A Georgian feast for the senses

When you tell people you're going to Georgia, they naturally assume you mean the state.

When you clarify that you're talking about the former Soviet republic, the next question usually is why? What's in Georgia?

I wasn't sure either. And that was part of the appeal. My phone feeds me so many images of popular places like Lake Como and Santorini that by the time I go there, I feel like I've already been there. I wanted to visit somewhere that would surprise me. Somewhere that I knew had the main ingredients for my idea of a prime travel destination - interesting history, ample hiking terrain, good food and wine - but would serve these key components in unfamiliar, unexpected ways.

That's how I ended up spending 10 days in Georgia last autumn with Zephyr Adventures. The Montana-based tour operator recently started offering trips to this small but mighty country of nearly 4 million people, sandwiched between the Greater and Lesser Caucasus Mountains. The itinerary called for a well-balanced mix of physical activity, cultural immersion and culinary experiences, from cooking lessons and wine tastings to sitting down to a traditional Georgian feast known as a supra.

Fifteen of us like-minded travelers, all Zephyr Adventures alums, kicked things off in Tbilisi, a capital city full of contrasts. Glass skyscrapers and the futuristic Bridge of Peace share space with old homes sprouting intricately carved wooden balconies and Brutalist buildings from the Soviet era. Outside the trendy thrift shops and cafes, elderly women in headscarves sweep sidewalks with rustic brooms while teens whiz by on electric scooters.

Even the 65-foot-tall Kartlis Deda statue towering over Tbilisi gives mixed messages. This "Mother of Georgia" holds a welcoming bowl of wine in one hand, a sword in the other. The wine represents Georgia's famed hospitality. The sword serves as a warning to invaders, and there have been plenty over the centuries. Romans, Mongols, Persians, Ottomans and Russians have all left their fingerprints on this strategically positioned nation at the crossroads of Europe and Asia.

For well over a year, Georgians have gathered nightly outside the parliament building to protest what they say is the ruling party's increasingly pro-Russian stance - anathema to the country's Western-leaning citizens who want to be part of the European Union.

All of it makes for a fascinating setting, and our group had both an American and a Georgian guide to help us navigate it. The English-speaking local, Salome Kvaratskhelia, prefers to be called Emily. ("I told my parents I should be able to pick my own name," she explained.) Emily comes from the western region of Abkhazia, part of the 20% of the country currently occupied by Russia. She was born in 1991, when the Soviet Union collapsed.

The 1990s were a dark period, literally and figuratively, for the newly independent Georgia. No electricity or gas for days at a time. Food had to be rationed in Tbilisi.

"I remember carrying wood to school so they could heat the classroom," said Emily, who's studying to be a surgeon when she isn't busy showing tourists around her homeland.

Our trip soon took us out of urban Tbilisi and into the mountains and fertile valleys that make Georgia ideally suited to a couple of my favorite pursuits: hiking and wine drinking.

The best treks were clustered in the Greater Caucasus mountains, not far from the Russian border. A relatively flat, 5-mile jaunt through Truso Valley took us past abandoned stone buildings and the crumbling remains of a medieval fortress, all tucked away in this high-altitude gorge whose barrenness added to its beauty. Georgian Orthodox nuns living in a nearby abbey served us a hearty lunch of lentil soup, beef patties and cheese pie. We barely saw any other hikers. Just hundreds of sheep clinging to the grassy slopes.

"I like it here because you feel small," Emily said.

My favorite hike happened to start at my favorite hotel, Rooms Kazbegi, an old Soviet sanatorium that's been given a glow-up. The sprawling deck of this modern mountain resort boasts VIP views of the 16,581-foot Mount Kazbek, whose snow-covered summit ranks as one of the highest peaks in Georgia.

The mountain makes a majestic backdrop for Gergeti Trinity Church, a 14th-century gem perched 7,120 feet above sea level. We climbed to this medieval Orthodox outpost decorated with colorful icons illuminated by candles. Our journey continued through the green forests of Kazbegi National Park before we got a lift to the tiny town of Tsdo, a mere 3 miles from Russia.

One of the few homes in this remote village was where we would have lunch, but not until we gathered around the kitchen table for a hands-on lesson making khinkali. These plus-sized dumplings that look like doughy bulbs of garlic are a savory staple of Georgian cuisine, much like the beloved cheese-filled bread, khachapuri.

Another fixture on Georgian tables: wine. Grapevines grow across the country, from the Black Sea coast to the urban alleys of Tbilisi and the southeastern corner of Kakheti, Georgia's top wine region. We spent several days here, touring cute, tourist-friendly towns like Sighnaghi and sampling all sorts of wine made from the country's 500-plus indigenous, hard-to-pronounce grape varieties. Rkatsiteli, anyone?

Georgia is especially known for its amber wine, more often called orange wine in the U.S. The honeylike hue comes from keeping white wine grape skins in contact with the juice during fermentation. A bigger bragging right is its status as the birthplace of wine. It has the archeological receipts to prove it. Scientists in 2017 discovered wine residue on clay pottery shards dating back to 6,000 B.C.

"We've been making wine in Georgia for more than 8,000 years," Emily said, noting that ancient methods - putting the grapes' juices, stems and pits in giant clay pots and burying them in the ground for fermentation - are still used today.

We got to see these egg-shaped clay vessels, called qvevri, at Tedo Gzirishvili's family winery in Kakheti. With Emily's help translating, Tedo took us through the steps of making wine in qvevri, a process recognized by UNESCO for its cultural heritage. He then invited us to have some of his qvevri-made wine - actually, a lot of it - at a supra.

This traditional Georgian feast can last for hours. And ours did. In a rustic room warmed by a wood-burning stove, we sat around a long wooden table, passing plates of pickled cabbage and garlic, clay pots full of tender beans and platters of chicken, tomatoes and eggplant. Tedo kept opening bottles of his bold Saperavi red and refilling pitchers of amber wine. No one wanted him to stop. Even the cat curled up by the fire seemed to be having a good time.

A supra traditionally has a tamada, or toastmaster, who keeps the party going and the drinks flowing. This job fell to Tedo's cousin, Misha. He doesn't speak English, so Emily translated.

We toasted to Georgia. To our ancestors. Our health. To good fortune.

The final toast garnered the loudest cheers.

"To peace," Emily said, raising her glass.

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This story was originally published May 25, 2026 at 3:42 AM.