Paris, Texas. Tbilisi, Georgia.
Paris, Texas is a real place.
It’s also a 1984 movie about a man who turns his back on the world to wander solo through the wastelands of West Texas, after the tumultuous relationship with his much younger and beautiful wife fractured beyond repair.
Kartlis Deda - The Mother of Georgians
After uncounted years sleeping rough, Travis slowly and tentatively re-enters the world to confront his past and the people he left behind. In the process he reclaims his dignity and ability to live within society.
It’s well known for is haunting atmospheric soundtrack; sparse, reverb drenched slide guitar played by Ry Cooder that perfectly matches the visual landscape, emotional tone, and understated dialogue of the movie.
I saw the movie at about 14 and have been carrying the soundtrack (literally, in my music collection) and visual snippets of the wild uninhabited wastelands he traversed (in my memory), ever since.
For reasons beyond me, I had not revisited the movie until only earlier this year (2025); a matinee session with my eldest daughter Ximena, at the art deco shrine to cinema that is The Ritz, in Randwick, Sydney.
Apart from being visually stunning, there was a warmth, tenderness, and light humour that I had long forgotten.
The last place I expected to see a poster for a 1984 movie was in Tbilisi, Georgia in June 2025.
Walking the narrow-cobbled streets below the monument Kartlis Deda (The Mother of Georgians), a red door drew my attention.
Inside the worn red timber stairs led up to the first landing and, to the right, a café door featuring a time-worn Paris, Texas cinema poster.
Break time
On the left of the landing sat a striking young girl sitting on the stairs smoking a hand rolled cigarette.
I took a photo of the poster and asked if she worked at the café. She did.
Had she seen the movie? She hadn’t.
We chatted for a bit. She had a warmth and quiet friendliness to her that didn’t take long to surface. She was open enough to let me take a few pictures.
Actually, it was more an enthusiastic ‘yes’ than gracious ‘ok’.
As I said in The Devils Feather, sometimes you manage to capture the mood, the person, the moment as I see or feel it. And this time I was lucky enough to just that.
She loved them as much as me, I think. And yes, I sent them to her,.
Those are the events that led me to the photos but maybe not the full extent of the ‘how’.
I mean, if I hadn’t seen and been touched by that movie and its music 30+ years ago, would I have walked through that door to find that moment? No.
And that day I was just curious and unstructured enough to let myself wander Tbilisi’s streets, wherever they might lead.
Just curious enough to look at yet another door to find the bread crumb the universe left for me to find a magic photographic moment.
So here she is, Anka Kupre of Tbilisi, Georgia.
Post Script. What the hell? Two weeks later in Batumi, Georgia I was in cafe with a fellow traveller. We had had lunch during which I’d showed him this story and gallery. We exit the cafe and turn left; I looked at a wall to spy some graffiti - ‘Paris Texas’.
A movie too obscure, too far in the past, and specific for cultural relevance in Georgia. And a stretch too far for coincidence.
I feel like I am being spoken to.
Batumi, Georgia. Too much to call coincidence.
