ABSTRACT
St David’s Square in Kutaisi, Imereti, spread out still and unhurried on asultry evening. The odd Lada or BMW grazed by in the heat; a trafficpoliceman idly waved his baton at cars. Summer was here and, in West Georgia, quite a different thing to that in Kartlian East Georgia — noticeably hotter (now cooling from a shimmering 40 degrees) yet sufferable. Altogether, the atmosphere in Georgia’s second city was pleasingly calm after the hustle of the newly mobile-telephoned Tbilisi. The central park trees to my left leaned down friendly arms towards the passers by. I noticed the taxis didn’t buzz and swarm toward any lonely figure standing by the roadside as in the capital — if indeed taxis existed here in any serious way. Mostly Imeretians would stretch out lazy arms and a car would stop, often because they knew each other. “Gamarjoba Khatuna, sheidzleba . . .?” (“Hello Khatuna, is it possible . . .?”) they would say and step in.
