A Tale of Unexpected Hospitality
Author: Makuna Kavtaradze
In a particularly shifting chapter of my life, a serendipitous window between tenancies found me transient, my belongings packed and patience thinning. Though barely murmured, my plight reached the ears of the Dadvani brothers, who extended an invitation to sanctuary—not just anywhere, but in Mestia, with their parents. Gratefully, I accepted.
The sun had scarcely risen on my new temporary home when a call from Tbilisi heralded news: the son of one of Georgia’s wealthiest men would visit the next day. The news, delivered with a mix of trepidation and excitement by our host, set the stage for a comedy of manners and errors that unfolded with the unpredictable charm characteristic of the best-laid plans.
Manana, our indefatigable hostess, declared the task at hand Herculean: a feast fit for royalty, or at least the closest equivalent our modern-day Cinderella story would allow. “One does not simply host a prince with modesty,” she insisted, channeling a flair for the dramatic as she conjured images of grand balls and gilded carriages. Yet, our reality was starkly different—this was the heart of a pandemic, a time barren of both resources and assistance.
Desperation birthed ingenuity. Manana, with a magician’s knack, summoned help from beyond our isolated enclave, drawing a woman from Zugdidi into our fold. She was not merely a helper; she became part of our orchestrated ballet of hospitality. Under Manana’s strict tutelage, she was transformed into an extension of our host’s will—each plate and platter commanded with military precision, each course laid out as if part of a sacred ritual.
Yet, despite Manana's meticulous preparation, the evening’s ballet soon turned into a farce. An inadvertent collision in the kitchen, our hands tangled in apron strings, revealed the helper not at her post but beside the Tamada, beaming at the shower of toasts. Meanwhile, the expected ten guests had blossomed into twenty—an audience worthy of the feast we had somehow, against all odds, managed to conjure.
The night unfolded with the kind of chaotic beauty that perhaps only those who have attempted the impossible could appreciate. Manana, a matriarch in her own right, orchestrated the evening with the finesse of a seasoned conductor. The food was sumptuous, the rooms immaculately kept, and the vistas beyond our windows a reminder of the majestic setting that cradled our efforts.
As the evening waned and our guests departed, laughter echoing into the night, Manana and I shared a moment of exhausted triumph. The "prince" had departed, charmed more by the hospitality than by any romantic prospects I might have harbored—a subtle, amusing blow to familial expectations of matrimonial alliances.
This saga, whimsical yet weighted with the gravity of real struggle, mirrors the broader journey of Manana herself. Twice she has woven her life anew, first with Villa Mestia and now with the challenges of launching "LAHILL." It is a testament to the resilience required not just to endure but to thrive amidst the relentless demands of hospitality and motherhood.
When queried about the sights of Mestia, I often respond with a simple, heartfelt recommendation: "Go there." For beyond the scenic vistas and the architectural splendors, it is the human stories of perseverance and the warm embrace of hosts like Manana that truly define the essence of this place. In Mestia, the beauty of the landscape is matched only by the strength of its people.
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