In Georgia, I learned the weight of things.
First, it was wood. I did not know until I wandered the old historic center of Tbilisi, capital of Georgia, that wood could wilt. But it does. Whether it does so under the weight of time or the weight of history, that I cannot say. The government has pulled out of plans to revitalize the district.
Second, it was the weight of literary souvenirs. That feel that only Kafka's writing stirs? There are a handful of places that swell with this energy. Georgia is one. In these places, there is always a secret story brewing beneath the ordinary. Cows have memories, and abandoned buildings might burst into lived life if one pushes open the right door.
Third was the weight of Russia. Ever encroaching, it is the fascinant, that which charms and beguiles, all the while pressing its advantage. Maps of the High Caucasus Mountains are worthless little souvenirs of a time when borders could be charted.