Disneyland by Night

The miserable heap of habits man is… Having spent a long time in Turkey, much of it in the not overly progressive hinterland, I genuinely thought I had grown accustomed to the sights and sounds of a different culture. Little things like the muezzin's call to prayer. But also more significant details, such as the surreal absence of women in public life, or the even more surreal absence of pork on my plate. But when I hit Batumi, a breezy beach town just a few kilometres into Georgia, I realised I had been fooling myself. The differences were too blatant. No deafening Allahu Akbar sounding from dozens of minarets five times a day but gently tolling church bells. No çay or muddy Turkish coffee but real espresso and French pastries. No headscarves and long overcoats but slender girls in skirts and tight jeans. The sun beamed down on Batumi’s parklike boulevard, and I felt as chirpy as a prisoner on a weekend break.

Annoyed at my own relief, I started listing everything that was wrong with Batumi. Those fin-de-siècle facades. Can't deny they're pretty, I thought. But that’s exactly what makes this place so perverse. Behind the renovated splendour of the beach front lie the impoverished backstreets no holidaying Russian ever sees. And how god-awful those coloured spotlights that turn the entire city centre into a Disneyland by Night.

It didn’t help, of course. I enjoyed every bit of it. Even the larger-than-life musical fountain dancing to the tune of such Western evergreens as An der schönen blauen Donau and Theme from Mission: Impossible. I guess that’s the problem with traveling. Somehow you never succeed in leaving yourself at home.