I remember my first trip from Tyflida during a cold morning. I boarded on a broken down Russian bus. It was full of faces, Georgians, Russians, Abkhazians and Greeks from that region. It took us all day to reach our destination; a village in the middle of nowhere. Bathed in darkness, the only light to be seen came from the full moon. Tens of dozens of rooftops shimmered like silver trinkets against the moonlight. Before I could get off the bus I could hear the faces arguing between them for who was going to offer me shelter that night. As I remember feeling ashamed to ask them for something to eat, they asked me first if I would like some tea or coffee and to my astonishment they filled a table with food such as cheese, honey, all sorts of jams, sausages, bread and whatever else they could scrape up from their kitchen. I never had experienced such hospitality throughout my travels. I was told to stay with the village priest, reason being that he was aware of what was going on in the area: weddings, baptisms, funerals and other social events, things that were coming to an end. I consider myself extremely lucky to have heard my grandmothers tongue spoken so deep in the Caucasian mountains and to have met such caring and openhearted people. Now, I share with you the images and the intimacy that my camera captured.