My family and I have just returned from a trip to Georgia, which led us to discover large cities, well‑known international destinations, and small towns not yet touched by mass tourism. We met wonderful people who will stay in our hearts forever, but also some who were decidedly more irritable and unpleasant. We experienced fun moments and others that were much less so. This is the unfiltered story of what happened, and I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1 – Alcoholic Transfer

Complaining often doesn’t lead anywhere, especially when dealing with large companies that see customers as nothing more than numbers. But sometimes, it does pay off. The poor quality of service offered by one of the accommodations on our previous trip earned us a 100‑USD credit directly from Booking.com as an apology for the inconvenience.

Not a huge amount, especially with today’s prices, but enough to cover an extra night in Gallarate compared to our original travel plan, sparing us from spending the night at Milan Malpensa Airport. So, at five in the morning, we got up and boarded the Malpensa Express departing about half an hour later, reaching Terminal 1 in just fifteen minutes.

Our flight to Kutaisi was scheduled shortly after nine, but as a rule we always prefer to arrive at the airport at least three hours early, even if it means long stretches of lounging around on the not‑so‑comfortable seats of the Milan terminal. The good news is that, at least in Terminal 1, the latest‑generation 3D scanners at the baggage checkpoints are once again operational.

There’s no longer any need to take anything out of your backpacks, nor to worry about the absurd 100‑ml liquid limit: in plain terms, you get through at lightning speed, and everyone is noticeably happier and more relaxed — passengers and security staff alike. About time.

The big news in 2026 for anyone visiting Georgia is that every foreigner must have mandatory medical insurance, with a policy written in Georgian or English. After a long search — even asking locals on forums and various websites — we managed to find the ideal company, which for 18 euros per person provided the 30,000 GEL (about 10,000 euros) minimum coverage required by law for the entire duration of the trip.

We had read about hefty fines and even possible refusals at the border for those arriving without it, but at the Georgian passport control the officers completely ignored our insurance papers, as well as those of other passengers who tried to show theirs. Oh well, we thought — for such a modest amount, it’s still better to be covered for any eventuality. But in truth, we’re slightly annoyed about the unnecessary hassle and an expense that, had we known, we probably wouldn’t have made.

At the small Kutaisi airport, anyone arriving without a local person to take them into the city (about 25 km away) can choose between two options: the bus, which departs every two hours at a cost of 5 GEL per person (1 € ≈ 3 GEL), or taxi‑style apps like Bolt or Yandex, with prices ranging from 25 to 45 GEL. We would normally have chosen the first option, but since the last bus had left fifteen minutes earlier, the idea of waiting almost two hours for the next one didn’t thrill us at all.

The Bolt driver didn’t speak English, but he immediately came across as friendly. We communicated through Google Translate, and at one point he pointed to some glasses stored in a drawer to offer me some wine… I politely declined (it was around 3 p.m. local time, 1 p.m. back home in Italy), and my heart almost broke when he innocently said “No money!” with his hands held forward, as if apologizing for a possible misunderstanding.

Brother, it’s not about money — I know you’re offering it kindly. But I haven’t eaten since last night and it’s nearly 30 degrees. If you don’t want to see me faint, it’s better this way, trust me.

The address provided on Airbnb by the owner of the place where we were supposed to spend our first night was a bit contradictory. The map showed a semi‑central area, and that’s where our Bolt XL dropped us off, but in reality — after receiving the exact location — we discovered it was about a kilometer away, at the top of a rather steep climb.

We slowly made our way up, tongues hanging out, and were greeted by Zaza, the father of the guy who had actually managed the listing. He’s a former Soviet police officer — an incredible character who welcomed us with gifts of honey, fruit, and sweets, and who soon invited me to follow him into town to… drink some wine!

What’s with all this wine in Georgia? Do you really drink wine at every hour of the day?

I politely declined again, postponing the moment to the evening. After recovering from the climb, taking a shower, and doing a quick tour of the city (we’d be back in Kutaisi at the end of the trip for a few days), there he was again, appearing on the patio in the cool of the evening.

He had said he’d be at the stadium that night, and I was counting on losing him by going to bed before he returned, but he caught me — and this time I couldn’t escape: wine, sweets, and Italian music sung at full volume from the house terrace, with a view over the entire city.

At one point, Andro, his son, joined us — a forty‑year‑old who has already lived in various parts of the world (including Italy). The next day we were leaving early for Borjomi, and with how much Zaza kept refilling my glass every time I drank, I started doubting I’d make it there on my own two feet.

More to come.