Author : Nana Kalandadze
I want to write about Tbilisi, the Tbilisi I grew up in! A flood of facts, images, and memories rushes over me, but I don’t know where to begin... I feel exactly as I did during those Georgian language tests at school, when I had a hard time starting an essay, tempted to tear out the page in frustration at my own primitivity. Phrases like ‘We all come from our childhood’, ‘Everyone has their own piece of Tbilisi’, or ‘I couldn’t survive a single day without Tbilisi’ have been said a thousand times; they’ve acquired the dull tint of a cliché. I won’t claim originality, but I will try to avoid these tropes. I will strive to bring my memories to life within Tbilisi, and conversely, to bring Tbilisi to life within my nostalgia...
Recently on Facebook, someone ‘put up’ a list of old Tbilisi symbols and challenged us to add our own. A waterfall of diverse memories followed—Laghidze waters here, ‘Francia’ there, ‘Gofilekti Garden’ and ‘Kirichni,’ ‘Plekhanov’ and ‘Nakhalovka,’ the ‘Zemel pharmacy,’ and ‘Chashka’s’ medicines... in short, whatever anyone could remember. Of course, many long-forgotten facts and names of old Tbilisi resurfaced in my mind as well.
As I mentioned before, I am from Mtatsminda, and to this day, I have never betrayed my neighbourhood. The house where I live is in no way remarkable; in fact, it is quite dull and, despite its venerable age, lacks the status of a historical monument. Yet, for me, it is both the Palace of Versailles and the Taj Mahal.
When people ask where I live, I often reply: on Rustaveli, on Mtatsminda—and I am not lying, for I am barely a hundred meters away from Tbilisi’s main avenue. This place is truly the very heart of the city, as evidenced by the important administrative and cultural institutions located here. However, some of them have been demolished, some burned down, some remodelled, and others sold off to foreigners...
I belong to the generation who remembers when Shakhtastroy was housed in the Academy of Sciences building; those who went to the Spartak cinema and to the DK (Officers’ House); those who made extraordinary efforts to obtain a pass to the House of Cinema just to watch non-Soviet films. I belong to those who sent telegrams from the Post-Telegraph office, written with translucent pink-handled pens dipped into grimy inkwells; those for whom the Pioneer Palace was the true Mecca of childhood happiness; to those who frequented Café Metro and the Bamboo Café next to Hotel Tbilisi for those supposedly meat-filled blinchiki; to those who, in summer, ate Plombir ice cream with bent aluminium spoons from stainless-steel footed bowls in Alexandrov Garden. For us, everyday routine involved eating Adjarian khachapuri with Mitrophane Laghidze’s soda waters—the most beloved of which was the unique, world-unmatched cream-chocolate, a drink for which people travelled from far and wide just for a single taste. I belong to those who, at least once, drank mineral water at the Borjomi shop from a greasy, faceted glass, slid across a water-drenched marble counter by a gloomy auntie with a scowl, in exchange for a ten-kopek coin you slipped to her. To those who remember the Chai Gruzia shop with its incredible chocolate Soufflé, Zefir, Otsneba (Dream) cakes, and wafer Kakluchi (waffles shaped like nuts); the watery cocoa and twenty-two-kopek pastries at the Nargizi cafe-confectionery.
I belong to those who remember the dairy shop shelves decorated with pyramids of condensed milk cans and red-and-yellow wheels of Swiss cheese, and the rhythmic clinking of glass bottles nestled in iron crates. I belong to those who were solemnly warned that the kvass tankers were breeding grounds for maggots and that drinking from them was strictly forbidden. I belong to those who bought books at Saunje bookstore—and, if you happened to know Durmishkhan, you could even get rare editions—alongside stationery: Iskusstvo colored pencils; dull-toned plasticine steeped in the smell of kerosene; crêpe paper; fountain pens; and thick, multi-layered natural suede pen wipers.
I belong to those who indulged in Georgian natural silks, sold at the corner shop on Alexandre Chavchavadze Street. The shop assistant would deftly stretch the fabric across a polished, meter-long ruler with an iron tip and then, with a swift movement of her scissors, cut it—always slightly on the bias. I belong to those who remember the Lux store with its fabric carousels and the gigantic promotional shoe displayed in the window.
I belong to those who frequented the Young Spectators’ Theatre in the Melik-Azaryants House and who, upon stepping out after a performance, never missed the chance to buy eight-kopeck ponchik (donut) at the corner grocery store. I remember the filigree-like Aeroflot ticket office and the final stop of the Ikarus buses bound for the airport—overlooked by Shota Rustaveli’s once-white statue, darkened over time by their exhaust fumes. I also remember the balustraded serpentines of the lower cable car station leading up to the Funicular.
Yes, I belong to those who retain the memory of such a Rustaveli Avenue; to those who stepped on asphalt pitted both by the needle-thin heels of women’s shoes in front of the metro and by the spent cartridges of bullets fired by Georgian at Georgian... To those who have heard both the triumphant marches of brass bands passing in the November 7 and May 1 parades, and the thud of batons striking transparent shields in the hands of Russian spetsnaz troops; to those who have seen with their own eyes the Opera House engulfed in flames and the First Gymnasium shelled from a helicopter…
I will not dwell on this topic any longer...
My generation was destined to live at the crossroads of Communist and post-Communist systems. A one-party, single-goal, country petrified by deficits and corruption turned into a political and economic nightmare one fine day, turning some into mourners of that ‘happy and peaceful’ life, while others became visionaries of freedom and a civilized future. How many times have we uttered the sigh, ‘If only for those times!’—yet that phrase holds entirely different meanings for different people. Some mourn the collapsed USSR, while for others, the phrase holds a nostalgic essence, signifying that carefree era when you were surrounded by loved ones—those who created for you, as best they could, a protected childhood and youth, when you saw everything around you with such clarity and light... That is how it is: we long for what will never return and can never be repeated…
When some rusted Communist laments, ‘What a country they have destroyed!’ the diagnosis is already made. In that moment, the trajectory of their life and career unfurls like an ancient parchment. What can you do? That is their nostalgia. New life offered new rules, which not everyone could grasp. However, some might agree that for many Georgians, any novelty is difficult to digest or adapt to. Thus, they prefer to remain where they feel—more or less—‘nestled’ in comfort (Glory to the blessed name of Ilia!). And so, many of those ‘good-country-destroyed’ types—who were accustomed to living through phone calls from above, winks, arrangements, under-the-counter privileges, nepotism and a thousand other tricks—are still nostalgic of that style of living and to this day fail to realize what perversions it all resulted from.
Whether we liked it or not, we were all, more or less, involved in that way of life. A treacherous system made us dance to its tune. The seal of ‘Gosstandart’ (State Standard) was felt everywhere and in everything. I didn’t recall the word ‘standard’ by accident. As I said, its meaning was clearly defined against the backdrop of that former life, though standards vary... many were harmful, while many others somehow approached the meaning of ‘tradition’ and, truth be told, committed no real wrong.
Tbilisi had its own standards, traditions, rules, and even its own fashions! How much warmth—and occasionally a smile—is brought to us by the objects, places, facts, or episodes of that time. Let me dwell on a couple...
Our childhood was unimaginable without the city’s three main recreational zones, as they are called today: Vake Park, Mushtaidi Garden, and Mtatsminda Park—or as we call it, the ‘Funicular’ (even though that name refers to the transport itself and not the park, but no matter). There were smaller squares as well, and they undoubtedly served their purposes, especially since Tbilisi was not yet dominated by such tall and dense buildings. Each park had its own unique ‘image’.
For me, Mtatsminda Park was the closest and most convenient. To get there, there were and still are three ways: by car, by tram and by cable car (not counting the long hiatus as the cable car was decommissioned after the horrific tragedy of June 1, 1990, and has only recently been restored with entirely new technology). I loved the tram most of all; despite its own share of ‘accident history’, my heart still draws me toward it even today.
At the beginning of the last century, someone remarked: ‘What a magnificent plateau lies above the Father David Church; shouldn’t we build an Upper City there?’ The idea was well-received, but it was clear that ascending and descending the mountain would be no easy feat for the residents of this ‘Upper City’ or their visitors.
At the time, Tbilisi’s tram network was managed by a Belgian company. They had a remarkably sharp engineer—Alphonse Roby—who suggested: ‘We can solve this issue with a Funicular, a mountain tram.’ And so, our and European guys set to work together. The architectural portion of the French engineer Blanche’s construction project was executed by a Tbilisi architect of Polish descent, Aleksander Szymkiewicz. Belgian and Italian engineers joined the endeavour, but high-quality construction required materials of equal quality. Let the name of Niko Nikoladze be blessed, for with his support, the most critical part—the reinforced concrete works—was completed.
Thus, through Georgian-European friendship and cooperation, one of Tbilisi’s great symbols was built, opening on March 27, 1905, complete with guests and a brass band. I’ll tell you a little ‘secret’: the Belgian Anonymous Society announced a generous monetary reward for the first brave passengers, though their identities have since vanished into the mist of history. However, this cable railway of ours was never lost, nor did anyone take it away. It belonged to those nameless Belgians for only 45 years and then, as promised, was handed over to the city free of charge. It is a fact that the ‘Upper City’ project, with its streets, houses, and bustle, never came to fruition; however, in its place, a universally beloved park was established.
Speaking of which, Tbilisi’s mountains today are heavily overburdened with buildings, though I doubt this stems from any awareness of the ‘Upper City’ idea. Our city cannot reconcile itself with these unsystematically scattered, largely tasteless structures—neither on its hills nor in its neighbourhoods. Yet the very ones who ought to be prohibiting this are the ones ‘building’ it themselves, and what can we do... I am certain, however, that the original idea was far less vandalistic toward nature and, for that matter, toward the view itself...
And yet, this park has always possessed a magical magnetism that draws both our residents and visitors alike. So, how could I possibly fail to join this army of the ‘enchanted’! I was no different from any child who loved the attraction rides and felt their heart swell with joy from riding on them. I, too, stood in line for the carousels with a five-kopek coin in my hand, my heart fluttering with excitement, waving fervently to my mother with every rotation. I swung on the boats—first the small ones, then the large ones—using a specialized squat to propel myself higher and conquer the height. I screamed on the chain carousels when the neighbour behind me would launch my seat with a spin. Trembling, I would still board the Ferris Wheel... and the shooting gallery? I was obsessed with the shooting gallery. A one-eyed man (for some reason, at that time, it was common to see service personnel with this problem in shooting galleries—whether their eye was the victim of a stray bullet or some other cause, who knows...) would sullenly toss the so-called rifle onto the counter with an exhausted expression. Then, with an index finger with a blackened nail, he would count out the brush-tipped pellets and indifferently explain where the sight should be aimed. He was particularly irritated by smarty girls—like me—but it was his job, and he had little choice.
Once, my uncle invited my mother and me to a restaurant. Those of the older generation will surely remember the Funicular restaurant—not the one overlooking the entire city of Tbilisi and visible from almost anywhere, but the one deeper in the park, as you climbed the stairs toward the plinth where Stalin’s statue once stood, and then turned left.
This ‘public catering establishment’ consisted of several round gazebo-type pavilions enclosed by blue-painted railings. Waitresses, wearing white aprons and stiff, starched white caps perched on their heads, hurried from one pavilion to another, balancing overloaded aluminium trays. I chose this restaurant myself, because it was surrounded by the most attractions, ensuring that ‘fun-as-dessert’ was guaranteed after the meal (as if anyone would have ever told me no). Since the restaurant was my choice, my uncle entrusted me with selecting the dinner menu. The list of dishes was, of course, printed on greasy cardboard, but the ordering process often took the form of a dialogue between the customer and the waitress. The waitress—usually rude—would stand over me with a crumpled notepad and a chemical pencil; after a monotonous, weary recitation of her memorized text, she would record the order without asking any questions. For those who do not know, let me inform you that Soviet restaurants were not distinguished by great creativity. However, one name in the waitress’s ‘monologue’ caught my attention: ‘Chizhi-Bizhi’. I noticed that my decision didn’t exactly spark much enthusiasm in my folks, but a promise is a promise. So, along with a spring chicken in garlic sauce, a salad of real Choporti1 tomatoes and real Mukhrani2 cucumbers topped with pink onions, and a few other things—my uncle ordered it. Oh, and also some warm, terrible lemonade and wine in a small carafe.
The table was laid for a proper supra.3 The chizhi-bizhi turned out to be, as we would say, nothing more than scrambled eggs with tomatoes; still, I kept my composure and tasted a little. In the end, it was the tender white meat of the roasted spring chicken that redeemed the meal, and the timely arrival of a piping-hot khachapuri crowned the feast.
I remember this day in such detail because it was the first time I ‘won’ something at the attractions, which made me immensely happy. Next to our pavilion was an attraction called ‘Serso’ (Ring Toss). You would buy, say, ten iron rings wrapped in grimy fabric tape (mostly torn in places) and, from a certain distance, you had to toss them over special wooden pegs marked with scores. I won’t dive into the rules, I’ll just tell you that I suffered a total defeat at this attraction.
We then moved to the neighbouring shed, where you had to destroy a pyramid built of empty tin cans using balls. The rusty cans were one thing, but the balls were truly impressive: apparently, they were sewn somewhere in an underground ‘tsekh’ (workshop) out of discarded brown cotton stockings and then distributed to such attractions, as you’d see the same ones everywhere. These ‘balls,’ stuffed with some sort of junk, would wear out and be replaced—after all, there was no shortage of old stockings... My uncle ‘arranged’ for them to give me relatively new balls, then turned to me and began explaining how to aim. I glanced up at the prize shelf where a fluffy toy puppy sat; it didn’t satisfy any Soviet standard because both its colour and shape were actually normal. This is a noteworthy fact! I know many of you will remember the story of the orange crocodile from Gia Danelia’s ‘Mimino’,4 and Rubik Khachikyan’s attempt to paint it green to please his Albertik. What can we do? Everything back then was just that kind of ‘orange’...
So, I lined up my five-ball portion for the session and began measuring the distance with my eyes, as if I actually knew what I was doing. I took one ‘stocking-ball’ and, before my uncle’s voice could reach me—shouting to aim lower first—I hurled it into the middle of nowhere. Four ‘grenades’ left. I took the next one and... I pulled off a miracle! This thing called a ball hit the bottom row directly (by accident, of course!) and swept away the entire construction in one go. Three cans remained. The attraction worker threatened me: ‘This is it, you won’t be able to do anything about these.’ I mustered all my sniper-like strength, and didn’t I just send two of those three cans backstage?! It was obvious that with the remaining two balls, I could hardly do anything to the last lonely can. I threw one, and nothing... but the second one actually pushed the can significantly aside, though it didn’t manage to knock it down...
I heard shouts from behind: ‘Good job, girl!’ Some men nearby even caught the fever for shooting. I turned away, heartbroken; my mother was saying something, but my attention remained fixed on that prize toy. At that moment, my uncle shouted: ‘Where are you going? Aren’t you taking your gift?’ I couldn’t believe my ears. I turned back and honestly stammered, ‘But I didn’t knock them all down.’ ‘What do you mean you didn’t? To push that last can so far... not everyone can do that!’ the attraction worker told me, as he ceremoniously handed over the lovely toy. My uncle’s joy knew no bounds. To this day, I don’t know if that worker simply showed some humanity or if my uncle intervened in the matter, but the fact remains: we all returned home happy.
Another object in Mtatsminda Park used to capture my attention—some called it the observatory, some the telescope, and others the astronomical room—but its name mattered less than its purpose. If I remember correctly, it was a relatively small, circular room with chairs arranged in a curve. Once the seats were even half-filled, the session would repeat at a steady rhythm: the hall would be plunged into darkness, and the entire cosmos—with its planets, stars, and comets—would appear on the inner dome. There, the instructor would conduct a typical lecture-lesson for us. This room served a marvellous educational purpose, and I truly loved going there. I recently wanted to find some information about it, but I came across nothing. It likely no longer exists, and even if it did, it probably couldn’t have kept pace with modern technology. However, in its time, any slightly curious child—and who knows, perhaps adults too—received wonderful information and, alongside the fun of the attractions, a solid education in this regard. Besides, the space was particularly topical back in the 1960s.
How could I possibly overlook the television tower, which, alongside the Mtatsminda administrative building, has become a symbol of Tbilisi. Anyone interested can easily find information stating that the first TV tower was erected in 1955, followed shortly by the construction of the studio-apparatus block, from which the first broadcast aired on December 30, 1956. But for me, this tower and television studio are uniquely precious, for I found myself in that world at just four years old. It may be hard to believe, but I vividly remember the cameras and the thick, black cables snaking out from them across the floor... I even remember the smell of that place and the bustle of the television workers...
A piano stood against the wall—either there wasn’t enough space for a grand piano or perhaps not enough budget. Be that as it may, adorned with the status of a ‘little virtuoso’ and dressed in a beautiful raspberry-coloured dress sewn by my mother, I sat down at the instrument and played two small pieces by Maikapar. They had me rest my feet on a box because the distance to the floor was quite considerable. Back then, I didn’t know what stage fright was, so I fulfilled my mission calmly and diligently. Someone else was reciting poems, someone was singing, someone was dancing. The program was hosted by the exquisite Lia Mikadze5, who introduced each of us to the audience with exceptional warmth and love. Don’t forget, it was a live broadcast!
In 1972, the first tower was replaced by the 274.5-meter structure that overlooks our capital today, cheering us up in the evenings with its multi-coloured lights. Incidentally, in honour of the national holidays of various countries, it is often lit up in the colours of their respective flags.
And finally, the building! Yes, this too is historical and inseparable from Tbilisi’s skyline. Its young architects, Zakaria and Nadezhda Kurdiani masterfully integrated the upper station of the Funicular tram and the restaurant, from which the entire city is visible. In the late 1960s, the station structure was modified, but the restaurant itself—once ‘blessed’ by Lavrentiy Beria himself—remained untouched. A new floor was added, along with Koka Ignatov’s6 mural, which has become, one might say, an organic part of this building. This restaurant never lost its popularity; consider how many films have been shot here. I’m always reminded of the movie Abezara (The Scrapper), specifically the scene where Akaki Kvantaliani’s7 character orders a roasted suckling pig with tkhemali from the waiter... I mention this just to bring a smile, for how could one overlook the shimmering view of Tbilisi through the balcony railings, accompanied by Sulkhan Tsintsadze’s8 magnificent music? Not to mention that almost every honorary guest of Tbilisi has been hosted and toasted right here.
There are many more stories I could tell about Mtatsminda Park but that would lead us into a different subject altogether. I simply wanted to express my sincere love for this place, where I spent the sweetest days of my childhood.
1. Choporti tomatoes (Choportula) are a renowned local variety from the village of Choporti in Georgia’s Mtskheta-Mtianeti region. Known for a distinct, rich taste, they are considered a potential geographical indication product.
2. Mukhrani, the area located near Tbilisi, is known for production of quality cucumbers.
3. A supra is a traditional Georgian feast and a part of Georgian social culture.
4. A reference to Georgi Danelia’s 1977 film ‘Mimino’. When a character buys a toy crocodile for his son, Albertik, and it is bright orange—a legendary cinematic metaphor for the surreal failures of the Soviet planned economy, here even basic goods were produced in absurd, ‘wrong‘ colours due to systemic shortages and rigid, illogical standards.
5. Lia Mikadze (1936–2022) was the first face of Georgian broadcasting, delivering the nation’s inaugural television greeting on December 30, 1956. A legendary announcer celebrated for her elegance and warmth, she represents the era’s ‘Golden Age’ of professionalism.
6. Nikoloz (Koka) Ignatov (1937 – 2002) was a 20th-century Georgian painter.
7. Akaki Kvantaliani (1907–1967) was a Georgian actor and People’s Artist of the Georgian SSR (1967).
8. Sulkhan Tsintsadze (1925 – 1991) was a Georgian composer known for his chamber music and film scores.
