Georgia

Leaving Turkey was a piece of cake, though my goofy driver's license certainly helped. The border agent laughed in disbelief, for this was just incredible, there was no way the Turkish authorities would permit such frivolity. He proclaimed that he would surely make such a face when he got to America, then stuck his tongue out, cocked his head sideways, and crossed his eyes. 

Georgia was another matter entirely. I naively assumed that once I had ventured this far east, to the gates of the former USSR, it would be the wild west. On the contrary, my entry was met with fierce resistance due to the fact that I did not *technically* own this motorcycle. The specter which had haunted me for so long was once again preparing to deal me a death blow. My documents were scrutinized under magnifying glass and black light before the border agent, disgruntled, took them and disappeared. He came back 30 minutes later, mumbled something to a colleague, then handed her the documents. Shit. She looked at my license, laughed, then stamped my passport.

So rules *could* be bent in Georgia after all. 

Good to know.    

On the other side in Batumi were bikinis, alcohol, and Russians - often together. There is some tension between locals and Russians, but I think it is mostly economic and cultural; Georgians seem to do a decent job separating people and politics. Mind you, this was eight months into the invasion of Ukraine, and Russia has occupied 20% of Georgian territory for more than a decade. There is hatred too.

My hostel was run by two young men, one Ukrainian and one Russian. They were peas in a pod, for as the Russian said in a refrain I would go on to hear from many of his peers seeking shelter in the backwaters of the former USSR: “this is not my war.”

I met up with _santosh_, a German (what else) who had heard about me from Ali when they crossed paths at a cafe in Antalya. Originally bound for central Asia, he had redrawn his gaze towards Iran due to the triumvirate of border closures which conspired against any who dared dream across the Caspian. We got on quite well, and I must confess that I was secretly a bit crestfallen when his Iranian visa was granted.