Lost (and Found) in Tbilisi’s Tangled Magic

D and I made the delightfully impulsive decision to linger in Tbilisi until early December 2024. Why not? Passport holders from the US (and many other countries) can roam Georgia visa-free for a whole year. A whole year! Honestly, I’m not sure why more people aren’t here right now, sipping wine and marveling at ancient churches perched on hillsides. This city is utterly livable—modern enough for comfort, yet gloriously anchored by centuries of stubborn history. My brain’s been in a permanent state of happy overstimulation.

Old Town

We started our wanderings in Old Town—our first of many trips here—where the streets twist like some medieval fever dream and the air smells faintly of bread and piety. It’s enchantment incarnate. Churches, old and stoic, dot the cobblestone labyrinth, and the grand one (you know the one) that sits like a wise old owl on a hill, watching over the city, the river, and the surrounding green-and-gold hills. Every time I look up at it, I feel like I’m in a novel I forgot I was writing.

Wandering through the Old Town of Tbilisi feels like stepping into a living museum of faith and history. The narrow, cobbled streets unfold into hidden courtyards and sacred spaces, where centuries-old churches like Sioni Cathedral and Metekhi Church stand as quiet sentinels of the city's spiritual past. Even for those who aren't religious, there's a deep sense of peace that emanates from the mosaics, stone carvings, and weathered icons tucked into corners and alcoves. These relics and statues, each worn by time yet full of grace, seem to hum with an ancient stillness. Surrounded by this sacred art, I felt transported—not just through time, but into a meditative calm that lingered long after we left. Tbilisi’s Old Town doesn’t just preserve religion; it transforms it into a gentle, universal poetry anyone can feel.

Botanical Gardens

On a warmer-than-expected October day, we stumbled into the Botanical Gardens, which stretch endlessly upwards, like a green escalator into Georgian heaven. The waterfall was...eh, fine. But the real magic was in the rock formations across the ravine, the slow climb past groves and flowers, and the giddy height-induced clarity that comes when you realize you're standing above it all. We stumbled across a young couple who seated themselves on a stone bench tucked in the vegetation and away from prying eyes. Quite idyllic for an afternoon romance. And then, of course, we stumbled upon a ruin—a crumbling old home tucked right in the middle of the gardens, as if it had been gently misplaced by time. It added just the right amount of charm to spark a whole story in my head about living secretly in the heart of a botanical wonderland, surrounded by ferns, birdsong, and slightly judgmental squirrels. From there, we drifted through Old Town again (because of course), letting the winding alleys lead us somewhere, anywhere.

Vake Park

Vake Park quickly became a favorite—a nighttime charm offensive where kids chased soccer balls like tiny comets, couples giggled conspiratorially on benches, and the rhythmic thwack of rackets echoed from the nearby courts. The whole place buzzed with a gentle kind of aliveness, like the park itself had decided to stay up past bedtime.

We returned a few times, by day and by night, and each visit felt like meeting a different version of the same old friend. In the daylight, the park was sprawling and sunny, full of dog walkers, stroller parades, and unhurried wanderers. At night, it shimmered with lamplight, laughter, and the glow of floodlit tennis matches. The public courts, well-maintained and clearly adored, gave the whole place a sporty, spirited energy without ever feeling hectic.

Vake Park has its own quiet rhythm...another little slice of paradise nestled right in the heart of the city. No honking horns, no chaotic foot traffic—just a meandering walk along pebble-and-dirt paths, punctuated by excellent people-watching and the quiet thrill of strangers mid-frolic.

Then, oh, the Bazaar. Let me tell you: the Bazaar in Tbilisi is less a shopping destination and more an overload of the senses. The first time we went, we got swept into its endless arteries of kitchen wares, household goods, lace and zippers, mysterious machine parts, garden gnomes, small caskets of wine, and fresh herbs. I found lace and plastic pearls for a pottery project and especially enjoyed the exchange with the shop owner who spoke no English. (What a game of charades!)

The Bazaar is massive. Labyrinthine. Gloriously overstimulating. It’s like discovering that your grandmother’s attic is actually an endless flea market, overflowing with treasures old and new—each corner holding the promise of something unexpected and delightful. I’m overwhelmed, overstimulated, and yet completely unwilling to leave, desperate to see what wonder waits just around the next turn. We returned a second time and still barely scratched the surface. No tourist fluff here; just the heart of the city, beating wildly within unsuspecting buildings, beneath awnings, and illuminated by a jumble of fluorescent lights and shards of sunlight.

And, as we were leaving the Bazaar on our first trip, we stumbled upon a whole pickleball compound near the bazaar—yes, pickleball!—tucked between city blocks like some niche fever dream. It’s 60 GEL per hour via the GymBreeze app, and I felt oddly triumphant about unearthing it. What a world!

One day, we hiked to Turtle Lake, which was a “Why not?” kind of adventure that became an accidental glute workout. The trails were steep and rocky—definitely not a casual promenade—but the payoff? Views to write home about. The lake itself was... well, it was a lake. But from above? With the snow-capped Caucasus Mountains on the horizon and the city trailing away beneath us, it was straight-up breathtaking.

We weaved our way through the hills behind Turtle Lake and found an enchanting, windy path. And then—because Tbilisi always insists on one more surprise—it led us (somewhat) directly to Mtatsminda Park (amusement park). With a Ferris wheel. The very same Ferris wheel we’ve been watching from our balcony, now looming just beside us like an old friend who suddenly decided to get up close and personal. It was delightfully bizarre, like spotting a background character from your dream and realizing they’ve got a whole secret life you never guessed.

The park itself was charming in the kind of understated way that makes you smile—a little less chaos, a lot less neon overload than your typical American fairground. People seemed equally enchanted by the rides and the abundance of ice cream. Seriously, we were the odd ones out—the only humans not happily shoveling down cones. As a lifelong motion-sickness victim, I avoid the rides like the plague, but that didn’t stop me from soaking in the excitement, the swirling lights, and the colors bursting all around. Sometimes, delight comes in just watching the fun.

While I mentioned it in the first post, I have to say it again—because we came back a few times—Amo Rame Restaurante is sublime. After long days exploring the city, it was the perfect landing spot. The dumplings were plump and delicious, the bread warm and cheesy, and the wine did that lovely thing where it tints my cheeks just a little. (I take after my mom in this respect; she’s my official red wine drinking buddy but my dad is no slouch either.) No regrets whatsoever on our repeat visits, especially considering how affordable the dining experience is. Honestly, I’d happily eat dumplings every day if D would just agree.

Tbilisi is a city that never stops surprising me: where every hill hides another chapel, every park contains a secret court or art installation, and every errand turns into an odyssey. I keep thinking we’ve “done it all,” and then another day arrives with a drizzle that turns into sunshine, and a street we haven’t explored yet beckons.

We came for a month. We stayed for three. I would have remained longer. Tbilisi has that effect.