Georgian Homestay
The old man’s face, rosy with the glow of alcoholism broke into a big smile as he saluted in greeting, then clasped his hands in a prayer like display of welcome and promptly dragged me into the cellar. Immediately a traditional drinking horn of wine was thrust into my hands, his stream of speech easily outpacing my mental dictionary of a dozen words in Georgian, but I grasped enough to say, “English” back to him. Effusive but unintelligible praise of…
