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The people of Tbilisi are kind. All of them. Whether they are sellers trying to advise me as a customer—no matter the price of the product they recommend—whether they are locals, more than friendly, showing the right way, or whether they are hosts of accommodations doing everything they can to fulfill the needs of their guests. Whether they are seamstresses trying to make the impossible possible – there is a permanent kindness, even to be found in graffiti in public. (See picture below.)

However, there is one exception. And that is some of the personnel of a supermarket named “Goodwill.” Unfortunately, the name of the place is in no way a hint of what happens when an identified tourist enters and simply wants to buy a bottle of wine.

The following is an incomplete attempt to describe the experience. And—important to say—by telling this story I do not want to imply that all salespeople at “Goodwill” are like this. But unfortunately, the ones I met there were.

Entering Goodwill supermarket.
Seeing a stand with wine on offer. Stop. Check. That is pricey wine. A lady shows up:

“This is very good wine.”
OK (I appreciate the opinion—and why is this good wine?)
“This wine is red wine.”
OK (I can see that; it’s written on the label.)
“This is dry wine.”
OK (That’s what the label says.)
“This is Georgian wine.”
OK (Again, the label says so…)
“This is very good wine.”
OK (You said that before.)
“Thank you, I appreciate the recommendation. Now I’d like to have a look myself.” (A zillion bottles here.)
“But this is very good wine, you should buy it.”
“Thank you, I’d like to have a look around.”

After buying all kinds of things, I come back to the wine area a couple of minutes later. Another lady:

“Are you looking for a specific wine?”
“No, thank you, I’m just looking around.”
“OK.”

She leaves. I keep checking various wineries—year, grape, region—finally choosing one. Turning around: the first lady again, excited.

“Why do you choose this wine?!”
“Because I want to.” (Feeling interrogated.)
“But why?” (She’s looking back toward the stand with the bottles at the entrance.)
“Because I want to.” (Felling helpless.Feeling defiant. Feeling the need to escape. Hard to endure the disappointed look.)

Thinking: Why not offer a sip of the “very good wine”? Why not provide more details—grape, taste, year, region, anything? Handmade? Family business for 500 years? Whatever? Why the aggressive selling attitude? What’s the intention? To sell at any cost?

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Batumi is the second biggest city in Georgia, home to around 180,000 residents. It’s famous for its beaches, even though they’re rocky—no sand anywhere. During the season, Batumi can get very busy. There’s a lot of gambling here, and wealthy Russians come to enjoy themselves.

Batumi has an old city core, where the traditional apartments with high ceilings are found. There are plenty of restaurants and fancy cafés here—it’s easy to get a decent latte (isn’t that the real measure of quality of life, the presence of Italian espresso machines?). However, there are streets that mark the edge of the city center, and beyond them real life begins. These areas are crowded with locals, most of them men of a particular age group, between 40 and 70. The same men seem to gather later in the day along the seashore, where they fish or play cards.

The real Batumi has narrow sidewalks, heavy traffic, and plenty of cars missing their bumpers—thanks to the rough roads and the rather adventurous driving style of their owners. Everyone seems to be either selling or buying something. The side streets are filled with markets of all kinds; once you enter one, it’s easy to get lost in the labyrinth of passages. Curtains upon curtains, shoes, clothes—genuine and fake—and even an entire district devoted to tools, screws, and machines.

So there’s the old-turned-new (the Old Town), the worn-down real Batumi, plus the abandoned building projects spreading a somewhat morbid charm, and, finally, the remnants of its glorious past—best seen in the beautiful Octopus Café, built in the Soviet eighties and luckily preserved after locals protested its demolition following the end of the Cold War.

What happened back then in Batumi has shaped another defining feature of the city today: the high-rises, mostly along the beach, built after the fall of communism. Because of these developments, some people call Batumi the “Las Vegas of the Black Sea.” Well, they clearly haven’t been to Las Vegas…

What’s far more impressive than all the public money poured into construction is the creative and inspiring mix of times, cultures, and people that make Batumi what it is.

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There are two Georgias. One is a state in the U.S. The other is an entirely different country—some might say it lies at the edge of the world. It’s nestled between Asia and Europe, by the Black Sea, just south of Russia. Georgia is a land of towering Caucasus Mountains (over 15,000 feet) and deep valleys between them, roughly the size of South Carolina.

Georgian history began long before Christ, even with the Romans. A major turning point came in 1783, when the rulers of Georgia signed a pact with their powerful northern neighbor, Russia—hoping not to face their many enemies alone, especially Iran and Turkey to the south.

The relationship with Russia proved delicate. Russia left its mark on Georgia in many ways, yet Georgia has always resisted total submission, and in many instances, succeeded. After World War I, in 1918, Georgia managed to establish itself as an independent state—briefly—until 1922, when it was absorbed into the Soviet Union and governed once again by Moscow. That lasted until 1991, when Georgia finally gained independence—an independence it still holds, despite ongoing tensions with Russia and frequent internal unrest.

I visited Georgia last summer and have thought about going back ever since. The country offers a long list of compelling qualities—its breathtaking landscapes, its incredibly flavorful cuisine, and its ever-present history. But what draws me in most is its genuine authenticity. Georgia has managed to preserve its original character. Everything feels unfiltered, real. That’s not always comfortable—but it is grounding. Being in Georgia feels like experiencing something true. It’s an honest place.

This time, I’ll only be in Batumi and Tbilisi. It’s another chapter of slow travel. In both cities, I’ve booked old apartments through Airbnb.

The photos here are of the apartment in Batumi, right in the heart of the old town. These kinds of apartments were built in the late 1800s, when Georgia’s economy was booming and a new middle class was emerging. Eager to show off their prosperity, people began buying and building apartments that resembled palaces.

The apartment I’ve booked has 13-foot ceilings (4 meters), a living room of about 430 square feet (40 m²), and windows nearly 10 feet high (3 meters / 120 inches). The wooden floors seem at least a century old. There are cracks in the walls—but also signs of thoughtful modernization: a brand-new bathroom, a modern heating system.

After the fall of the Tsarist regime in 1922, the Soviets “communalized” these apartments. My 430-square-foot room, for instance, would have been divided among three families. A permanent housing crisis forced such measures, often resulting in poor, overcrowded living conditions.

So here I am today, imagining what this place looked like 150 years ago—before the Soviets. I picture wealthy businesspeople, oil barons, merchants, affluent academics, and Russian officials living here in luxury. And then I imagine families of six, crammed into these rooms, children screaming, food simmering on a shared stove, space divided between too many people.

Today, things have changed again. These buildings have been bought, renovated, and lovingly maintained—sometimes by descendants of former residents. Many have become boutique hotels or Airbnbs. Others are still lived in by people who appreciate the scent and style of history.

Either way, the feeling is intense. It’s a privilege to live, walk, and sleep inside history. Times change. But in Georgia, it seems as though history prevails.

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location

When the Nazis occupied the Netherlands in 1940, approximately 140,000 Jews lived in the country. From 1941 until 1944, 107,000 of them, along with 255 Sinti and Roma, were deported by the Germans. Only 5,200 Jews and 30 Sinti survived.

There is a memorial in the heart of Amsterdam, consisting of more than 100,000 bricks, with each brick bearing the name of a victim. Among them is the name Anna Frank—Anne Frank—as she was a resident of Amsterdam. The many bricks are topped with massive mirror constructions that visually connect the memorial to the outside world. Finally, the four bodies formed by the bricks, seen from above, represent the Hebrew word לזכר (Lezachar), which means “in memory.”

This deeply symbolic place was designed by Daniel Libeskind, the American architect who also conceptualized the Jewish Museum in Berlin. It is a solemn site, filled with respect for the individuality of the victims and a strong appeal to the present.

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… I have ever seen is Utrecht in the Netherlands. With a population of about 380,000 residents, the city is a transportation hub and home to a renowned university. Its historic city center is well-preserved and well-maintained, with streets filled with friendly people, cafes, pubs, and numerous little shops.

What I found most amazing, though, were the grachten (canals). These waterways run through the city, and while they are mainly decorative today, they originally served practical purposes. When they were first constructed (1200-1400), their primary functions were twofold:

First, large parts of the Netherlands are below sea level, creating a constant challenge with swampy ground. This is why the Dutch are renowned for their expertise in drainage systems. The grachten were dug to help drain excess water.

Second, in an era before modern roads, railways, and airplanes, transportation by water was the most efficient way to move goods.

The combination of these historic canals, the city’s stunning architecture, and the vibrant, lively atmosphere made Utrecht one of the most beautiful cities I have ever visited. I couldn’t stop taking pictures—see below!

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It used to be that walking into a hotel meant looking for the reception desk. Then, there was somebody explaining things, taking care of the payment, and basically smiling and saying hello. If there was any problem during the stay, I’d go back there, and they would solve it. In good places, that can make one feel safe and taken care of.

These days, I often use Airbnb—not just because it’s often more affordable than a hotel. Often, I can meet the host, and conversations tend to evolve. Quite frankly—for me, these talks are often the most memorable part of the travel experience. There are so many things to learn, and there’s no better way than this: talking to the locals.

And then there’s the next level—or well, maybe it’s actually a lower level?

In hotels, more and more often, the check-in is contactless. Sometimes, I don’t see anyone at all—just codes and messages floating around. The next level is cabins. Again, mostly wireless. In fact, at “CityHub Rotterdam,” there is a wristband with a chip that allowed me to go wherever I was permitted to: bathroom, shower, cabin, and the front door of the place.

Originally, I had planned to stay in Rotterdam for three full days. But some people advised me not to spend too much time there—and now, I’m thankful. Even one night was almost too much. Rotterdam was destroyed by German bombers in 1940, to force the Dutch military to surrender. After the end of the war, the city wasn’t reconstructed—it was rebuilt from scratch. That means that today, Rotterdam is an industrial city made of modern, sometimes seemingly soulless architecture and a lot of concrete. It’s not worth the visit.

But I stayed for one night because I wanted to find out what this next (or lower?) level of hotel—cabins—is like.
The very reasonable price for one night (I paid €57) is based on a shortage of space. The cabins are shaped like an “L,” connected in such a way that two “Ls” are pushed into each other and turn into a big box. See pictures below. Here are the measurements of one “L”: total length: 3.00 m (9.84 ft), width: 2.00 m (6.56 ft), height in the lower part of the “L”: 1.50 m (4.9 ft), higher part: 2.00 m (6.56 ft). So I could stand in a tiny spot; the rest was a very comfortable bed where I could sit upright easily. Shared bathrooms—very clean and convenient.

There’s perfectly working AC in the building and in each cabin. Enough towels, a bathrobe. Noise insulation works quite well, and the party noise I feared never occurred.
Everything perfect?
That depends on you. There’s no window, no daylight—only the clock tells you whether it’s night or day. Don’t be claustrophobic. It’s tight. Not as tight as I expected, but still.

And—on a personal note—after one night (and I slept well), I had the feeling of living in a dystopian world. Disconnected from the real world—sunlight, fresh air, street noise, and the wind that blows through the curtains of the window next to the bed.

I felt relieved when I left.

These places are becoming more and more common. They’re much more affordable—especially in the city centers of expensive European cities. They’re perfectly well organized.
And yet—I would use them only under two conditions:
A) no more than one night, and
B) only when they’re either the only option or the only affordable one.

So—yes, I love the reception desk. Even more so, I love the local at the kitchen table, willing to have a glass of wine with me.
That is what traveling is about: it’s about learning.

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