Most beaches consist of sand, rocks, or some combination of the two. Some beaches are made of grass and tree roots. Other beaches are made of shells. There’s even one that’s made of plastic! The beach in Ureki is surely made of sand, but it’s one of those rare black sand beaches. It allegedly has magnetic healing powers for your bones. My bones feel pretty damn good, so who am I to say otherwise?
Ureki beach also has something else that most beaches don’t have: Zorro.
Zorro rides up and down the beach offering to take photos with people or even to give rides to children for a small fee, I presume. He wears a cape, mask, Zorro hat, windbreaker pants, Adidas shoes, and he carries a stick instead of a sword. Not bad, if you ask me!
Pik Quinn and I walked down the beach just exploring when we fortuitously ran into Zorro. Alas we did not take a ride with him, we just watched him trot on by. I suppose we aren’t bold enough.
Another hundred feet past Zorro we stumbled upon a mansion right on the beach. Some youngish guy came running up to us saying, “Hi Piko!” He was her English teacher’s husband and apparently he is also private security for this particular beachfront property. “I am so, so sorry,” he insisted, “but I have to tell you to leave. I like you Piko, but you cannot be here.” It was pretty alright though and I managed to get a sweet photo nonetheless!
So we walked back towards Pik Quinn’s house–about an hour away. Her host parents did not speak any English, but they were thrilled to learn I spoke Russian. Robizon (who refers to himself gleefully as “Robizon Crusoe”) offered to take my back pack. Upon receiving it he handed it to Pik Quinn and said, in Russian, via me, “Piko, you are the new host and Rali is your new guest. You must carry his things!”
After watching night fall and looking at the stars for a while, in we went to make ourselves a little snack. Of course, as soon as PQ’s mom saw us getting bread, a little snack turned in to a big dinner, complete with toasts of homemade wine.
PQ was cutting some onions and took too long for her host mom’s liking. Nana turned to me and said in Russian, “Look at this girl. She knows nothing! It takes her one hour to cut one onion! I my girls are 13 and 15 and they know everything. She knows nothing. Who will take her for a wife?” I translated and we all had a good laugh.
PQ insisted, “My host mom is not usually this mean!” as Nana continued to make periodic jokes about Pik Quinn’s unmarriageability (“You see? She is crying!” “Yeah, from cutting onions–” “She is crying because I said, ‘You will not get married!'”). Pik Quinn paused and pondered my role as translator, “Or maybe I’ve just never been able to understand her before….”
Time for a break from story telling to insert several photos that don’t have a place in any coherent stories!
I am far too tired to write a proper post, which is tragic considering the great stories I am itching to tell. I want to do them justice, though, so they must wait until I have had a good night’s sleep, I’m afraid. As a taste of what’s to come I will say that my stories involve a creeper at the football match, buying Georgian shirts, and drinking at school with the band teacher (This is one strange country, let me tell you!).