Bearly legal
In a lot of ways, I am actually ready to go back home (next week, gulp!) But there are some things that I'm going to miss about life in Georgia.
Like, for example, when you're enjoying a night at home and you hear a strange inhuman howling commotion on your front stoop, and you're trying to identify the source. Maybe Zurab the drunken sentinel who lives on my stoop has become quite ill. Maybe raspy-voiced Lado of the midnight yelling bouts across the way has something particularly foul caught in his gullet. Maybe.
But here, one of the explanations you can't rule out is that it's a bunch of men who have inexplicably deposited upon your steps two wooden barrels holding baby bears, and that they have decided to have an impromptu supra above them.
Sorry for the crap pictures (damn you, autofocus!!), I just choked in the moment. I had to stick my head out into this scene, and I really couldn't really make heads or tails of what was going on. I'm sure there's not a better commentary on the cultural divide present at that moment then the fact that when I retrieved my camera to take photos of the bears, some of the men grabbed their camera phones to take photos of me. As the commotion settled, the men lifted their vodka high as the bears slashed out with paws already wicked with claws, and called aba khalkho, siqvaruls gaumarjos! (Alright, people, cheers to love!)
Really, I don't know. I like to think that they somehow felt that baby bears and my front stoop were absolutely central to a proper tribute to the abiding power of love. Sometimes it's better just not to know.
Like, for example, when you're enjoying a night at home and you hear a strange inhuman howling commotion on your front stoop, and you're trying to identify the source. Maybe Zurab the drunken sentinel who lives on my stoop has become quite ill. Maybe raspy-voiced Lado of the midnight yelling bouts across the way has something particularly foul caught in his gullet. Maybe.
But here, one of the explanations you can't rule out is that it's a bunch of men who have inexplicably deposited upon your steps two wooden barrels holding baby bears, and that they have decided to have an impromptu supra above them.
Sorry for the crap pictures (damn you, autofocus!!), I just choked in the moment. I had to stick my head out into this scene, and I really couldn't really make heads or tails of what was going on. I'm sure there's not a better commentary on the cultural divide present at that moment then the fact that when I retrieved my camera to take photos of the bears, some of the men grabbed their camera phones to take photos of me. As the commotion settled, the men lifted their vodka high as the bears slashed out with paws already wicked with claws, and called aba khalkho, siqvaruls gaumarjos! (Alright, people, cheers to love!)
Really, I don't know. I like to think that they somehow felt that baby bears and my front stoop were absolutely central to a proper tribute to the abiding power of love. Sometimes it's better just not to know.
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