You can never be entirely certain which country you truly love. I currently reside in Georgia, and in a few days, I will be returning to my homeland. China is a truly magical country, with its majestic mountains and rivers, vibrant people and cities, and an endless array of delicious cuisine. Just thinking about it fills me with excitement days in advance. Anyone who has lived abroad can likely relate to this feeling. During my time in Southeast Asia, I met several young financial fugitives on the red notice list. Despite their youth, they had amassed vast fortunes and lived lavishly abroad, indulging in every luxury. Yet, their early transgressions meant they could never return, forever severed from their homeland. One of these individuals, who spoke not a word of foreign languages and insisted on eating Hunan cuisine for every meal, lived a life devoid of friendship and familial warmth, though never lacking in romantic entanglements—often purchased for 300 euros. To ease his homesickness, he bought a yacht moored in a famous European river. Every evening, he would invite Chinese students aboard to drink and reminisce. These students, with time to spare, were more than happy to join him for free drinks. As the night deepened, under a sky dotted with stars and the occasional cry of a bird, the man would often be overcome with a surge of patriotism. He would kneel at the bow of the yacht, facing east, and kowtow repeatedly, tears streaming down his face as he wailed in despair. The students, startled and moved, would often leap into the river and swim away in shock.
By morning, sober and filled with regret, he would return to shore, vowing to change his ways. He would resume his diet of Hunan cuisine, visit Savile Row for a new suit, and stroll about with a cane, attempting to reclaim some semblance of dignity. But as night fell, he would once again lure a new group of students aboard, only to repeat the same emotional outburst, sending them fleeing into the water. This cycle continued, his reputation and spirit deteriorating with each passing day.
Of course, his was a life of extreme wealth and moral decay, while my existence in Georgia is far more modest. Through the lens of food, shelter, and daily activities, I’ll paint a picture of how an ordinary person lives on the other side of the world.
Chinese cuisine here is a luxury, and the idea of dining out extravagantly, as I might in a rural Chinese town, is out of the question. There are only three decent Chinese restaurants in the entire city, each located miles apart, making them inconvenient to visit. Ordering delivery is equally impractical. Most delivery riders are Indian, speaking English with heavy accents that are difficult to understand. Local Caucasian deliverymen, on the other hand, prefer to walk. For them, taking an order isn’t about earning a couple of dollars—it’s an excuse to escape household chores and their wives’ nagging, enjoying a leisurely stroll under the winter sun. They take their time, sometimes walking for hours, as if the act of delivering food is more about the joy of the journey than the urgency of the task. Starvation, it seems, is of little consequence.
As a result, I’ve learned not to rely on Chinese restaurants here. My daily sustenance consists mainly of flatbread. I usually sleep until late morning, then head downstairs to the local bakery run by a bearded man, where I buy a large, basin-sized flatbread.
The large flatbread, fresh out of the clay oven behind him, is steaming hot, crispy, and carries a sweet, wheaty aroma. The bearded man’s small bakery supplies the daily bread for thousands in the community. In the morning, people line up to collect their flatbreads, wrap them in white paper, tuck them under their arms, and hurry home to share the warm, fragrant loaves with their families. After picking up my flatbread, I return home and, pairing it with the remnants of last night’s meal and a glass of milk, I have my first meal of the day. For lunch, I grab a quick bite outside—perhaps a sandwich, khachapuri, or something similar. In the evening, I return home and cook up a feast in the kitchen, frying, grilling, or stewing whatever meat or fish I have on hand. I don’t fuss over whether it’s Chinese or Western-style; as long as it’s cooked through and satisfying, I eat it with the leftover flatbread from the morning. To wash it all down, I pour myself a glass of locally made wine, stored in clay jars by the neighborhood grandmothers. I eat and drink until I’m stuffed to the point of discomfort, my eyes rolling back in satisfaction.
On days when I’m feeling particularly lazy, I dine out and indulge in local dishes—dishes that would make my mother shake her head in disapproval.
High in calories and protein, rich in dairy, and irresistibly fragrant—dishes like these, I can polish off three plates in one sitting all by myself. But if you ask me now what I truly crave, I’d say, without hesitation, that I deeply miss Hunan cuisine.
I live in an old Khrushchyovka apartment on the eastern bank of the Kura River, in the historic district of Tbilisi. The more upscale neighborhoods of the city, like Sololaki and Vake, offer a different kind of charm. Sololaki exudes an old-money elegance, with its two-century-old European-style buildings that stand as timeless relics of the past. Vake, on the other hand, radiates a nouveau riche vibe, with its parks, cafes, and high-rise apartments featuring swimming pools, all nestled along the gentle slopes of the hills. It feels no different from the modern districts of Seoul or Shanghai. But the eastern bank of the Kura River, in the old town, is like the Chroy Changvar area of Phnom Penh—a place where the essence of life lies in its vibrant, down-to-earth atmosphere, shared intimately with the local community. And the heart of this neighborhood beats strongest along the main street, lined with its iconic Khrushchyovka buildings.
These buildings, as the name suggests, were constructed during the peak of Soviet industrialization, when urbanization was rapidly advancing across the union. The primary goal at the time was to build quickly and abundantly, ensuring that the promise of providing housing for every socialist citizen was no empty slogan. Today, these buildings still boast remarkably high occupancy rates, with virtually no vacancies. They operate without formal property management, resulting in low maintenance costs, harmonious neighborly relations, and a clean, pleasant atmosphere. The order within these buildings is largely maintained through mutual respect and self-discipline.
Take my apartment, for example, located on the sixth floor. Those who wish to stay fit can take the stairs, while those who prefer comfort can use the elevator. You might wonder how such an old building, devoid of a property management company, manages to keep its elevator running. Well, old buildings have old wisdom. A clever solution was devised: a coin-operated elevator system. This ingenious design ensures that the elevator remains functional, funded by the small contributions of its users.
The elevator is a modest two feet square, barely enough for two people to turn around in, making it impossible to hitch a free ride. The coin box accepts coins of 20 cents, 10 cents, and 5 cents. No matter how much you insert, it will operate, but it doesn’t give change—much like the donation boxes in Chinese temples. The elevator’s attitude is essentially "the more, the better," and how much you contribute largely depends on your sincerity. Five cents is equivalent to about 15 Chinese fen, but I usually opt to insert 10 cents, fearing that if I keep putting in 5-cent coins, the elevator might one day find itself unable to cover its electricity bills, and then we’d all be in trouble.
My apartment has a bedroom facing the main road. The advantage is that the glass door opens onto a small iron balcony, reminiscent of those seen in movies set along the Mediterranean coasts of Italy and France. Standing on it, I can look down at the bustling world below. On days when I’m feeling particularly inspired, I might even step out onto the balcony and deliver an impromptu speech to the world beneath me.
The downside, however, is that Georgians tend to stay up late, and the ceaseless flow of traffic on the street below carries noise that penetrates all too vividly into the room. On nights when young motorcyclists race down the road, the roar of their engines feels as though they’ve ridden straight into my bedroom, a nerve-wracking sensation.
My wife and I live in Tbilisi, primarily for two reasons. First, when we have a goal in mind, we spend our days exploring houses and plots of land, often renting a car to drive around the city and beyond. Second, and more commonly, we spend most of our time in idle leisure. Since childhood, we’ve both enjoyed self-study. I often head to the library to read and work, while she has befriended a group of exceptionally talented Ukrainian refugee musicians. They gather daily in a rented music studio to compose and exchange ideas. The library and the studio are not far from each other, both located on the west bank of the river. We commute daily by bus or metro. The metro system, built during the Soviet era, was designed with the constant threat of world war in mind. As a result, the stations are dug deep underground, following the principle of "dig deep, store abundantly." To reach the metro, one must first descend on an escalator that takes several minutes to reach the depths of the earth. This descent, plunging into what feels like an abyss, is particularly unsettling for those with a fear of deep water. Even for the average person, the first ride can evoke a profound sense of unease and fear of the unknown.
The underground platforms of Tbilisi, like everything else in Georgia, are ancient, solid, and imbued with a sense of weightiness. Even inside the train carriages, there is not a trace of evidence that modern civilization has progressed over the past 30 years. This is perhaps the most striking difference between this country and China. In China, almost everything bears the mark of the last three decades of rapid development: modernity, ornamentation, and a certain lightness. In contrast, Georgia feels rooted in a bygone era, where the passage of time has left behind a legacy of enduring simplicity and unpretentious strength.
Living like this, immersed in a world that seems frozen in time thirty years ago, one gradually forgets that time is passing and that the outside world is rapidly advancing. It’s easy to fall into the illusion that the world will always continue in this way, day after day, following an unchanging rhythm, where tomorrow is predictable and people are predictable too.
Here, if I want to acquire something, I need to take a bus or a train to find it, meet the seller in person, and greet them with a “hello.” We then begin a conversation, examining the item from every angle. The seller will spend a part of their day sharing their insights with me, as they always have plenty of time to chat. If I decide to buy, I pay by card; if not, they still look me in the eye and say they’re glad to have met me.
Now, I deeply miss China’s majestic mountains and rivers, the dynamism and fearless creativity of its people, its exquisite cuisine, and the conveniences of modern life—areas where China has far surpassed most countries. Yet, this is not to say that China is without flaws. For instance, my wife recently bought a small item she had long desired on *Bao (a popular Chinese e-commerce platform), only to find upon delivery that it was a counterfeit. Disappointed, she left a negative review. Much later, just yesterday, she noticed that the seller had finally responded to her review.
This reply left her heartbroken. If a negative review is an option, then it must be allowed to be chosen, right? She then scrolled through other reviews and found that, like hers, there were negative reviews pointing out the counterfeit nature of the product, but they were drowned in a sea of positive feedback. The seller’s responses to these negative reviews all followed a similar pattern: defining the critics as competitors. The customer service representative who typed those replies, I imagine, knew deep down that the product was fake. She was likely a young girl without many good employment opportunities. At that moment, she felt no pride in her job. To earn her wage, she labeled a real person as a competitor, using the phrase “you know it in your heart,” a phrase so final that it left no room for rebuttal. In that moment, she left behind the coldest, most loveless words in the world. I doubt she felt any joy in having “met” another girl in another corner of the world. She didn’t have much time, and that coin was very important to her.
I think this might be the only flaw in our otherwise lovely and deeply missed country: the existence of a group of very young people who lack good employment options and are unwilling to take on manual labor. They are willing to utter the coldest words for a few cents, breaking another person’s heart. If she were to come to Tbilisi and ride my elevator, she would probably insert a 5-cent coin every time, because coins are very important to her.
Now, I think to myself, if it were possible to live in China while avoiding encounters with this small group of people, then it would be a perfect place. I still miss it deeply.
Yet, I also know that three months from now, because of this small group, I would once again yearn to return to Georgia and live this life frozen in time, thirty years in the past.
You can never be entirely certain.