The Rioni flows lazily and shimmering like a snake through the valley. The surrounding hills are bathed in wisps of morning mist. The earth still smells of rain. Deep in my backpack I find the pocket edition of the tales of Jason and the Argonauts. I have decided to spend a few days here, to rest and acclimate. On a terrace in this mythical place, I read stories of love, betrayal, and magic. The faces around me are lined and weary. In their deep wrinkles, I try to read the history of this city, the heroic deeds of long-forgotten times.

With its 3,500 years of history, Kutaisi is one of the oldest cities in the world. Here, the elders say, once stood the royal palace of Aeëtes, king of Colchis. According to legend, Medea was born here, the princess who was not only a king’s daughter, but also a priestess of Hecate, initiated into the secrets of herbs, moon cycles, and healing. In the shadow of the sacred tree hung the Golden Fleece: the hide of a divine golden ram. To the Colchians, it was more than a relic. It was a symbol of power, fertility, and divine protection. The treasure was guarded by a dragon that never slept. Jason was ordered by his father to steal this Golden Fleece and bring it back to Greece. He built a ship, the Argo, gathered a band of heroes around him, the Argonauts, and set sail for Kutaisi. After a long journey full of adventures and dangers, they arrived in Colchis.

Medea fell head over heels in love with this Greek demigod, but her father refused to simply hand over the Golden Fleece. He gave Jason a series of impossible tasks. Jason had to tame the two-headed fire-breathing bulls with bronze hooves and plough with them. He also had to sow dragon’s teeth, from which warriors would spring, warriors he would then have to defeat. With Medea’s magic, Jason accomplished his tasks. With her ointment, made from the root of a sacred plant, she protected Jason from the bulls’ fire, and with her spells she deceived the warriors that rose from the earth. In the middle of the night, she led him to the sacred tree, where she lulled the dragon to sleep with her enchanting song. The Golden Fleece left Kutaisi that night, and with it, Medea disappeared as well. She betrayed her father and lost her city for the love of a stranger.

Still, the Rioni flows here. In my imagination, I hear the dragon whisper softly, as if asking where the sacred Golden Fleece has gone. Slowly, I relax. My restless Western habits fade, and I am ready to travel to the unknown steppe in southern Georgia, the grain basket of the Caucasus. So early in the year, the grain surely knows nothing yet of bread. And even though I am no hero, I hunger for the unknown.