(conversation in a tea house in Damascus, Syria)
“Here,” Mika said, pointing to a valley in the Georgian Republic on a small illegible map, “is where Promethius was bound. Ushba
, it is called."
“This valley is called Svanetia,” he said, “and is surrounded by granite teeth and pyramids of ice. The people who live in their shadows speak a language that has never been written.” It sounded too good to be true, too beautiful to be unspoiled. Medieval villages made of stone towers, cut off from the rest of the world.
On a napkin he sketched a rough outline of Georgia, with the names of 3 villages where I would have to change transportation, at the end of the road he drew a, jagged, twin peaked mountain surrounded by clouds.