The Week We Started Planning a Life in Georgia

The bus pulled out of Batumi while we were still carrying that restless little buzz that comes with stepping into a new country.

We had only been in Georgia for one night, but the morning already felt different. Our bags were packed, we had done our usual getting-ready dance party, and we had gathered our bus snacks: bread, yogurt, and a comically large bag of fresh Georgian cherries from the market.

We love cherries. Lots of them. But somewhere between the stand lady’s lack of English and our lack of Georgian, we accidentally bought far more than two people could reasonably eat on a bus ride. Or in three days, for that matter.

Once we were on the road, the excitement started building - smiles sweeping our faces.

We spent most of the ride with our eyes glued to the window, watching western Georgia roll by in shades of green that reminded us of tropics like Costa Rica.

Every bend in the road seemed to reveal another valley, another hillside, another little village tucked into the landscape. Every so often we’d pass cows standing directly in the middle of the road, completely unbothered by the traffic patiently weaving around them, as though they’d long ago decided the roads belonged to them.

Nothing particularly dramatic was happening, yet we couldn’t stop smiling.

I remember thinking how absurdly lucky I felt. Amanda was next to me. We had nowhere we needed to be except wherever this bus happened to be taking us (Tbilisi, Georgia’s capital). Life felt wonderfully, impossibly open.

Our plans to snack anlong our journey were immediately crushed by the driver’s strict no-food policy.

When the bus finally stopped for a break, Amanda and I launched ourselves toward our stored away backpacks like contestants in some bizarre survival challenge. We had no idea whether we had two minutes or twenty, so we inhaled our cheese-filled bread at an embarrassingly aggressive pace, balancing speed with enjoyment, letting our “mmm” and “yumm” whistle out of our mouths between bites before sprinting back onto the bus feeling incredibly accomplished.

We sat down. The bus stayed parked. For another 20 minutes.

We looked at each other, simultaneously realizing we’d just speed-eaten for absolutely no reason. Classic.

The rest of the ride settled into a rhythm of window gazing, route planning, and repeatedly pausing YouTube videos to silently whisper Georgian phrases out loud. We kept arranging and tweaking our plans for Georgia and Armenia, traversing the challenge of route-planning a month of travels in two completely new countries.

Every few minutes I’d drift back to the window, watching another stretch of mountains slide past, thinking the same thing over and over. Life is so beautiful. I can’t wait for more of it.

By the time we arrived in Tbilisi, my brain felt pleasantly full. This time, we skipped our usual attempt at saving two dollars, costing us an extra two hours of dragging our backpacks across a city.

We were growing, adapting, and learning to make the painfully obvious decision this time. We ordered a Bolt (European Uber) immediately.

Our guesthouse greeted us with a comical chaos.

A mother and her son were outside attempting to bathe their dog, who clearly rejected the entire concept. It wiggled across the yard with its tail wagging freely and making a hopeful detour toward us, apparently convinced we might rescue it from this terrible wet injustice.

The mom frantically composed herself, and welcomed us inside while our room was being prepared.

She sat with us in the common area, genuinely wanting to chat, despite the obstacle that she spoke Georgian and Russian while we spoke English. So for a few minutes the three of us sat side by side, as if in a waiting room waiting to be called on.

Fortunately, I’d spent part of the bus ride memorizing a handful of Georgian phrases. This became a lightly awkward way to break the silence.

I’d proudly say a word. She’d pause. Smile. Gently correct my pronunciation and give a warm gesture of approval.

Then we’d both laugh before moving on to the next one. Somehow, despite sharing almost no common language, we managed to communicate quite a bit. But really thanks to Amanda’s resourcefulness in calling upon our trusty Georgian-speaking friend, Google Translate.

Those are the interactions I keep thinking about. Not because they’re extraordinary, but because they’re the moments that make you stop feeling like a tourist passing through. For a little while, you’re just two people trying to understand one another - even if in just a small way.

That evening we wandered through Tbilisi toward dinner and almost immediately started falling for the city. It wasn’t one landmark or one neighborhood. It was the feeling of the place. The streets were overflowing with trees. Not rows of identical plantings, but different shapes, heights, and shades of green that made the city feel soft around the edges.

Parks spilled into sidewalks. Balconies leaned over narrow streets. Old churches stood beside Soviet apartment blocks, elegant government buildings, cafés tucked into courtyards, and homes that looked like they had seem some shit. Lived in instead of curated.

By the time we reached dinner, Amanda and I had already begun doing what has apparently become one of our favorite travel hobbies: mentally moving there.

A glass of Georgian wine only accelerated the conversation.

“What if we stayed for a month?… if we rented an apartment?… if we worked from here?”

This was only the fourth country of our trip. It was also the fourth country we’d mentally signed a lease in. I think I'm beginning to notice a pattern?

The next morning felt like the real beginning of Georgia. Not because Batumi didn’t count, or because the bus ride somehow counted less, but because we finally had the freedom to start moving through the country on our own terms. We had a car to pick up, errands to run, and an entire country waiting outside the city.

It also marked the longest Amanda and I had been apart in months. A dramatic two hours.

While she showered, packed, and tackled laundry, I headed out to buy SIM cards, withdraw cash, and pick up our rental car.

Pulling into Georgian traffic for the first time was… intimidating. From the passenger seat it had looked like complete chaos. Cars squeezed into gaps that barely existed. Lane markings seemed more like friendly suggestions than actual rules.

Then, within a few minutes of being behind the wheel, it started making sense. There was an underlying rhythm to it. People drove confidently without being aggressive. The flow looked messy from the outside but strangely graceful once you became part of it - as long as your foot didn’t unnecessarily press the brake pedal.

Even filling up with gas turned into its own little adventure. The attendant walked over, smiled, shrugged, and spoke a sentence of Georgian that I understood exactly none of. I spread my hands wide for “full tank” and waved my hands in a stirring motion that I hoped communicated “regular gas.”

Several enthusiastic nods. He looked at me for a second, then let out a little giggle. A few minutes later I was back on the road, driving through rolling golden hills with a full tank of gas and none of the nervousness I’d started with.

It reminded me so much of driving through Portugal during the first weeks of my nomadic lifestyle earlier this year. When I pulled back into the guesthouse, Amanda was standing on the balcony looking down at me with the biggest smile on her face.

She hurried downstairs. I met her at the entrance with a giddy wheeze of excitement. Then we celebrated our emotional reunion the only sensible way we could think of. By going to lunch.

We ended up at a former Soviet sewing factory that had been transformed into one of those places that instantly makes you consider a completely different version of your life. It wasn’t just a restaurant. The old industrial buildings had become a little creative village filled with cafés, coworking spaces, ceramics studios, record shops, a film lab, small boutiques, and people who all seemed to be making something.

I could picture it so clearly. Spending a month in Tbilisi. Working on a new business during the day, taking coffee breaks in the courtyard, wandering downstairs for lunch, getting to know the people behind the little shops, and slowly convincing myself I should stay another month. It’s amazing how quickly your imagination can redecorate your entire future over one meal.

The meal certainly wasn’t hurting the fantasy. We shared ginger-grapefruit kombuchas, creamy artichoke hummus, and slow-roasted beef before wandering a few doors down for coffee and a slice of cherry pie to cherish the beauty of the summer season.

Although, if I’m being completely honest, nothing has ever come close to Amanda’s desserts. Her strawberry rhubarb pie back in San Luis Obispo still sits comfortably at the top of my dessert rankings, and I don’t see it being dethroned anytime soon.

Eventually, we accepted that if we wanted to make it to the Signagi wine region before evening, we’d actually have to leave Tbilisi. The drive only took about two hours, but it felt like a turning point. Having our own car changed everything.

Suddenly we weren’t thinking about bus schedules or marshrutkas or when the last bus ride back was. If we saw something interesting, we could stop. If we wanted to detour, we detoured. If a town looked inviting, we could spend an extra hour there without negotiating with ourselves.

Our host in Signagi welcomed us with homemade chacha before we’d even properly set our bags down. That quickly became one of my favorite parts of Georgia. Hospitality often began with someone insisting you eat or drink something within the first five minutes of arriving. There wasn’t much discussion about whether you wanted it. It was simply the natural order of things.

We shared in the tradition, settled into our room, and headed out just as the evening light began settling over town.

The stray dogs nearly stole the entire walk. It would start innocently enough. We’d stop to pet one. A few scratches behind the ears. Maybe thirty seconds of attention. Then, without either of us acknowledging it, we’d suddenly acquired a walking companion.

One dog would escort us for ten minutes before quietly deciding we’d safely reached the next area, where another dog would take over the shift. It genuinely felt like they were handing us off to one another.

At one overlook, a beautiful husky wandered over and turned to its back, belly positioned happily into our scratches while we looked out across the valley toward Azerbaijan. I don’t have a graceful way to describe what that view felt like. I literally stopped walking and gasped, “WHAT.” Not quietly. Not thoughtfully.

The vineyards rolled toward distant mountains beneath layers of clouds that seemed to stretch forever. Amanda wrapped her arms around me. We stood there for a long time without saying much - calm smiles and warm light filling the space.

On the walk back into town, a man driving past in a small cart slowed down, smiled at me, and pressed his hands together in a namaste.

It will never stop being funny to me that this has happened to me several times during our travels. Maybe I just look approachable. Maybe I look unmistakably Indian. Whatever the reason, it always makes me laugh.

This time, though, it somehow felt fitting. I couldn’t have been more at peace if I’d tried.

We finished the evening at a winery I’d bookmarked before the trip. Local cheeses. Several glasses of wine. The sun slowly disappearing behind the hills.

The two of us getting just tipsy enough that every conversation suddenly became twice as funny.

By the time we walked home, I knew I was going to remember that day for a very long time. Not because of any single thing we did. Because of how it felt.

And because of the people. The woman helping us with SIM cards, the man renting us the car, our host welcoming us with chacha, the gas station attendant laughing through my terrible pantomime, all the little conversations that lasted thirty seconds and feel insignificant to write in-depth about.

Small acts of kindness that barely interrupted anyone’s day. None of them were remarkable on their own. Together, they quietly shaped our entire impression of Georgia.

More than anything, though, I remember Amanda. The way she throws herself into every place we visit. How excited she gets over cafés, bakeries, handmade ceramics, little bookstores, flowers growing out of balconies, and neighborhood dogs. She notices beauty with an enthusiasm that’s impossible not to catch. Traveling with her means I notice more, too.

The next morning unfolded at exactly the pace Signagi seemed to encourage. While I started my laundry cycle, our host popped up in the silence of the morning with an unmistakable look of someone about to offer me alcohol.

“Chacha,” he said proudly. Then, with complete confidence, added, “Detox.” I laughed and politely declined. I’m still not entirely sure what he believed the chacha was detoxing, but I admired the conviction. Nothing says wellness quite like homemade liquor before noon.

After a quick lunch, we set off for Lagodekhi - a city just 10 minutes from the Azerbaijani border.

The drive unfolded between mountains on one side and broad open plains on the other, and every few minutes one of us would point out the window even though the other person was already looking at the exact same thing. Lagodekhi greeted us with towering trees and one very good reason we’d come: nature. A four-and-a-half-hour hike following a river through the national park.

Almost the entire trail was accompanied by rushing water. Sometimes roaring. The sound became so constant that after a while I stopped consciously hearing it altogether until I hit a mental pause in my mind or in our hours of conversation.

When we reached the waterfall at the end, we had it entirely to ourselves. Mist drifted through the air. The cold spray felt incredible after hours of hiking. Especially as Amanda taught me how to truly enjoy the waterfall:

For a while, neither of us felt any urge to leave. It felt like we’d stumbled into a little pocket of quiet that the rest of the world hadn’t found yet. Dinner a couple of hours later was considerably less graceful.

Just as we got back to the car, the sky opened up. Rain hammered the windshield while we followed Google Maps toward a restaurant that looked incredible online. According to the map, it existed somewhere in the forest. We crept down muddy roads, turning left, right, turning around, trying another road, hugging tree lines, and repeatedly asking the same question: “Where is this place?” Every possible road seemed to end in someone’s yard or disappear into the woods. The deafening rain obscuring our vision and our lack of progress, eventually called for our defeat.

Our backup option sat a little closer to the Azerbaijani border, so we headed there instead. We pulled into the parking lot where we sat as one of two cars parked there, and game-planned: on three we make a run for the restaurant. Unfortunately for us, there were multiple buildings and it took us running to 3 buildings and across a bridge, until we finally made it inside. We were greeted with four confused faces, children side eyeing one another with the sound of our laughter and squishy footsteps introducing us. They were the owners kids all telepathically asking each other the same question: why are they here? In the pouring rain?

The food itself wasn’t particularly memorable. The evening absolutely was. Back at our guesthouse, we curled up under blankets with chocolate cookies, and watched Anthony Bourdain’s episode on Georgia.

It felt like the perfect ending to a day that had somehow been both adventurous and wonderfully ordinary. The next morning, we packed up and pointed the car west toward central Georgia.

The drive to Gomi was long enough to settle into that familiar road-trip rhythm we’d started developing. Podcasts. Quiet stretches where we’d simply watch the scenery roll by. Clouds drifted over open fields while mountains appeared and disappeared on the horizon. By the time we pulled into our little villa, it felt like we’d arrived somewhere that existed at a slower pace than the rest of the world.

Our host welcomed us warmly and gave us a quick tour of the property. Amanda barely waited until he’d walked away. “We need to extend for another night.” I laughed because she’d said exactly what I was thinking.

That afternoon we wandered through the tiny village before settling onto the patio with glasses of our host’s homemade wine, laptops open, writing blog posts while the evening settled around us.

The whole property seemed wrapped in stillness. Not silence. Just the comforting kind of quiet where birds replace traffic and the breeze replaces background noise. And where warming hospitality always seems to lie.

The next morning, our host invited us to see his vineyard. He spoke about wine the way people speak about something that’s been woven into their family for generations. Because, of course, it had. He walked us through how the grapes grew, how harvest worked, and why certain decisions had been made over the years - even sharing cherries from a neighboring tree.

That evening, we found ourselves admiring his family’s qvevri buried beneath the ground and were taught more of the traditional Georgian winemaking process.

Hospitality here never seemed performative. He never acted like they were providing a service. It felt like being folded into someone else’s family.

The next morning we packed up once again and headed toward Borjomi. By now we’d fully settled into the rhythm of life on the road.

Bread. Podcasts. Snacks within arm’s reach. Happily driving us toward whatever pin happened to be next on Google Maps. Within an hour of arriving, in good fashion - Amanda looked around and said, “We should stay another night.” I didn’t need much convincing. We extended our tranquil stay before we’d even unpacked properly.

We were collecting places we continually wanted to linger in.

Borjomi National Park felt different from anywhere else we’d been in Georgia. Towering trees stretched overhead while thick moss covered rocks, fallen logs, and the forest floor.

A river followed us for almost the entire walk. It reminded us a little of wandering beneath the redwoods back home. The air was cool after the rain, and every breath smelled of wet earth and pine. It felt strangely familiar. A little pocket of home tucked into the middle of Georgia.

The walks themselves became shorter over the next couple of days. We’d wander through town or around our neighborhood, usually accompanied by two of the local guesthouse dogs. One of them had an unusually oversized head, so naturally we called him Big Head.

Most of the time, though, we stayed inside.

Normally we’d feel guilty spending an entire day indoors while traveling. But it felt called for as the silent whispers of the rain served as the background noise to our cozy days. Amanda disappeared into her book while I worked on coding projects. We’d drift between the couch and the porch without ever paying attention to the clock.

Travel has a funny way of filling every spare moment. Every few days you’re packing and unpacking your life, buying groceries again, finding the next place to sleep, figuring out buses or roads, choosing somewhere to eat, washing clothes, and making hundreds of tiny decisions that barely register on their own but somehow add up.

Those rainy afternoons asked nothing back. Until the evening of our checkout crept up:“So… where are we going tomorrow?”

Somehow this has become one of our traditions. The night before every move, we realize we have absolutely no idea where we’re moving next. We bounced between weather forecasts, hiking routes, and Google Maps, changing our minds every twenty minutes. One mountain looked incredible but might disappear behind clouds. Another promised sunshine but meant hours more driving.

Mostly thanks to Amanda refusing to give up, we finally settled on a plan that made both of us excited. Lower Svaneti. From there we’d attempt a two-day mountain hike that looked remote, rugged, and exactly like the Georgia we’d been hoping to experience.

Whether we’d actually make it there was another question entirely.

By the time we climbed into bed it was almost midnight, well past our usual bedtime, but at least we knew which direction we’d be pointing the car in the morning.

Looking back now, I don’t remember this first week in Georgia as a string of destinations. I remember the moments in between. Looking out a bus window at impossibly green hills while cows stood stubbornly in the middle of the road. Trying to buy gasoline through a combination of smiles and hand gestures. Seeing Amanda waiting on the balcony with the biggest grin after what felt like an impossibly long two-hour separation. Furry companions quietly adopting us on our walks. A host insisting that a morning shot of chacha was good for detox. Running through the rain together. Long conversations beside rivers. Families who welcomed us as though we’d been coming for years.

Tomorrow we’ll head toward Lower Svaneti with a loose plan, snacks, and just enough confidence to believe it’ll all work out. So far, that’s been enough.