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There is a school of thought that the custom of toasting as we know it was established in the 19th century when Russia annexed Georgia. Georgians, he noted, “drink a lot but never get drunk.” The Patriarch of the Georgian church will probably get one, and sometimes, particularly in Gori, you might be forced to drink to Stalin, the most famous tamada of all. He then goes through an inherent checklist of tributes that might start with God and move on to friendship, parents, country, the deceased, children, women and a couple dozen more. In fact, the first drink usually goes to the unanimously “elected” tamada, a kind of “green light toast” that kicks things off. I was at one wedding supra that ended in a full-on West Side Story brawl, where all the guests took to the dance floor and punched, kicked and ripped themselves to shreds while I watched the melee with the bride and groom in utter dismay. But even when it is, that is no guarantee the supra will conclude harmoniously. People often say the first toast is always to peace, which is not entirely true. The supra is not a dinner as much as it is performance art. At really big supras, like wedding parties, there may be a deputy tamada at the other end of the table or room with a microphone. At the head is the tamada, the toastmaster, chosen for his wit, eloquence and imperviousness to alcohol (or he may simply be the host), who dictates the drinking pace and table rules. The table can be as long as a stretch limousine, sagging under the weight of four stories of dishes loaded with delectable foods. While toasts are made anytime two or more friends are gathered around a bottle of wine or spirits, whether at a bar or under a tree, the alcoholic salutation is part and parcel of the supra – the feast – which is perhaps the most impressive Georgian tradition. Little did I know then that we would plant our roots here in Georgia and there would be thousands of more toasts in our lives some mere lip service to cultural ceremony, others capable of jerking tears to our eyes in their beauty and sincerity. He talked about how roots are the foundation of our nations and declared, “If you don’t love your country, you have no roots.” I recall a toast Sasha, our host, made to our countries.

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Minutes later, an old friend arrived and whisked us away to his in-laws where the razzmatazz would start all over again, only this time at a dining room table full of food, chacha and wine. In Tbilisi at 8 a.m., the sweat long dried out of us, our heads jack-hammering to hell, we will never shake the image of our new pal Dato’s despondent look as he waved goodbye from the back seat of his ride. More toasts followed, naturally (two bottles worth), and while we will never remember all the things we drank for, we won’t ever forget how the drinking ritual brought us together and forged a bonding fellowship, even if it was for a short-lived 12-hour trip. We clinked plastic cups and knocked the fevered spirit down our hatches. The first toast – our very first in Georgia – was to our meeting. They politely declined, preferring vodka instead, which they bought from another woman, along with khachapuri, as we began to roll. I bought four warm beers from a freelancing vendor walking the aisles with her bags and offered a couple to our travel partners.

While waiting for the train to lurch forward, we made our introductions.

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“It does not open,” Dato, one of our new cabin mates, said as I struggled to crack a window. The conductor slid our cabin door open to a steaming sauna with two slouching, pained-faced Georgian men inside engaged in the futile task of wiping the endless stream of sweat from their foreheads and back of the necks with soaked handkerchiefs.

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Boarding with heavy backpacks, we were instantly pummeled with the grim reality that the windows of these Soviet-born wagons were all sealed shut save for one in the middle, just big enough for three heads to poke out, panting for air. The Batumi train to Tbilisi had been roasting under the blistering June sun all day.

The year was 2001, and I had just crossed the border from Turkey into Georgia with my partner, Justyna. Let’s drink to all those people who were happy that we were born – that with this toast we can say ‘thank you’ to them.” So many people and we don’t even know their names, who they were. Our mothers, fathers, relatives the doctor who delivered us, the nurses that helped maybe some guys hanging out with our fathers said ‘Cheers!’ or ‘Congratulations!’ and patted our dads on the back. “The moment we were born, the moment we entered the world, so many people were happy.

Chitchat tour in georgia