When travelers speak of Tbilisi, they often wax poetic about the leaning clock tower of the puppet theatre, the crumbling brickwork of the Sololaki district, or the ancient Narikala Fortress overlooking the Mtkvari River. However, for John Matthews, the protagonist of An American in Tbilisi, his heart was not captured by the postcard-perfect ruins of the Old Town. Instead, he found his rhythm in Vake, the “polished cousin” of the historic center.
Vake is a neighborhood of wide, tree-lined avenues, neoclassical architecture, and a distinct air of intellectual energy. For a writer from New Jersey seeking to rebuild a life after the loss of his wife, Vake offered something the tourist districts could not: a sense of normalcy that felt both elevated and deeply grounded.
The Tree-Lined Inspiration of Chavchavadze Avenue
John’s transition to Vake marked a turning point in his manuscript. If Sololaki was where he went to hide in the shadows of the past, Vake was where he stepped into the light of the present. Walking down Ilia Chavchavadze Avenue, John found a different kind of inspiration. The neighborhood felt like a living library full of students from the nearby universities, diplomats, and old-school Tbilisi intellectuals carrying weathered leather briefcases.
The “Vake Vibe” is defined by its pace. It is more sophisticated than the bohemian chaotic energy of Fabrika, yet warmer than the sleek glass skyscrapers of the newer business districts. For John, the orderly rows of plane trees and the upscale boutiques provided a familiar “Western” structure, but the soul beneath it remained vibrantly, stubbornly Georgian. It was the perfect middle ground for a man who was halfway between his old life and his new self.
Vake Park: Where Stories Unfold
The heart of John’s daily life soon became Vake Park. Unlike the smaller urban squares of the city, Vake Park is a sprawling green lung at the foot of the Trialeti Range. It was here that John truly began to observe the “healing power of human connections.”
In his manuscript, he describes the park as a theater of the everyday. He watched elderly men hunched over chessboards with the intensity of grandmasters, young couples strolling near the grand fountains, and children chasing pigeons. “In Vake Park,” John wrote, “stories unfolded, and friendships bloomed.”
It was in this park that John moved from being an observer to a participant. He began to recognize the same faces of the woman selling flowers at the gate, the man with the golden retriever, and the group of students practicing their English. These small, repetitive interactions became the stitches that began to mend the fabric of his social life. He realized that a city is not made of stone and mortar; it is made of the quiet, consistent presence of other people.
The Art of “Simply Being”
In New Jersey, the clock and the “profound emptiness” of a quiet house had governed John’s life. In Vake, he discovered a new discipline: the art of simply being.
This transformation took place primarily in the neighborhood’s thriving coffee culture. John established a routine at a small neighborhood cafe where the barista eventually stopped asking for his order and simply began brewing his preferred roast. From his corner table, he spent hours watching the world go by. He watched the kites fluttering over the park and the way the light changed on the façades of the Soviet-era apartments.
“I learned that I did not always have to be ‘doing’ something,” John reflects. “In Vake, sitting with a coffee for two hours is not a waste of time; it is a form of participation.” This stillness allowed him to process his grief in a way that the busyness of America never did. He was not running from his memories anymore; he was letting them sit at the table with him while he watched the kites.
The Moment a Trip Becomes a Home
There is a peculiar, almost invisible moment in every long journey when the destination ceases to be a “trip” and begins to feel like “home.” For John, this happened not at a famous monument, but on a Tuesday afternoon while walking back to his Vake apartment with a bag of groceries.
He realized he was not checking his GPS anymore. He knew which sidewalk paving stone was loose and which neighbor’s cat would be sunning itself on the windowsill. He had a “usual” spot for wine and a “usual” route for his evening walk. The foreign had become familiar.
Vake, with its polished streets and park-side serenity, had become his sanctuary. It was the place where he stopped being “An American in Tbilisi” and simply became John, the writer who lived near the park.
What Makes a Place “Home” for You?
We have all had that moment, whether it is in a city across the world or a town three hours away, where something clicks, and we feel we finally belong. Often, it is not the big landmarks that do it, but the tiny details.
