Recovery and Stillness

I wake at 9:00 a.m., later than usual, but necessary. The rain of the previous days, the soaked ride to the coast, the tension of wet roads and poor visibility—all of it had settled somewhere deep in my muscles. Sleeping feels less like indulgence and more like repair.

Maxim does not rise until noon, so the apartment remains quiet. I use the hours to reorganize my things, check routes, answer messages, and restore a sense of order to the small chaos that inevitably accumulates inside panniers and backpacks.

The weather app insists it is raining in both Poti and Batumi. Yet from 9:00 a.m. until nearly 1:00 p.m., not a single drop falls. It feels like a small act of defiance from the sky.

Around 13:30, I leave Poti. Maxim has recommended a longer, more scenic route south—about forty kilometers more than the direct option. Instead of hugging the coastal highway, it winds gently through low mountains rising some 300 meters above sea level, never too far from the Black Sea but high enough to offer perspective.

I follow his suggestion.

Ruins and Elevation

The road curves through damp greenery, the asphalt still dark from earlier rain. It is winding—perhaps not ideal with my current tire setup—but manageable. The weather holds. No rain, only a low ceiling of clouds and the smell of wet earth.

Out here, Soviet ghosts are never far away. Abandoned hotels, skeletal structures, unfinished concrete blocks that were once meant to house holidaymakers or workers. In Georgia, as in Armenia and Russia, there is a particular aesthetic to abandonment: ambitious, monumental, and suddenly interrupted.

I stop at one such structure. From a distance, it looks like a former hotel; up close, it reveals itself as an old cinema. The staircase to the upper floor has been ripped out, the interior vandalized, the walls stripped of decoration. No films will ever play here again. The wind moves through it freely, as if it were a natural formation rather than a human one.

The mountains are modest but generous in their views. The Black Sea flashes occasionally between trees—a muted silver line at the edge of vision.

Traffic and Towers

By late afternoon, I descend toward Batumi, Georgia’s subtropical resort city near the Turkish border. The calm of the hills gives way abruptly to dense, impatient traffic. The city center feels chaotic—cars squeezing through narrow lanes, pedestrians weaving unpredictably.

I reach the studio at 4:45 p.m., an Airbnb on the eleventh floor, directly facing the sea. Two nights for forty euros. The elevator climbs quickly; from above, the geometry of Batumi reveals itself—glass towers, Soviet relics, new developments competing for attention.

My SIM card refuses to cooperate, and I still lack the Wi-Fi details. Practical inconveniences have a way of feeling larger when you are alone in a new city. I leave again to buy groceries while waiting for clarity. When I return, I see a message from Evgenia: a photo of my motorcycle. She had just passed by. We missed each other by minutes.

I ask whether she is going to the concert tonight. She says yes. That means I have until 10:00 p.m. I use the time to wash clothes. Again, my temporary ritual of restoring order.

Fountains and Misunderstandings

At 20:00, Evgenia writes that she is nearby. We agree to meet. I head toward the promenade, toward the so-called dancing fountains near the lake—part of the city’s modern seafront redevelopment. Without the internet, finding the exact spot becomes a small adventure. The fountains rise and fall in illuminated choreography, water columns pulsing against the dark.

We quickly realize we have misunderstood one another. I had confused the dates. Pável and Katya are at the concert, but it does not end until 22:00. The opera performance I had in mind is actually tomorrow.

Instead of waiting idly, we walk along the boulevard and find a restaurant for something light. A bottle of wine, a lemonade, quiet conversation. Batumi at night is both theatrical and slightly surreal—neon reflections on wet pavement, high-rise apartments marketed to foreign investors, and casinos glowing discreetly.

Around 23:00, we return to the bar where Pável and Katya emerge from the concert. Brief greetings, shared smiles. It is late; everyone disperses. Then, I received a proposal from the Georgian motorcycle group: meet the next morning at 9:00 for a ride.

The Question of the Ghost Town

Back in the studio, overlooking the dark sea, I check the route for tomorrow. The destination: a ghost village in the mountains called Tskaltubo. Out and back before nightfall. Roughly 300 kilometers in total. Google claims three hours each way. Experience tells me that means four.

Four hours there. Four hours back. Little margin for exploration. Little margin for error. I had wanted to see that place—abandoned settlements hold a strange fascination for me—but not like this. Not rushed. Not measured against sunset.

Sometimes the discipline of travel lies not in pushing forward, but in choosing restraint. I decide to stay in Batumi instead. To explore the city in daylight. To meet them again in the evening without the fatigue of eight hurried hours on the road.

The ghost town will wait. And tonight, the sea below my window is calm.