazing.
Mtskheta calm. Too calm maybe. Old churches. Uplistsikhe caves. Quiet, strange.
Kazbegi. Clouds hiding the mountain. Waited. Peak showed. Five seconds. Enough.
Batumi? Neon. Palm trees. Casinos. Fun but tiring.
Svaneti. Towers. Mist. Bread baked in clay. Different world.
Food? Heavy. Perfect. Khachapuri — too much cheese, still ate it all. Khinkali — spilled broth, locals laughed. Third one success. Felt proud.
Skewers smoking. Pkhali colorful. Churchkhela hanging like candles. Tried one. Loved it.
Wine. Too much wine. Supra — long table. Endless toasts. Tamada speaking. Didn’t understand, still clapped.
Nights? Tbilisi wild. Batumi louder. Villages quieter. Homemade wine. Laughter. Felt real.
Georgia messy. Buses late. Roads cracked. Names impossible. But smiles everywhere. Help everywhere.
Not a checklist. Not perfect. Just moments.
