I was 10 years old when my father took us to Khevsureti for the Shatili festival. On the way, the weather changed four times, and in the end, we reached the mountains, spread out like carpets, that seemed to bless our eyes. That evening, there was a concert, and we watched a bonfire crackle with stacked logs - I think my mother still keeps the sweaters singed by its sparks to this day.
