Rainbow Mountains, drunk monks, Russian authors, and Beethoven, near the Azerbaijani border

A day trip close to the Azerbaijani border had the Rainbow Mountains (preferably, bacon mountains haha) and the 6th century David Gareji Cave Monastery on the itinerary.

What I did not expect was the off-road adventure getting there, trekking some tricky paths, the otherworldliness of the landscape, and stopping at a far-flung, family-run restaurant in the mountains. This small restaurant had a cozy room full of books; an unplayed and untuned Russian piano; and two drunk, flirtatious, bearded Orthodox priests as old as the piano, who blurted out the names of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Bulgakov in their drunken stupor. I was so amused by them, so when one saw my eyes light up in recognition, he asked, “You understand? You understand?” The names were all I understood, but it became a game. He would say, “Bulgakov,” and I would answer, “Master and Margarita,” and he would smile broadly and say a string of wine-soaked words. When he said, “Dostoevsky,” I said, “The Idiot,” and he laughed so heartily.

My frozen fingers which hadn’t caressed a piano in a week felt grateful for the contact with the piano keys despite the avant-garde sound that they produced. I felt the warmth generated by my fingers begin to spread to my heart and into the room. And even though it would have been more logical to play a Rachmaninoff, the Adagio of Beethoven’s Pathetique just flowed naturally out of me; and I relished in how it hushed the room, hushed the drunk priests, and somehow it hushed my soul. I did not wish for a better piano. I did not wish for anything else at that moment. Up near the Azerbaijani border, music still found me, and it felt like home.