And now, the continuation (and conclusion) of the story of the longest travel day of my life… (for Part 1, click here)
Scene 5: Didube Marshrutka Depot, 9am, Christmas Day. We stumble into Didube metro stop and light is just breaking. With our bags, we trudge across the dirt lot that is Tbilisi’s largest marshrutka stop. In Georgia and Armenia, marshrutkas quickly became my favorite method of transportation – egalitarian shared buses or minivans that depart for their destination only when enough passengers board to turn the driver a profit.
The marshrutka for Kazbegi was easy enough to find – it is a destination popular enough with foreigners that the powers that be deemed it necessary to write the town’s name in English beneath the dancing loops of Georgian script.
Georgia’s relationship with Russia is still on the outs, apparently, as the Cyrillic alphabet was mysteriously absent from most minibus signage. While David holds down the fort in the minivan, I rush around the shops surrounding the market, taking note from the other travelers on which shops have the most promising khachapuri. Armed with jam and cheese filled breads, I return the bus, triumphant, but still lacking the most essential nutrient to energy consuming travel: Sleep.
Scene 6: The Georgian Military Highway, Lunchtime, Christmas Day. The Georgian Military Highway is the most breathtakingly gorgeous road I’ve ever traveled on. And it’s up against some tough competition including ancient paths in Shikoku, Japan, the Milford Track in New Zealand, and the endless trails through the endless Mongolian steppe. As we drive through tiny towns whose names seem to be comprised of impossibly strung together consonants, David continues to sleep, having fallen victim to a double dose of Dramamine. We stop at a rest stop, where I practice my Georgian with some women who think I am Russian. Ending in a linguistic detente, I pay too much for a traditional sheepskin hat that is too small for my oversize Capitalist head, but declare the experience a linguistic victory regardless.
Scene 7: Kazbegi/Stepantsminda, Georgian/Russian Border, 2:00pm, Christmas Day. We arrive in downtown Kazbegi with only two remaining van-mates: an English documentary filmmaker and his Georgian interpreter/girlfriend. Together we grab a cab to take us to the Rooms Hotel – a large modernly appointed hotel that looms over the town of Stepantsminda (also referred to as Kazbegi, confusingly, by the locals) like the Overlook Hotel in “The Shining.” 
The town is poor, and the hotel is gated. When we talk to locals in the town, they tell us about losing money to the hotel – tourists used to stay with them in their houses, but not so much anymore. Our cabbie drops us off at the hotel, and says he’ll be back to drive us to the church perched atop the mountain (Gergeti Sameba) in a few hours. He pries off the Georgian plates from his car, and replaces them with Russian ones, as he’s going to ferry someone across the border to Vladikavkaz, the capital of the troubled Republic of North Ossetia. North Ossetia is home to Beslan, where the tragic school hostage events occurred in 2004, and is next door to the notoriously unstable republics of Chechnya and Dagestan. I know what you’re thinking: how romantic!
We’re about 10 kilometers away from those troubled spots, though, and happy to enjoy the creature comforts of our memory foam hotel mattress and reclaimed wood furniture.
Scene 8: Gergeti Sameba Church, 4pm, Christmas Day. Still no sleep, David and I head into the mountains with our new British and Georgian friends. We had tried to sleep in the hotel room, but despite the modern fixings in the building, the walls were shockingly thin, treating us to the sounds of 20-something coitus next door. No foul, though, we reach the top of the mountain and start a cautious approach to the church. There is snow and ice on the ground, and no green to be seen. Monks live at the monastery below the church year round, we’re told, despite the cold. I’m an atheist, but it’s hard to not be inspired by that kind of devotion to something. I can really only muster that kind enthusiasm for dogs or cheese, really.
I’m really running on fumes at this point, and I’ve lost David. I look around everywhere, and he and our fornicating couple friends are nowhere to be found. I step inside the ancient chapel of the church, dating to the 14th century, I believe, and find them lighting candles and looking pretty speechless. It truly is a sight – this ornate example of orthodox Christian architecture this far up the mountain. Easily the most physically beautiful place I’ve ever visited. There’s a gift shop inside the church (thanks, tourism industrial complex), and I buy their stock of postcards. David and I walk outside, and looking toward Russia (from one homophobic country into another) we casually decide that we should get married. Fitting for two hippie homos to engage in a little disruptive activity while traveling through a far flung part of the world.
We ride back down the mountain in a haze, happy and exhausted. We Facetime with my parents and sister’s family back in Seattle and share the news before falling fast asleep. The next morning brings more adventure, after all.
