As Georgians are Orthodox, they celebrate Christmas on the 7th of January. This is because the Orthodox liturgical calendar still uses the Julian Calendar, rather than the Augustinian Calendar, mainly because the guy who updated and corrected the calendar was a Pope, and at that time, the Orthodox Patriarchs didn't like the Roman Pope. This is probably because his funny looking hat was a different color than their funny looking hats, and probably there's something in the Bible about the colors of funny looking hats, just as there is about calcing. However, many Georgians know the history of the Church, in that we used to be one Church and nowadays there isn't too much different between the Orthodox and the Catholic Churches. They look at us generally the same, except we sit down a lot, cross ourselves backwards and don’t fast quite as much. I like to call us the Western Orthodox Church, in case they haven't heard the news. And by news, I mean what just happened a thousand years ago.

During the Soviet Union, the practice was to transfer all festivities and traditions from Christmas to the New Year, creating one essentially big Supreme Party for the Pride, Glory and Solidarity of the Congress of Workers Soviets. This is very much like when the Catholics took pagan traditions and just transferred them over to Christian holidays (the cross was not made of pine, guys, surprise!). The Soviet social engineers (like the Catholic Church before them) knew that it was important that people still have celebrations and that it would be easier to control a populace if you didn't make too many drastic changes to their traditions and if you still had Santa Clause. So gift giving, Santa Clause, Christmas trees and all that were just moved. And Santa Clause was renamed to Grandfather Frost. This would have taken place in America too, I imagine, as everything becomes more sterilized, but our Capitalist social engineers (ie marketing companies) decided to just leave it all on December 25th. They are, of course, wiser than the Soviets and the Catholics, in that they work all the more subtly. Having a Ministry of Propaganda, though quite nice in terms of transparency, is probably not the best idea when you're pumping out the lies to the people. No, no, a Press Room works much better for that.

As the Soviet Union dissolved and collapsed like an overused Lada (who am I kidding, those things never break down!), they just kind of left it alone and New Years is still a day to exchange gifts and party it up like 1999 (the last of all real parties in America, until 2011). So today, I'm celebrating my Christmas, which is today, on December 25th. I'm attending a birthday supra tonight, so as in the tradition of all Catholics, I'm taking that birthday supra and turning it into my Christmas celebration. Clever, eh? Then I'll get to party next week for New Years, and then party again on January 7th. So, don't feel sorry for me, the wine shall flow! But, not the women, unfortunately. They will probably be sitting at the "women's table". A pox and scurvy on womens' tables! Or on mens' tables who don't allow for women! And for all the babbling babushkas who'd make a fuss if the women sat too close to the men! Actually, not on the babbling babushkas, since they're the ones making the food, and I'd rather not have a pox or scurvy. You can't have your namtskhvari and eat it too, as they say. And if you're not Georgian and can say that word correctly, I'll give you ten dollars. And I've never understood that saying. Why would you have a cake if you couldn't eat it? That'd just be silly.

What I like, standing among the ruins of ancient cities, are the echoes of lives lived long ago. They seep out of the stones like watery vapors, wrapping themselves around you, feeding your imagination. You walk where the dead have walked, you step where the dead have stepped. And indeed, you are always doing this, but no place is it so obvious than at a place of ruins. These were once the centers of human activities and were reclaimed by time and nature. Buildings crumbled, trees grew from within old barracks and storehouses and bedrooms. What happened here? Why did other cities survive and this one die? Why did other civilizations collapse and this one or that one keep on going? There are no places except those where history is so evident do these questions come in full form and stare at you. And it makes you wonder, from the chills of those hallowed ghosts, what will happen of you? What will happen of your people? Will America still stand in 100 or 1000 years? What will the history books speak of us?

These pictures show the remains of a city near the modern day town of Dmanisi in Georgia, now simply called the Dmanisi Archeological Site (in Georgian and in Russian). Dmanisi grew to notable size due to it's being an intersection of trade routes, paths from the Great Silk Road, trade between Georgia, Armenia and the empires to the South. As time passed, the strategic nature of the area served as a good fortification for the traders and the town grew. Under the Georgian king David the Builder, in the 10^th century, it flourished, and good to his name, he built a castle there to protect the surrounding lands from Persians, Turks, Arabs and Armenians, as well as any other enemies Georgia could muster up. Eventually, in the 14^th century, Georgia became a battleground for two great khan states, the Golden Horde, led by Hordak, to the North and Tamerlane's Timurid Empire (named, uh, after Tamerlane) to the East. As the Golden Horde had hit Tamerlane's empire a few times, coming through Georgia, Tamerlane decided to raze everything in Georgia so that no one could support or host an army from the Golden Horde. Tamerlane personally led his troops as they massacred thousands of Georgians. Dmanisi was one such town that no longer saw daylight after the coming of Tamerlane.

While we walked along the mounds of the old city, Gela, my former host, was randomly there. "Shawnee!" he called over. We met up and walked down to everyone's cars. "I have supra to attend to. You coming?"

The Georgians then started debating something. With their tone of voice and the speed of their talk, it was like watching a hardcore Republican and Democrat debate healthcare (which is to say, they were shouting a lot and neither were making any sense to me). Then Gela turned back to me and said in Russian, "Okay, first we are going to creek and having drink."

Georgians, it seems to me, just like to shout. It doesn't really mean they're having an argument or anything, they're just generally a loud and serious-looking people. Hell, even one is going on about how beautiful their wife is, they're generally yelling at her while they do this. I don’t think Georgians actually notice this tendency of theirs. Or, I'm just assuming this, and really they are being angry with each other all the time. Who knows? I just roll with it.

I would say Georgians are deaf and that's why they yell all the time, but clearly this is not true. My Babushka, from downstairs, could say, in a whisper, "Do you want to eat?" to my host mom, who's upstairs. "Now or later? We're having bean soup. Okay, that's fine. Just let me know." Perhaps they're deaf and telepathic? That could be an option.

The neighbor had come over for one of his random talks. He sat down in the kitchen, asked the Babushka for some coffee, and began his long schpiel about pensions in Georgia versus pensions in Greece, and about how houses in Greece are bigger and nicer and he used to have a job there and yadda yadda yadda, followed about more things of which I only understood very little and cared about even less. I was looking at his beard scruff, and watching how there seemed to be a few crumbs stuck in it and wondering if they'll drop soon. And if they drop soon, will they land in the coffee?

He kept beckoning me to sit down, as Georgians get hugely nervous if you're standing and they're sitting. I kept refusing, just to see how long he'd interrupt himself because I was standing. Finally the Babushka appeared from behind me and pulled me into a chair, saying, "Baggada, you're too tall, badabalodaluli."

The Babushka had gone out for a bit, and when she came back in the house, the cat, Patara, darted in and went under the kitchen seat. Patara, which means "small" in Georgian, was a good cat. I have fond memories of how, in the summer when I slept with my window open, she'd sneak across the gas line and jump into my room and snuggle up. Or, now that the dog is dead, how she'd often come up and great me and rub against my legs, purring loudly and possibly trying to kill me as I went down the stairs. I like to jest about hating animals, but I actually really love them (a thing about me is that the more I make fun of something, the more I love it… which is why women end my relationships fairly quickly… people don't actually like being laughed at, who knew?).

Patara on the gas line, sneaking away from my room

Levan continued going on about Greece and passports and whatever. I didn't really know as my attention kept alternating between the cat, the Babushka making attempts at getting the cat and the crumbs in Levan's beard scruff. Occasionally the host daughter would make a noise or attempt to interrupt Levan's droning, and I'd glance over at her, but that was really as far as my attention and comprehension were making it this morning. Finally, the Babushka stood up, now with a plastic bag in hand, saying something that roughly sounded like "blaggababuli daguli maguli cats." Levan, while still talking about the pensions and keeping his green eyes solidly affixed to mine, with one hand scooped up the cat by its neck. He placed the cat in the plastic bag and continued on. "They can pay for such huge houses. And when people have pensions, they can spend more money and buy more houses and get the economy moving." Completely unfazed, unmoving. His arm worked like some sort of hinged arm on a CAT, meanwhile the cat was confused as to what was happening and silent while the Babushka closed the bag, tied it and disappeared. "In Greece they have so many great things…" Levan continued.

"The cat? What are you guys doing with the cat?"

"I once saw these robots there that were controlled by…"

"What the fuck are you guys doing with the cat?"

"… and the women would just sit around and you could talk to them…"

The Babushka came back in the house, minus a cat. I addressed the Babushka, "What did you do with the cat?"

"Blaggadabuli nabatooli dadoodaba."

Blank stare from me.

"You don't understand?" she asked in Russian.

"Right," I responded.

"Bomski is a bad cat, so we gave Patara away. Don't worry, Gvansa is bringing a kitten in later."

Blank stare from me.

"You don't understand?"

"I get what your saying, but I don't I grasp it. Why did you give away the good cat? And why does it matter if Gvansa is bringing a new one? I liked that cat."

"Mishka, Mishka, blagadabooli."

"I don't know how Mishka is involved in this. I don't get that part. I don't know who Mishka is."

"He took the cat," the Babushka said and went back to doing something with the dishes. Meanwhile, Levan hadn't broken his concentration and continued talking about things to do with Greece and how it's better over there. I really don't think Samual L Jackson could have broken that man's concentration.

Later that night, I learned my cat of four years, Caesar Augustus, passed away from a heart attack. All my pets are dying! Possibly being snuffed out by the Babushka! But I can hardly blame Caesar's death on the Babushka. He was a rather fat cat, so he did kind of having it coming. But I'm going to miss that fat bastard.

Caesar about to pounce on Raven, the photographer

RIP Caesar

The ruins of homes

are often the piles

of human discourse.

Unperturbed but by

gently settling ash

and sparrows and rats.

We came to kneel amidst

the ruins of human lives

so we might take refuge

against the ruins

of our own.

We huddled around

small fires to light

what's been hid in ignorance,

among rooms without roofs

and children with no names.

In the night the flickering light

of the bonfire, fed but by

leaves and old timbers

and tattered clothes and sparks

drifting up like rising tears from the fire.

We find under the bright stars

that we do not share company.

We find under the bright stars

that we are standing alone.

When the night comes, the dogs play like men.  They walk down their streets with serious dedication, like they have business.  They go to meet with other dogs, they sit back and chat and check out all the bitches passing by.  Sometimes they make a whistle or a howl as the girls strut their asses on by.  The bitches' tails and heads held high, and sometimes they make a low threatening bark… not unlike women. 

The streets of Bolnisi are full of them.  During the day, they are generally curled up, sleeping off their hangovers and late nights.  When you walk by, they pop up their head, to see if you're a threat and then stick it right back underneath their belly if you're not.  If they recognize you, you might get a couple of tail thwaps of recognition, but no more. At night, they become more energetic.  If you come near their home, their territory, they become like aggressive cowards.  They will stand-to and growl and bark at you as long as you face them.  But when you turn your back, they'll move in for a bite.  The behavior can be avoided by giving them a swift boot to the head, wherein they whimper, back off and resume growling and barking.  The dogs that never learned quick enough you can recognize by the way they whimper when you approach.  During the day, dogs are more prone to whimpering.  At night, their more prone to attacking you from the rear. 

If you're not in their territory, or their packs' territory, you rarely have to fear them.  They're usually attending to some business, or just hanging out watching the city life with their mates.  It's only when you come near their homes that there's a problem.  Often dogs like to test the limits of their territory and they'll sneak into neighboring territories to take a piss and tag it.  I've seen packs of dogs get into fights over this behavior, raping each others' bitches and tearing each others' limbs.  You can tell who's been at it the night before by who's limping the morning after.  They limp and they pretend nothing happened, probably dreaming about the next raid.   

I watched one dog do a day raid.  As I walked across the town, this little beagle, while the other dogs were sleeping, went from post to post taking a small piss, leaving his scent.  I was at a bar on the other side of town and I saw this little punk pissing on a nearby post.  He knew what he was doing.  He would be the talk of the town the next night, when the dogs were howling.  And more than one dog will want his un-neutered nuts.