Somewhere between the Black Sea and the Caucasus Mountains, tucked into a fold in the earth where Europe and Asia stopped arguing and just started cooking together, there is a city called Tbilisi. It has been here for fifteen hundred years. It has been captured, burned, rebuilt, captured again, and rebuilt again so many times that the architecture gave up trying to be consistent and simply became layered — Persian balconies on Soviet foundations, Orthodox churches next to mosques, a medieval fortress watching over a neighborhood full of wine bars. This is Georgia. The country, not the American state. And today we are spending a day here — from the moment someone's alarm goes off in a crumbling but charming apartment in the old town to the moment the last toast is raised, which in Georgia, tends to happen very late indeed.

