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A Georgian woman


She sees tourists from afar, judges from behind the curtain what is inside their souls. She wonders – should I open my door for them? Before they come closer, she makes a decision. Probably the majority of those who reach this place have reasonably acceptable souls, hardly anyone goes beyond the tourist route here in Kazbegi, almost no one is interested in the little lost village, with three residents in the summer. And one in the winter, the only who stubbornly, hiding behind her age, doesn’t want to leave, live in a city with her son or overseas with the grandson. It's good they remember about her, enough that they come from time to time. However, the only entertainment are those lost tourists. She will prepare for them an instant coffee, partake a piece of whatever was left from yesterday dinner and, God forbid!, she won’t take any money for it. She will share memories, no matter that her guests may not speak Russian. From a few understandable phrases, they will form a story, just as true as any other story of life - none of them fit into words. They drink sweetened coffee, although normally they don’t use sugar, but it is difficult to refuse. They feel a bit awkward, they don’t know what to expect from such an invitation. They agree timidly, uncertainly. They listen with curiosity. They ask with some embarrassment whether they can take a picture. They know that this is one of those unplanned moments, which appear suddenly, and quickly turn into a dreamlike memory. Hiking on empty trails in the mountains, they will wonder - has this really happened? Who was this woman stubbornly clinging to life in an deserted village? They won’t find an answer in their head, but in their hearts they will feel an undefined mix of sadness, admiration, remorse and suppressed fear. Empathy is perhaps being aware that we are all one.

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