Tbilisi

Tbilisi was founded on a hot spring — the name means 'warm place', and the legend says a king's falcon fell into the steaming water and came out cooked, which the king took, reasonably, as a sign to build. Fifteen centuries later the sulfur domes still steam at Abanotubani, the carved balconies still lean toward each other across the lanes like neighbors mid-gossip, and the city still sits where Europe and Asia trade — and argues about it warmly, over wine it has been making for eight thousand years.

The sensible traveller rides the cable car to Narikala for the whole amphitheater of the city; descends into a sulfur bath for the scrub that removes a lifetime of opinions; wanders the old town's balconied lanes and the flea market's Soviet silverware; crosses to Fabrika's courtyards on the left bank; and accepts, at all costs, any invitation to a supra — the Georgian feast where the tamada conducts the toasts and the qvevri wine arrives from clay vessels older than most countries' names.

The Guide's honesty: the supra is a marathon, not a race — follow the tamada, toast when toasted, and never with beer —; qvevri wine is stronger than its friendliness suggests; the sulfur baths book private rooms by the hour and the kisa scrub is non-negotiable once tried; drivers are confident and the belts are yours to find; and khachapuri adjaruli — the boat of cheese, butter and egg — is a commitment. Order one per table, then revise upward.