a morning in
old batumi.

start at nova.

old town has a dozen places to begin a morning, and we've tried them all. we always come back to nova coffee bar — opened by a belarusian couple in may 2022, two streets up from the boulevard. a third-wave coffee bar with a copper grinder, a window onto chavchavadze, and a barista who'll let you sit for two hours if you want.

the morning is for pour-over, not espresso — they do an ethiopian washed that tastes like grapefruit when it cools. you can drink it standing, but the bench is the point. people walk past on the way to work, dogs sniff at your feet, and the cathedral bells ring at ten.

order the croissant only if it's a friday. they bake them the night before. by saturday they're trying.

poetry, posters, and nobody else.

two streets over, behind the building with the blue balcony, there's a bookstore that doesn't have a sign. you'll find it by the postcards taped to the inside of the window — black-and-white shots of batumi from the seventies, when nobody was here.

the owner runs it three days a week. it has more poetry than fiction, more russian than english, and a small but serious georgian section in the back. he stocks annie ernaux in two languages, and the entire works of bulat okudzhava on cassette.

we never leave without something. last time it was a chapbook of new georgian poets translated by a man we'd never heard of, in print run of 400 copies. that's how it goes here.

cool stone, no tourists.

old batumi has a small miracle of religious tolerance — four faiths within a five-minute walk. the catholic cathedral on chavchavadze, the armenian church a block over, the orthodox basilica with the green dome, and the synagogue around the corner from the bazaar.

we usually visit two — the catholic one for the stained glass, and the armenian one for the courtyard. the courtyard is the real point. there's a fig tree, a low stone bench, and a cat who lives there. nobody bothers you. it's the coolest place in batumi in august, both in temperature and in feeling.

the smallest one in georgia.

five minutes from the orthodox basilica, on a street whose name we always forget, sits the smallest active synagogue in georgia. it's smaller than our living room. you have to ring the bell.

the rabbi will let you in if he's not at lunch. it has wooden benches, ceiling beams painted blue, and a tiny but serious library. he speaks four languages and remembers everyone who's ever visited. if you came with a friend last time, he'll ask about them.

a place with no sign.

around the corner from the synagogue, in a courtyard you have to walk through someone's wash hanging on a line, is the restaurant. it doesn't have a name. it doesn't have a sign. it has a green door and a hand-painted notice that says "open" when it's open.

three tables inside, four outside under a grape arbor. the menu is verbal. the cook is also the owner, the waiter, and the cashier — her name is dali, she's seventy-something, and she cooks one thing extremely well: chakapuli, when it's spring; chashushuli, when it's autumn; and adjarian khachapuri all year round.

cash only. don't ask for the wifi password. there isn't one. that's the point.