Dear Taro,

“And you say to yourself just what am I doin’

On this road I’m walkin’, on this trail I’m turnin’

On this curve I’m hanging

On this pathway I’m strolling, in the space I’m taking

In this air I’m inhaling

Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard”

Four in the morning, three months ago, the George Bush Highway, Tbilisi, Georgia, a black BMW rockets past. My driver and I check the taxi’s speedometer in unison. As I try to convert kilometers to miles, Dylan whimpers quietly from his carrier on the back seat. I whisper back that it will only be a little bit longer. The driver takes notice of the dog for the first time since the airport. “What is her name?” he asks. “His name is Dylan,” I tell the driver. His name was Dylan.

By some gross failure in time conversion I arrive in Georgia a day earlier than expected. I release Dylan from his captivity and enjoy a cigarette and the view before rousing Dan and Liz. I apologize for my miscalculation, thank them for their hospitality and haul a years worth of luggage up to the spare room. Dylan does his best impression of a headless chicken.

Reunions with the friendly expat crowd, which continues to thin out. Dylan makes a fine impression. He is even able to accompany me into a few restaurants. It’s good to be back.

The apartment search begins. As does the roommate search. I have far more luck with the latter than the former. My stay at Dan’s stretches longer than planned.

October 20, Dylan and I on a routine park visit for a little off-leash exercise. I try to engage him with a ball, but he’s far too interested in sniffing around. I settle into a park bench and toy with the dog whistle that hangs from my neck. A hiss from behind spins me around to see Dylan chasing, full throttle, after a stray cat and toward the road. I fumble with the whistle to call him back. Too late. His name was Dylan.

A week later, I’ve moved into my apartment just uphill from the city center. Good price, great location, but I chose it mostly for the garden that would have been perfect for a certain four-legged best friend.

My roommate/flatmate, Rich, and I get along splendidly. He tries to show me how to play guitar like I know what I’m doing. I try to teach him how to say “pancakes” like an American. Neither of us are very successful.

Six weeks later, Rich decides to cut his trip short. He returns to England and I’m tasked with finding a new roommate. I settle on a Belarusian journalist. She’s nice enough and I have no true complaints, but I miss Rich and Sunday morning “paaancaakes.”

Ian, another fine British friend, snags me some work photographing events for the NGO where he works. I play propaganda piece for four afternoons and get away with two months rent. Ian gets away from Georgia all together. He takes a fare share of friendly faces with him for the holidays.

Skype allows me to wish my family a Merry Christmas. I sustain minor hearing damage photographing New Year’s Eve in Tbilisi. I spend my birthday reading the US Senate Foreign Relations Committee’s report on Georgia. I catch myself missing Athens, but decide not to reflect upon it.

The best photograph I ever took was in Athens, under the arch at Seigfred Hall, in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s hanging on your wall or rotting in an Ohio dump, but it’s always hanging around my head.

All told, I have spent six months of my life in Georgia. And if all goes according to “plan” it will be another nine months before I drop back into the states to figure out the next step.

I have taken thousands of photos since I left Athens, but none have ever matched the one from under the arch. Perhaps that’s why I’m here. I am just trying to find the next best photo. Or perhaps, that is why I am not in Athens, living under the shadow of Seigfred Hall.

And now I’m off to Ukraine for a few days to cover the election. Maybe I will see or do something worth writing about. Maybe I’ll find a photo to outshine the other. I have my doubts about that last “maybe.”

His name was Dylan. Your name is Taro.