I stopped and watched a toad leaping around a landscaped roundabout. The curb just a little too high for him to get over. He jumped and fell back down against the wet street where the sprinklers were still recklessly casting water.
I was out walking around, after ducking out of Tbilisi's central party hostel. Young travelers from all over Europe and America smoking and climbing up exposed staircases to the tune of MP3 player-piped disco music.
Later, I cut back through Old Town, probably 1 AM with an Australian philosophy student studying in Turkey. We talked about Peter Singer and his contradictory ethics. Elliot was waiting with a shot of vodka in either hand when I got back to the hostel. We still haven't paid for our places on the floor where we slept to the night sounds of still-padding feet and bathroom traffic in a dark house full of people.
...
The Azeri Embassy was closed Monday. We left the Tourist office walking quickly down the street, intent on booking a flight. Flying has never seemed very adventurous to me. I don't like to arrive in a new place without being gradually introduced to it, makes being there even less real. However, it seems that the shock will probably finally induce the realization that I've finished with the Peace Corps life. I haven't been on a plane since I flew into Armenia over two years ago.
Fly into Armenia. Fly in Azerbaijan, bordering Caucasian countries with the borders sealed, easier, they say, for the visas, more business-like that way, brisk, Baku business to which to attend.
The goodbyes have worn me out, and most of the people I said goodbye to have already arrived back in the states. By plane, while we, are still in Tbilisi, stowing our bags away, headachy and filmed with sweat.
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