I’ve stayed in five-star hotels and slept under the stars. I’ve dined with Michelin chefs and shared instant noodles with monks. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for the radical hospitality of Kazbegi, a highland village nestled in the dramatic folds of the Caucasus Mountains.
The journey here winds past ancient fortresses, through switchbacks carved into cliffs, with the snow-dusted silhouette of Mount Kazbek keeping watch in the distance. But it’s not just the scenery that stops you. It’s the welcome. In Kazbegi, there’s a tradition so deeply ingrained it feels sacred: no traveler is ever left to sleep outside.
I met the Khvichia family on my first night, just as the mountain light turned gold. Their three-generation guesthouse isn’t on Google Maps—you find it through a neighbor, a cousin, or the woman who sells khachapuri down the road. Tamuna, the grandmother, greeted me with a glass of chacha and stories about Soviet-era mountaineers who came through when she was a girl. Her daughter baked fresh bread in a wood-fired oven that perfumed the entire house. Her grandson, 19 and studying tourism in Tbilisi, insisted I try the homemade berry wine.
They didn’t just offer me a room. They offered me a place in their lives. I helped stir the stew, fed chickens, was taught how to toast properly (you must look into the eyes), and sat wrapped in a wool blanket while the family sang old songs by candlelight. Here, hospitality isn’t transactional—it’s an act of love, a cultural inheritance passed down like a recipe.
The people I met didn’t even want their pictures taken because they didn’t want to boast about their friendship and the beautiful scenery. But they were happy to show me around.
And it’s everywhere. Down the lane, I was invited into a stranger’s home for coffee simply because I looked lost. A man who worked at the post office drove me to a trailhead 30 minutes out of town just so I wouldn’t have to wait for the bus. Even at the tiny grocery store, the owner insisted I take a bar of chocolate “for the road.” It’s not that the people of Kazbegi go out of their way to be kind—it’s that kindness is the way.
In a world growing colder by the algorithm, Kazbegi is a reminder of our oldest, simplest human truth: we are here to care for each other. And as I left the village—reluctantly, with a bag of walnuts and three phone numbers pressed into my hand—I realized something else: in Kazbegi, home isn’t a place. It’s a promise.
