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Description
You don't really have to read the whole story or really appreciate the picture just know that this one of those pictures that really mean a lot to me.

This might be an account of the last two wonderful fucking years I've spent in Georgia.

Some people don't know why they love life so much. Why they enjoy every little thing. Why the some things make them smile. Why they're happy in the presence of some people.

These people are not the topic I would like to treat.

What I want to tell you about is what made me appreciate life, what made me discover true love and live it fully on a daily basis.

This may seem silly to some. To those who have the possibility to carry in their pockets the one person they truly care about, who walk in the soft roads of the one country they really love.

I'm not so lucky for I've discovered life in a small Turkish village in the east of the Republic of Georgia during a trip my dad took during his last days as Batumi's Turkish Consul.

I've only been there once and I doubt anything else really has marked me as much.

I can still smell the sweet smell of rain giving away its last few drops on one of the most greenest lawn you've ever seen.

I can still see the yellow smiles on the little kids' faces handing me flowers asking me about me about my school which seemed so light and unimportant at the moment.

I can still hear the Turkish tongue twirling around each inhabitants' dulcet mouth.

I can still feel my heart pounding away as I walked through the one and only street of the village, passing the twenty something houses that composed it.

I can still taste the bitter taste of the Russian chocolate between my teeth.

The village is composed by Turks, sent to live in Kirghistan and Kazakhstan during Stalin's reign. Only the youngins who went to school in Georgia know Georgian. Otherwise only Turkish is spoken in the village.

They came back one generation later in the 1980s and have been living in the same village ever.

It's a small village, very small. Not more than 100 people live in it. The elder's 80 years old and the youngest is approximately 3. No one has left the village and few have traveled more than the biggest city 15kms from the village, Ozurgheti, a marvelous relic of old Soviet times, where the Georgian Pink Revolution and its colored balconies haven't reached yet.

They have water and electricity problems and are usually shunned from the neighboring societies.

But someone said that their family was enough for them.

They have very few things to offer but they're ready to give away their life for the next person who smiles at them.

I've never been happier in my life than when I ran through the green wide open spaces alongside a river, at the very end of the village not quite far from the beginning of it actually.

Description
You don't really have to read the whole story or really appreciate the picture just know that this one of those pictures that really mean a lot to me.

This might be an account of the last two wonderful fucking years I've spent in Georgia.

Some people don't know why they love life so much. Why they enjoy every little thing. Why the some things make them smile. Why they're happy in the presence of some people.

These people are not the topic I would like to treat.

What I want to tell you about is what made me appreciate life, what made me discover true love and live it fully on a daily basis.

This may seem silly to some. To those who have the possibility to carry in their pockets the one person they truly care about, who walk in the soft roads of the one country they really love.

I'm not so lucky for I've discovered life in a small Turkish village in the east of the Republic of Georgia during a trip my dad took during his last days as Batumi's Turkish Consul.

I've only been there once and I doubt anything else really has marked me as much.

I can still smell the sweet smell of rain giving away its last few drops on one of the most greenest lawn you've ever seen.

I can still see the yellow smiles on the little kids' faces handing me flowers asking me about me about my school which seemed so light and unimportant at the moment.

I can still hear the Turkish tongue twirling around each inhabitants' dulcet mouth.

I can still feel my heart pounding away as I walked through the one and only street of the village, passing the twenty something houses that composed it.

I can still taste the bitter taste of the Russian chocolate between my teeth.

The village is composed by Turks, sent to live in Kirghistan and Kazakhstan during Stalin's reign. Only the youngins who went to school in Georgia know Georgian. Otherwise only Turkish is spoken in the village.

They came back one generation later in the 1980s and have been living in the same village ever.

It's a small village, very small. Not more than 100 people live in it. The elder's 80 years old and the youngest is approximately 3. No one has left the village and few have traveled more than the biggest city 15kms from the village, Ozurgheti, a marvelous relic of old Soviet times, where the Georgian Pink Revolution and its colored balconies haven't reached yet.

They have water and electricity problems and are usually shunned from the neighboring societies.

But someone said that their family was enough for them.

They have very few things to offer but they're ready to give away their life for the next person who smiles at them.

I've never been happier in my life than when I ran through the green wide open spaces alongside a river, at the very end of the village not quite far from the beginning of it actually.