Morning Vodka and Cows: A New Friend on the Gergeti Trinity Trail

It was only me and the cows awake at 6AM.

Luckily I had plenty of company. Kazbegi was full of the creatures and they clearly owned the place. In the dim light of the early morning I nearly tripped over a fresh cow pie, the creator of the work standing only a few feet away and eyeing me unbothered as he chewed his cud.

The Georgians were not morning people. On rare occasions a reluctant food stall would open their doors to the dawn, dishing out kachapuri and cups of black tea to the few passerby, but there was certainly no place open before the sun was out. Especially not in this tiny mountain town in the middle of the Caucasus.

I didn’t mind the solitude. The morning was cool, the valley still shrouded in shade despite the slight peek of sun along the ridge-line. Above me, I could see the silhouette of my destination. The Gergeti Trinity Church stood stoic among the mountain peaks, the light not yet reaching it’s spiraling stone towers. I realized, in a somewhat divine moment, that the second the light reached the church it would spill over into the valley, the town enlightened by this church on the hill.

I trekked quietly through the silence, the soft patter of my feet the only noise audible besides the morning breeze. The path quickly steepened, a well-worn maze through grey-stone guesthouses and hanging laundry. The sun creeped higher along the ridge, and as the first beams of morning crept into the valley a member of a nearby herd let out a resounding “moo,” as if a rooster welcoming the dawn.

I was starting to regret my decision not to have a cup of tea before beginning my trek. My start had been much too early, but the damp air had started to seep into my fingers and I craved nothing more than to cradle a cup of chai in my palms. I was nearing the edge of the town and would soon be winding my way up the mountain, so I knew my cup of tea lay in the last few stops along the road if any.

The final house lay separate from the rest of the town, as if it couldn’t quite decide whether to accept the village life or embrace the mountains that ascended from it’s backyard. A man stood on the front stoop, a fellow early-bird, the smoke from his cigarette appearing like misty breath in the chilly air. The heavy chain and grey stubble along his jaw might have made me think him gruff, but the smile lines deeply worn beside his eyes told me otherwise.

I waved as I approached, catching his eye, and pointed to the sign posted out front. “Beer. Coffee. Tea. Cake.” I chuckled — he certainly knew how to appeal to the hungry hiker crowd.

He smiled, motioning for me to come inside. I excited the morning air into a warm one-room kitchen. Colored Kodak prints of Mount Kazbegi hung along one wall. A nearby shelf held a selection of half-finished bottles of Georgian wine, a vintage radio, and a panduri missing a string.

“Tea?” he asked me, raising his eyebrows under the brim of his black cap. I smiled. “Diakh, Gmadlobt” I responded, the only two words I could utter in Georgian. He seemed to appreciate my effort, chuckling as he grabbed a blue tin cup from under the counter. “Chai?” he asked, his eyebrows disappearing once again. I nodded.

My cup full of the steaming black tea, he offered me another drink. This time it did not come from the kettle, but rather a plastic blue water bottle having sat for who-knows-how-long on the shelf of knick knacks.

“Chacha?” He held up the bottle, placing a small glass in front of me. I nearly spit out my tea.

I’d had the wine vodka once before, accepting the offer while buzzed on saperavi down the mountain at my friend’s vineyard. The Georgian liquor is famous for it’s smoothness, infamous for it’s ability to get you absolutely smashed before you know what hit you. Not exactly the kind of beverage you expect to be drinking at 7AM.

Before I could decline he’d filled my cup, proudly saying something in Russian I couldn’t have hoped to understand even if I did speak the language. I was too focused on the overflowing chacha and the excited expectation of my new friend, patiently waiting for me to sample his Georgian hospitality.

My new friend’s eyes on me, I timidly picked up the glass from the counter, the strong smell of alcohol instantly clearing my groggy morning fog. I mimed taking a small sip, raising my shoulders as if questioning the proper way to drink the brandy. My friend mimed in return, tilting his head back and pantomiming taking a quick shot before slamming the empty cup on the wooden countertop.

“Opa!” he exclaimed, his eyes joyous but expectant. He nodded towards my glass.

I raised the glass hesitantly to my lips. Before I could change my mind, I quickly tilted the cup back, the chacha traveling down my throat and warming me up from the inside out. Recovering, I began to laugh — my eyes watering from joy and the strong spirit and the ridiculousness of the situation.

Beside me, my new friend was exuberant. “Opa!” he shouted again, louder this time, the sound echoing in a way I’m certain woke the entire valley. Clearly proud of his handiwork, he offered me more food. “Puri?” he asked me, already pulling out a chair and offering me a seat. Before I knew it, he was seated across from me, a small stack of fresh bread placed between us. He eyed me questioningly.

“Berdia.” He placed a hand on the center of his chest, a finger resting in the middle of his brown and grey sweater. He turned, his finger pointing towards me, eyebrows raised yet again.

“Ginna,” I responded, breaking off a small piece of the tangy sulguni cheese Berdia had served alongside the bread. “I am from the USA, uh, near Washington, D.C.”

At the mention of USA, his face quickly broke into a wide grin. Pulling out his phone, he swiped quickly through his photo gallery, telling me something in Russian as he eagerly searched for a specific shot. Satisfied, he turned his phone to face me, the screen displaying a happy, sunglasses-clad selfie, cigar in hand.

“New Jersey,” he said, swiping some more. “Massachusetts, Kansas.” He swiped once more. “Colorado.” The scene displayed the sweeping Rocky Mountains, photographed from the bed of an 18-wheeler truck.

I smiled, realizing this man had seen more of my country than I had. He was one of many Eastern European immigrants who had come to the USA to work as a trucker, traveling long, solitary hours across America’s back roads. He’d clearly enjoyed it, based off the smile he brandished and the eagerness with which he continued to scroll through his photo gallery, showing me photo after photo of his American escapades. I felt myself relax into the warmth and comfort of the sunny dining room, an ease found in part through common connection across the world, and in part from the chacha working its way through my bloodstream.

Two cups of tea later, I began to notice the sunshine creeping into the kitchen, overheard the crunching gravel and distant voices of hikers beginning their way up the mountain. Berdia too noticed the sound. He motioned out the window towards the trail, turning back to me.

“Gergeti Trinity,” he said. “You hike. After, you come back?”

I nodded. With a belly full of chai and a promise to return for khinkali later, I left the warmth of Berdia’s kitchen, once again beginning my trek up the mountain. Reaching the end of the road, I turned to take one final look at the town behind me.

Berdia was once again on his stoop. The sunlight had fully spilled into the valley, coating the rooftops in gold and leaving Berdia silhouetted against the sky, just as the Gergeti Trinity Church had been only an hour earlier. It felt like a divine moment once again — a new friend across the world.

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