My Neighbor’s Granola

Tbilisi, December 10.

There was a loud banging on my door this morning. My neighbor from next door. A rather big-sized, older Georgian man. He was red faced and pointing to his throat with panic. Within five seconds I was Heimliching behind him. With success, because he left a piece of a bar of granola on the floor.

Fifteen minutes later we were having coffee at my place and we try to understand each other. He doesn’t speak a word of English and I don’t speak Kartvelian. He walked back to his apartment, came back and handed me a box of granola bars. He doesn’t need them anymore.