During breakfast my hosts ask me if I would like to have some Turkish Coffee. I say yes as if this was something I am used to having every day. The coffee does not disappoint.
Then one of my friends reads my future from the coffee grounds.
- I will get married and probably have a baby.
- There will be some problems on my way, but nothing too big.
- Everyone will help me.
- I should stay near a river.
- When I get back home a house will be an issue.
- A woman in my family will fall ill, but not too seriously.
“Make a wish,” she says.
And so I do.
All of this reminds me of that time twelve years ago when an old Daoist monk read the future for me and told me my descendent would graduate from university.
When I get back on the highway, there is a Georgian village my friends have told me about. The buildings don’t look particularly Georgian. Nor do the people. But Georgians have lived there for more than one hundred years, and they still speak their own language besides Turkish.
A gentleman called Jamaltai stands outside of his house. He tells me there are a few hundred households in the village, that they don’t make their traditional dishes anymore, and that they don’t drink any chacha. I can’t believe it: Georgians who don’t drink chacha!
It’s because they are Muslims, he tells me. And as if to prove his point, just as I make my way further to the village, the prayer call rings through the land.
I don’t get very far. Walking is slow on the country road, and I talk to people here and there. One time, when a family invites me to tea, I sit down, just for a few minutes. At least that’s what I tell myself. Then some food appears. And more people. Why don’t you stay the night, they ask me. And so I do.
The neighbors, who are also Georgians, have a cow, two cats, two dogs, some geese, some chickens, and a very ugly bird that walks around in a menacing pose, trying to intimidate everyone while making very stupid sounds.
I call the bird Donald.
It’s a Turkey in Turkey.