Slow Walks in Summer: Stillness in a Fast City

Somewhere between 9 a.m. and 11 a.m., when the streets of Tbilisi aren’t yet a frying pan, I like to walk. Not “exercise-walk.” Just… walk.

These unhurried morning walks through Old Tbilisi feel like a gentle pause in the rush of the world. The city is a funny mix of fading grandeur and everyday life. Balconies lean like curious people. Grapevines twist around wires and drainpipes, as if they’re in on some quiet joke.

The world’s rushing, but not here.

I take the same streets often — not because I don’t like exploring, but because repetition softens things. Familiar bricks. Familiar turns. And somehow, they still surprise me.

Today, I noticed how the shadow of one old balcony fell across a blue wall in a way I’ve never seen before. It looked like lace. A shadow-lace moment, just sitting there waiting for someone to notice.

That’s the thing about slow walks in Summer in a hot city: when you slow down, the city gets louder in other ways. Not in a bad way — just more… detailed.

A dog’s nails click on the stone. A neighbor hums behind a curtain. The breeze pulls a plastic bag along the road like it’s alive. Somebody sells cherries out of a bucket.

You walk slowly because the heat makes you. But it turns out, that’s not such a bad reason.

Slowness as a skill

Maybe walking slowly is also a kind of work. Not the type you invoice for — but the kind that makes everything else better.

When you move slowly, your brain catches up to your body.

You remember how you feel. What you need. What you miss. Sometimes, what you don’t need anymore.

Tbilisi teaches you things

It’s a fast city with a slow heart. You can feel it in the way old men sit for hours outside shops, saying nothing. Or how cafes serve water first, as if hydration is hospitality.

The buildings are patched and proud. And even when it’s loud, there’s quiet if you know where to look.

Coming back to yourself

This morning, I walked past a courtyard I hadn’t noticed in months. There was nothing dramatic there. Just a sleeping dog, a kid drawing with chalk, and an older woman untangling string.

But something about that string stayed with me. She was so patient with it. No rush. Just hands doing what hands know how to do.

I think a lot of us are trying to untangle invisible knots. Thoughts, for example. Maybe slow walks in Summer help with that. Not because you figure everything out. But because you stop trying so hard to.

How I carry it home

The feeling of the walk — the quiet noticing — stays. It makes me want to create from that place.

Not to impress. Not to sell something flashy. Just to offer something true.

And maybe that’s what slow living really is: not a trend, not an aesthetic — just a way of returning to yourself, over and over again, until it feels natural.

Like walking the same street and seeing new shadows and colors every time.

Thanks for walking with me today. If you have a favorite slow corner of your own city — or a little ritual that brings you back to yourself — I’d love to hear about it.