Sun burnt and heat-exhausted. I dragged myself, gear trailing behind, to the tiny stand where Marshrutkas and cabs hang to pick up villagers. Thirty-six degrees. I was done hiking. I was done with summer.

The bus pulled away just as I arrived.

Desperate, I scanned the street. Tragedy goes unwitnessed, as always.

I spotted a taxi.

The driver was leaning on the trunk, smoking. Without catching my breath, I blurted: “Gamarjoba. Tbilisi.” – my comical Georgian.

He took in my muscular frame. Poker face. He offered no greeting. No eye contact. Just loaded my bag and walked to the driver’s seat.

In the backseat, I studied him: sixties, maybe. Grey shirt, grey pleated trousers, deep lines set in his face. No meter. No identification. Just the heat and the soft scent of old fabric.

Another taxi nightmare, I thought. Hiked fare, detours, wrong address. I passed him a paper with my destination in Georgian and stared out the window

He turned the key. The car wasn’t even in gear when the first raw chords of Queen ripped through the air.

He nods to the rhythm. Anticipating. Dead serious. Then, just as the chorus hit,

“That’s why they call me Mister Fahrenheit!”

He put the car in motion… singing

full volume, zero shame

I’m traveling at the speed of light I wanna make a supersonic man out of you

I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball (Don’t stop me now)

I tried to hide my face, tried to contain my reaction.

I could not, a hearty laugh spilled out.

I glanced at him quickly.

He did not seem to notice I exist.

I leaned my head on the window, smiled, closed my eyes; a vegetable for the coming two hours, I decided.

“It’s going to get even hotter, you know. “The sun is just warming up”

Fluent English. Flawless, though accented. I looked over, surprised. When did Georgia become the Sahara Desert?

He did not find me funny.

“It’s the bombing, you know,” he added, with rising animation. “Tell me how do you explain summer showing up overnight, how is it we were wearing coats early June, and a few days into this war, it’s above thirty degrees?”

I said nothing

He glanced at the road, then the side mirror. “They don’t tell you this on the news, but wars mess with the weather. Missiles, fires, smoke, it all goes into the sky. Traps heat. Blocks clouds”

The Georgian countryside rolls past. Heat shimmers off the asphalt.

‘No one makes connections anymore,’ he mutters. ‘Everything now is random.’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing is random.’”

I shifted in my seat. Opened the window a crack. Hot air rushed in

“I hate war” I said. “I was in Jordan two weeks ago. Got trapped there. No flights. The tension felt apocalyptic.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Jordan. Then Georgia. Interesting itinerary.”

It did not sound like a compliment.

“I’m Jordanian. My family lives there.”

Something shifted.

“You said you were trapped in Jordan… but it’s your country…”

I say nothing.

A quick glance at me in the mirror – I would have missed it if I hadn’t been watching.”

“Since you are Jordanian,” he said, tone almost casual, “explain this war to me. Simple man, simple brain. Israel has weapons. So does the U.S. They bomb another country to stop it from having them?”

He shook his head. “Iran isn’t occupying anyone. Israel is. America has bases everywhere. How does this make sense?”

“When did war ever make sense” I said bitterly

As if to agree, he added “Dirty business what politics is, dirty business”

A cow herd interrupts the moment, forces the car, and our conversation, to a slow halt. Unbothered, the cows cross the road like they own it.

I start to laugh.

“They have more claim to this place than we do you know”

Then he steps out to stretch his legs and light up a cigarette.

I follow him, carrying two protein bars. I offer him one. He looks at me intensely, as if seeing me for the first time. Trying to contain a rising blush, I smile. He softly averts his eyes, “Madloba,” he says.

Now two humans in the middle of the road, chewing on protein bars, watching cows.

The cows move on. So do we.

He caught my eye in the mirror.

“You know Georgia well it seems. Your hiking route, unusual for tourists.”

I want him to keep talking so I nod

He taps the steering wheel.

“It’s my job, you know. I drive tourists. Always the same spots. The least interesting ones, ironically. I suggest better alternatives, but… they rarely listen. Not my job to change their mind.”

“‘People want the Instagrammable places,’ I said.”

“It doesn’t bother me when someone wants to stop a hundred times and take in the view, I actually feel pride. But these days? They stop only for photos.”

We say it almost together:

“Never looking at the actual thing.”

“My youngest says I’m ancient – because I’m not on Instagram. I tell him: It’s just the new TV. Actors and audience. Actors make money. The rest of us just watch. I prefer to watch a real movie, a good movie. With my family.”

A phone rings.

“Must take this. It’s my big boss.” He answers through the car’s speaker. A woman’s voice pours through in rapid Georgian.

He hangs up, face lit.

“You know who that was? My wife. I don’t move a step without telling her, Some think that’s weak. It’s not.”

I glance at his damp forehead, the sweat clinging to his collar, still smiling.

“I drove her and our son to Tinetti. Cooler there. She hates Tbilisi heat. Maybe you should go, mountains, quiet.”

I waited for the pitch. None came.

“‘If a man can make his family happy, what else does he need? I don’t have money in the bank. But I have my family. My house. This car. All one really needs to be truly happy is enough. And the health to enjoy it.’”

He grew serious.

“They want to destroy that, you know, the family, those kids, trying to bring chaos back to our lives”

“What, you mean the demonstrations? I have seen them.”

“I understand the new government is not perfect, but we have gone a long way. What will become of Georgia if we lost the very fabric that makes us who we are, our identity, culture, ethics, and the family? Now they want us to teach our children that two women can get married.”

“He glances at me in the mirror, checking my reaction. I show nothing, only my sincere listening.”

“Georgia and Georgian are nothing without our Christianity, our language, our music, our wine and cheese.”

“May Georgia’s soul remain untouched,” I add softly. “Amen.”

And as if by agreement, staring ahead, we both drift into our own internal landscape.

“Better to be good, live fully, than to be right all the time.”

He taps the steering wheel.

“You need simple answers. Clear ones. Faith. Something solid under your feet. Get that, and all you worry about is how to live, how to love.”

His voice hardens.

“But shake that foundation? Destroy it? Now you chase answers forever. One question makes ten more questions. Like a dog chasing its own tail.” he laughs.”Maybe you win prize for being smart skeptic. But you never live one real moment. Never.”

He shakes his head “These people, something broken in their heads. You tell me, why so many kill themselves now? Why so many can’t get out of bed? Simple math, no?”

“Maybe you think I hate freedom. But God himself set us free, no? What keeps me awake at night is not freedom, it’s who gets to tell us what freedom means.”

A long pause. His eyes find mine again.

“You write; you know words matter. One word, just one, can kill a man. Or save him.”

“I nod in agreement.

‘Your mother raised you well, Lana. Your family must be proud.’

My smile freezes.

“I don’t believe in families,” I say to the window. “Or love, or loyalty, or honesty, or innocence. It all died with your generation.”

“So, this is where all this strength comes from. When I first saw you, all I could see was a sword, tightly held. You probably sleep with it, you can’t rest, can you?”

I don’t answer.

“‘Will you write about me?’ He turns his head to look straight at me.

His eyes crinkle slightly. Like he’s solved something.

I let the question hang.

‘Maybe,’ I say.”