I've been in Tbilisi for three months now, which is longer than I planned and shorter than I want.
The city has a way of doing that. You come for a week, you find a café that makes good coffee and has unreliable wifi, and suddenly your plans feel negotiable.
What I actually do here
Mostly walk. The old town is built on a hillside so every route is either uphill or down, which means you're always either working for something or giving something up. I find that clarifying.
I rent a motorcycle on days when I want to cover ground. The roads outside the city get interesting fast — hairpin turns, villages that haven't changed shape in decades, the occasional cow blocking a mountain pass. You negotiate. The cow usually wins.
The thing about nomadic life nobody tells you
It gets quieter than you expect. Not lonely, exactly — more like the noise of accumulated context drops away. You stop being the person from your old job, your old neighborhood. You're just someone in a city, figuring out where to eat.
That can feel like freedom or like floating, depending on the week.
The best journeys answer questions you didn't know you were asking.
I'm still not sure what questions Tbilisi is answering. But I'm in no hurry to leave before I find out.
What's next
Probably north. There's a road through the Caucasus that supposedly closes in winter. I've been told this three times now, by three different people, with increasing urgency. That feels like a sign.
If you're ever here and want a coffee recommendation, you know how to find me.