"Bad Translation:" He Said

Check out time was noon.  Our Airbnb host would return for the keys and we dutifully puttered about for our last few hours packing plastic bags with food to take and waste to leave.  “Hey, we’re supposed to leave all the sheets and pillow cases folded on the kitchen table.”  My wife had gathered wild flowers on a walk the day before and we decided that, nice though they appeared, we had better trash those as well. 

Now we had seven hours and ten minutes to kill.  The train station was a merciful trot, down the hill.  I had Google Translate produce: “where is the locker room for luggage?” in Cyrillic.  The serious man beneath the imposing hat burst into laughter.  “Bad translation:" He said, recovering himself.  “That way.  Go right.”

The lady at the stored luggage room pointed to the sign in Cyrillic that was indecipherable except for the numbers 150 and a lower case “r.”  Right.  If I’m calculating correctly that’s US$2.00 per bag which will be fine.  We have six.  I lug a bag.  She lugs a bag.  I admonish my younger daughter that she too, should lug a bag.  Soon all the bags are inside.  She hands me, six large red poker chips.  They have numbers but they are not in any logical sequence.  I type into Google Translate again: “What time do you close?”  She answers audibly and I don’t understand.  She gestures for my phone to speak in it.  She is obviously used to dealing with more technologically advanced tourists than me.  I know without trying that my antiquated iPhone 6 will not be able to handle such a thing.  I try a different way: “Will you be open at 7:00PM?”  Once again, I get a paragraph’s worth of information, which I cannot be certain of.  I decide she will be open. 

We get some coffee.  Loud, what I assume to be Russian, heavy metal is playing at this outdoor café.  The barista’s a nice kid who smiles at my “spesiba's” but the music is wretched.  Two blocks down and two blocks over we finally come to the “Georgian Restaurant.”  I had tried to go here the second day for lunch.  And then the second night for dinner.  Each time one thing or another had thwarted us.  Walking out from the city, (just a little further) we came to a number of walk up entrances and ground level doorways.  We piled in to an unassuming cellar.  My mind was imagining perfectly seasoned chicken and dry white wine with absurd local names.  Nearly every table was filled with South Korean tourists.  Well.  Anyong Haseyao!  I found a proprietor who immediately said “Niet.”  Indicating that the place had been booked out.  We gestured to some empty tables in the back but were met with more “Niet.”  I suggested we had walked far to get here, but this was irrelevant.  “Two O’Clock.  Come back at Two O’Clock.”  It was 1:05PM.  We left, grumbling about how they obviously weren’t entrepreneurs. 

Sunday 6/24/18