Georgia always makes me return, again and again. In Tbilisi the cobbled streets line with leaning balconies, sulfur baths, and hidden clubs pulsing with techno that felt more Berlin than Caucasus. The city feels layered - part Paris, part Tehran, entirely its own.

But drive just an hour out, and everything shifts. Villages appear where time seems paused in a Soviet frame, old Ladas, fading murals, roadside stands with plastic bottles of wine and churchkhela.

Then come the mountains. The Caucasus rise steep and silent, dotted with stone towers and sheep grazing on impossible slopes. In Svaneti, time moves differently. You eat what’s grown, you drink what’s made, and you listen when the wind changes.

And always, there’s the table: long, loud, full. Wine flows from clay jugs, toasts last for hours, and suddenly you’re not a guest, you’re part of something. Georgia is a place where the road may be rough, but the heart is wide open.