Trend No. 6: “Orange Wines”
Chapter 3
Not Everything Needs to Be Understood.
Some Things Are Meant to Be Lived.
Orange wine isn’t something you fully understand from descriptions. Sometimes, you have to experience it where it comes from.
🌄 Kakheti
Greg didn’t find the house. Not the bench by the gate. Not the birch behind the fence. And, to be honest, he wasn’t even sure they still existed. But what mattered to him wasn’t so much finding a specific place as finding his own sense of home. As if it wasn’t about a place on the map at all. Not even about the accuracy of memory. But about something else—less tangible, yet more real.
He stayed in Kakheti for a few more days. Without a clear plan. Just driving, stopping where he felt like stopping, going wherever he was invited—or simply where a gate opened.
Here, no one asked right away who you were or where you were from. First, they invited you to sit. Then—to eat and drink wine. And only after that—did they start asking questions.
🍽️ The First Feast
It happened unexpectedly. Though, as the locals later explained to him, here almost everything “just happens.” He stopped by a small house—simply because there was a man by the gate fixing something.
They greeted each other. Exchanged a few words. And within minutes, Georgiy was already sitting at a table in the yard, with plates appearing in front of him as if by themselves—coming straight out of the house.
Bread. Cheese. Warm flatbreads. Vegetables. Something hot and fragrant, full of herbs. And, of course, wine. That same wine.
Here, they don’t ask who you are. They pour first
— Drink, don’t be shy, — the host said, pouring.
Georgiy nodded. By now, he no longer asked unnecessary questions.
Here, they welcome you first. And only then do they ask
🥂 The Toast
Before drinking, the host raised his glass. He said a few words—longer than Greg expected. Greg didn’t understand everything. But he caught the essence: it wasn’t just “to your health.” It was… something sincere, coming straight from the heart.
Georgiy looked around. Everyone was listening. No one interrupted. Then they drank. And only after that did the conversation continue.
— Here, you speak first, — someone explained to him later. — Then you drink. And only after that—everything else.
🐂 The Horn
At some point, a horn appeared on the table. A real one. Heavy. With a chain, so it could be worn around the neck.
At first, Georgiy thought it was just a decoration. It wasn’t. The horn was filled with wine—right to the brim.
— Your turn, — someone said, smiling.
He carefully took the full horn, as if afraid of doing something wrong.
— Speak.
For a moment, Georgiy hesitated, trying to gather what little Georgian he knew.
— I… — he began—to understand a little more today than we did yesterday.
A pause.
— And for that to always be the case.
He didn’t know all the words. But he already felt the meaning
Someone nodded. Someone smiled. That was enough.
Here, wine is not just a drink. It’s a way of communicating
He drank. All of it. It wasn’t easy. You couldn’t just set the horn down—the wine would spill immediately if it wasn’t finished.
And, as they quickly explained to him, that was the point: the Georgian tradition of drinking from a horn leaves no choice—you have to empty it completely. And as he was beginning to understand, that could be quite a lot.
Here, nothing is left unfinished. Neither in words. Nor in wine
არც სიტყვებში. არც ღვინოში
😄 After the Horn
At first, nothing happened. Greg set the horn down on the table—now empty—and exhaled with relief. Everyone around him nodded approvingly. Someone even patted him on the shoulder. He nodded back, trying to look as if this were something familiar, something he’d done many times before.
And then the wine caught up with him. Not suddenly. Almost imperceptibly. Just at some point, everything felt… lighter. Easier. As if something inside him had loosened, let go.
He suddenly realized he was smiling for no reason. Then—talking. Talking a lot. And, most strangely of all, it felt as though he were speaking perfect Georgian.
— Kargi… dzalian kargi… (“Good… very good…””),—he said confidently, nodding to himself.
Someone nearby laughed. Greg turned to his neighbor, placed a hand on his shoulder—slightly more confidently than their level of acquaintance really allowed.
— You… you come to San Francisco, — he said, switching to English. — I’ll show everything. Wine, ocean…you
A pause. He frowned, as if remembering something important.
— And… ghvino, — he added, with a serious expression.
The neighbor nodded, as if it were a perfectly reasonable offer.
— Of course I will, — he replied calmly.
Greg leaned back against the bench. The world around him softened. Voices—quieter, yet somehow closer. He felt like hugging everyone.
Someone raised another toast. Someone laughed. Someone tried to start a song. Everyone was drinking.
And at some point, he realized that he no longer felt like a stranger here. Not because he had begun to understand the Georgian language better. And not because he had learned more about the local wine.
But simply because he was sitting at this table, with these people. And that was enough.
🌅 The Morning After
Morning didn’t come all at once. First came the thirst. Then—the heaviness in his head. And only after that did Georgiy realize he was awake.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to remember where he was and why the room seemed to be spinning, even though it appeared perfectly still.
Memories of the previous evening returned in fragments. The table in the yard. Someone’s laughter. The horn—which, at the time, had seemed more symbolic than practical.
His own voice, making a toast that had felt almost profound the night before—but now, in the sober light of morning, didn’t seem quite as flawless.
He carefully sat up on the bed. The movement turned out to be overly ambitious. His head immediately made it clear that it wasn’t ready for such developments. Georgiy froze, waiting out the wave of dizziness, and only then slowly reached for a bottle of plain water, thoughtfully left on the bedside table by his hospitable hosts. Never had ordinary cool water seemed such a remarkable achievement of civilization.
He took a few long sips and closed his eyes. It got a little better. Not enough to fall in love with the morning—but enough to remember the main thing: the evening had been good. Truly good.
He didn’t remember all the faces. He couldn’t reconstruct all the toasts. He wasn’t even entirely sure whether he had actually spoken Georgian—or only imagined it.
But the feeling remained clear. He had been welcomed without questions. Without any attempt to impress. They had simply seated him at the table, poured him wine, listened to his clumsy toast—and, apparently, didn’t consider it a disaster. For someone who only recently wasn’t even sure he would understand how things worked here, that was already something.
He didn’t remember the details. But he remembered that he had felt good
He took another sip of water and smiled faintly. It seemed Georgian hospitality had not only cultural, but also very physical consequences.
And yet, in this state—with a dry throat, a slight noise in his head, and thoughts not fully assembled—he felt surprisingly well. Not energetic, of course. But calm. Like someone who had drunk a little too much the night before—and didn’t regret it at all.
🍽️ A Georgian “Breakfast”
The knock on the door was soft, but persistent.
— Gio! — came a voice from outside. — Breakfast!
Georgiy closed his eyes for a moment, as if hoping it was a misunderstanding. Breakfast, in his current state, felt like an undertaking he wasn’t quite ready for—physically or mentally. But, as he was beginning to understand, refusing here wasn’t really an option. And the hosts might take it personally.
He stepped out into the yard, squinting in the light and still not entirely trusting his balance. In his mind, there was a simple and perfectly reasonable image: something light, familiar—pancakes, eggs, maybe a couple of slices of toast, strong coffee—and then silence.
Reality turned out to be… different.
Come, my friend… the table is waiting for you
The table was already set. And not just set—loaded. Fresh vegetables—likely straight from the garden. Salads that smelled of sun and soil. Sheep’s cheese. Hot flatbreads—still almost breathing the warmth of the oven.
And then—more: fried chicken, lamb skewers, thick sauces—spicy, rich, clearly not designed for the delicacy of a quiet morning.
And, of course, wine.
Georgiy stopped by the table for a moment, taking it all in. It felt as though the hosts had either not gone to sleep at all—or had started cooking the moment he did. Both seemed equally possible.
— Come, genatsvale…, — said the host, inviting him to the table as if this were simply a continuation of the previous evening’s meal.
Georgiy sat down.
— This is… breakfast? — he asked carefully.
The host looked at the table, then back at him.
— Of course. Sorry it’s so modest—we didn’t have much time.
At that moment, someone was already filling the glasses.
Georgiy glanced at the sun, as if checking whether he had somehow mistaken the time of day. The sun looked unmistakably like morning.
— To the guest, — said the host, raising his glass.
And without waiting for any objections, he began to speak. The toast was long. Expressive. With pauses. With gestures.
Georgiy didn’t understand every word. But the meaning was clear enough: he was being welcomed again.
Fortunately for him, this time the wine was poured into an ordinary glass, not a massive horn. The amount was smaller—but he still didn’t know how many toasts lay ahead.
— To a “light” breakfast, — he muttered quietly to himself, with a hint of irony. — Wine in the morning… not exactly a California habit. But refusing would be disrespectful… And besides, I’m not in San Francisco now. I’m in Kakheti.
Someone nearby smiled.
🍇 The Winery
After breakfast, going anywhere didn’t seem like the most obvious idea. But, as it turned out, it was perfectly natural.
— Let’s go, — said the host. — I’ll show you where the wine comes from.
The drive didn’t take long. They left the village, turned onto a narrow dusty road, and stopped by a low house, with rows of vineyards stretching out behind it.
Nothing that felt “touristy.” No signs. No directions. If he hadn’t been brought here, he would have simply driven past.
In the yard, they were met by an older man, with the same calm взгляд that Greg had already begun to notice in many of the locals.
They exchanged a few words. Shook hands. Georgiy was introduced.
— From America, — someone added, as if that explained everything.
He was led further into the yard. The ground under his feet was firm and warm. And almost immediately, he saw them. Round lids, nearly level with the ground. One after another—a whole row.
Qvevri.
— The wine is here, — said the winemaker, tapping lightly on one of the lids. As if speaking about something completely ordinary.
The lid was opened slightly. From inside rose a warm, dense aroma—not like in the bar, not like from a bottle. More alive. More raw. The wine was born here—and continued to mature.
— White grapes, — the winemaker continued. — With skins.
He spoke simply. Without technical terms or complicated explanations.
— It “lives” here. Warm in winter, cool in summer.
A pause.
— The earth helps.
Georgiy nodded. This time, he didn’t ask unnecessary questions. He didn’t need to understand everything at once.
He was poured a taste. Again, the same amber color. But now he saw in it not something strange, but the result of a process shaped by time, earth, and people.
— It’s always different, — the winemaker added. — Every year.
He shrugged, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Georgiy took a sip. And for the first time, he thought that perhaps the point wasn’t for wine to be the same. But for it to be honest.
🎁 Gifts
Before leaving, Georgiy drove through the village once more. Not really hoping to find anything. More to say goodbye.
He never did see the birch his grandmother had told him about. Perhaps it had long been gone.
But by the road stood another one. Tall. Slender. Quiet. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it—except that, for some reason, he stopped right beside it.
Georgiy stood there for a moment, then carefully broke off a small twig. Almost without thinking. He understood that this wasn’t the birch. But at some point, that had stopped mattering. His grandmother didn’t need to know which tree it came from. Let it simply be a greeting from her homeland.
Truth isn’t always in the facts—but in the feeling
For a moment, he thought that his grandmother would probably understand.
But wouldn’t say anything.
He took with him a piece of something that couldn’t be explained
For himself, he took a couple of bottles of local amber wine. Not the most expensive. Not the most “correct.” Just the ones that would remind him of these days—and the people he had met.
For his relatives—a few small cuttings from local vines. The idea felt right, even if he wasn’t entirely sure they would take root anywhere outside Kakheti.
But perhaps that wasn’t the point. Not whether they would grow in foreign soil—but that they might. As a symbol of something continuing.
✈️ Return
The journey back took less time than it had at the beginning of the trip. (Perhaps because he was flying against time, and the duration of the flight seemed to absorb the time difference.) Or maybe the road home simply felt different.
The plane departed from Tbilisi early in the morning. Georgiy sat by the window, watching as the city slowly dissolved into the soft light of dawn.
First the houses and streets disappeared. Then the mountains. And then—everything else. He didn’t try to hold on to the moment. He simply watched.
Another transfer in Istanbul. He caught himself thinking that he no longer saw it as just a convenient transit point. In this route, something of the Nikoladze family’s story—and his own—seemed to echo.
As the plane descended over San Francisco, the city greeted him with its familiar gray light and cool ocean air. The Pacific looked calm, living up to its name. The Golden Gate Bridge was still there. Everything was in place: the same streets, the same houses, the same rhythm.
And yet, something had changed in him. He realized it later at home, when he set down his bag, took out the bottles, placed the small birch twig carefully on the table, and paused—looking at it as if trying to understand what exactly he had brought back with him.
He couldn’t find an answer. But the feeling that something important was there—remained.
👵 A Conversation with His Grandmother
He didn’t call her right away. First, he unpacked. Put the bottles on the kitchen shelf. Looked once more at the birch twig lying on the table. Only then did he dial the number.
— Georgiy?
— Yes, it’s me.
— You’re home already?
— Yes.
A pause.
— Well? Tell me.
He didn’t know where to begin. With Georgia? With the wine? With the people? With the road? Everything seemed important—and yet not quite the thing to start with.
— It’s… different there, — he said at last.
She gave a quiet, knowing chuckle.
— I know.
He tried to explain. She already understood
He smiled too. Then he began to talk. Not in order. Not in detail. About the table. The toasts. The hospitality of ordinary people who had accepted him as one of their own. About the horn, he had learned couldn’t be set down until it was empty.
She hardly interrupted. Sometimes asked short questions. Sometimes just listened. As if she wasn’t checking the facts—but how he spoke about them.
— I brought you something, — he said at one point.
— I don’t need anything, — she replied calmly.
— I brought it anyway.
A pause.
— A twig.
— What kind of twig?
— Birch.
He fell silent for a moment.
— I don’t know if it’s the one…
— That doesn’t matter, — she interrupted gently. And then, more quietly:
— Did you see it?
— Yes.
— Then it is the one.
Georgiy nodded, though she couldn’t see him.
— And the wine? — she asked. — Did you like it?
He paused. Before, the answer would have been simple. Now—it wasn’t.
— I’m not sure that’s the right word, — he said.
A pause.
— But I want to keep drinking it.
She laughed softly.
— Then you liked it.
They talked a little more—about the weather, about the house, about her health. About small things that usually seem insignificant—but somehow make a conversation real.
When the call ended, he held the phone in his hand for a while. Then set it down on the table. Next to the birch twig.
🌍 Finale
That evening, he opened one of the bottles he had brought back. He poured a little into a glass and held it to the light—the amber color no longer surprised him.
If anything, it reminded him.
He took a sip. The taste was different. Not better, not worse—just different. As if there were more in this wine than he could fully grasp or articulate.
He sat by the window. The city beyond the glass was living its usual evening life.
Some journeys don’t end. Even when you’re already home
Georgiy set the glass down on the table and paused for a moment. The trip was over. The route completed. Everything there was to see—had been seen.
And yet something remained. Not memories. Not impressions. Something less defined.
He caught himself on a simple thought: would he go back there again?
On the one hand, it seemed like it had been enough. He had seen, tasted, understood—as much as one can in such a short time.
On the other, there was a feeling that he had only just begun. That something had been left at that table, in that welcoming yard, in those conversations—something you couldn’t return to through memory alone. Something that required returning.
He remembered how, in Georgia, people spoke about the “new trend” of “amber” wines. At the time, it had sounded almost like an explanation. Now—it didn’t anymore.
Perhaps for some, it really was a trend. Bright. Unusual. Convenient for conversation—and for photographs on Instagram.
But where he had been, no one called it a trend.
In Kakheti, wine wasn’t trying to be new. It simply remained what it had always been. And perhaps that was why it would never disappear—even if people talked about it less.
Perhaps it wasn’t about the trip. Or about how many times one should return.
But about something had shifted inside him. Quietly. Almost imperceptibly. But for good.
He picked up the glass and took another sip. This time, without trying to understand it better.
It didn’t require an answer. Just like the question of returning.
And perhaps that was enough.
Or perhaps it was just the beginning.
To be continued…
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