08:44 and the domes are already working. You can hear it before you see it properly, a low hiss somewhere under the brick, steam finding the gaps in the mortar and giving up its heat to the morning air. Nobody is out yet except me and a stray cat deciding whether I'm worth the effort of moving for.
The cliff sits behind the baths like it was placed there on purpose, which I suppose it was, by whatever geological argument put sulphur water under this particular hill. A thin waterfall drops down the rock face, more sound than spectacle at this hour. Someone strung laundry across a balcony above the domes last night and forgot about it, or didn't, because why rush. A shirt, something pale, moving slightly. No person in the frame. Just proof that people live here, ordinarily, next to something this strange.
I keep thinking about how a whole neighborhood got built around the idea of sitting still in hot water underground. Abanotubani doesn't ask you to admire it. It just keeps doing what it does, has done for centuries, mineral steam leaking out of brick like breath on a cold window. My camera sat in the bag longer than usual this morning. Some scenes don't need convincing.
There's a smell that comes with sulphur baths, sharp, a little medicinal, not unpleasant once you stop expecting flowers. It's the kind of smell that tells you exactly where you are without opening your eyes. Bom dia, I said to no one, because the cat had already left.
I didn't go in yet. Maybe later, when the light turns harder and the tourists arrive with their towels and their opinions about the smell. For now it's just domes, steam, cliff, water, one shirt drying above it all, patient. Tbilisi hasn't fully woken up, and honestly, neither have I.
