May 15, 2007 I’ve written before about my frustrations with coffee in Albania. It has nothing to do with the café culture of this country, or any European country I’ve been to for that matter. (I’ve never been accused of being a workaholic, and I’m totally fine with taking twenty or fifty minutes a few times a day to sit with a drink and watch people go by.) But, I also like coffee, and the Happy Meal-sized espressos that are enough for Albanians – and which they somehow manage to nurse longer than the 1.5 seconds I usually take to down one – just don’t leave me feeling like I really had a coffee. This whole thing was a much larger issue in my life about six months ago, before I moved out of my host family’s house and got my own apartment. Now that I’m all grown up and living on my own in the big city, I’m able to make my own coffee every morning. I got French press hand me down from some American missionaries and my Mom sent me a small thermos, so now every morning I make coffee. Not an espresso, not a macchiato, but coffee. I take my thermos to work, drawing the usual stares for walking down the street with a thing that looks to people like a small missile, and have two enjoyable cups while I sit at my desk and wake up. It’s probably the best part of every one of my days. My co-workers are aghast at the amount of coffee I drink. And we’re talking about two normal-sized cups. How many people routinely drink twice this amount in America? My hand is raised. Nonetheless, my coffee consumption has been a cause for concern among my friends at work. “Beni, dude. You know dude, I think this coffee you drink is going to make an attack on your heart.” This is what my friend Gary says to me every day. This week brought a visitor to the NGO I work at. A fellow employee of WV, he’s a Canadian that works in some kind of regional office in Cyprus or Crete – aren’t those just different names for the same place? Joking. Although who didn’t know the difference maybe just a few years ago? My hand is raised. – The Canuck showed up at the office yesterday morning, let’s go with Zach for his name, so Zach arrives and I learn he will be in town for a week conducting a training with WV staff members. When I got to work Monday morning I went directly to the kitchen to get my mug to take back to my desk. I found my boss, Mary, in the midst of battle with a coffee maker, not a French press, a real Black & Decker coffee maker. The kitchen was a mess of espresso ground coffee and water. The coffee maker was dripping away with the pot sitting in the sink. “Oh Beni. Can you help me? Can you fix the coffee machine? I don’t know, I think it is broken,” Mary pleaded. “Is that a coffee maker! Where’d that come from? Did we buy it? “No it is Zach’s. He is here from Cyprus. But he is Canadian and he brought with him a coffee machine. He drinks SO much coffee, like you Beni.” Consumed by excitement, I left Mary as she was putting coffee grounds in the water deposit. I went to my office and met the Canuck from Cyprus – who is also probably a boss of mine somehow – and got right down to business: “So you travel around with a coffee maker?” I asked. “Well just places where I’m pretty sure I can’t get Canadian-style coffee, eh.” – he didn’t really say ‘eh,’ but I imagined it. “That’s funny. I always call it ‘American-style’ coffee.” “Well, you’re American, eh.” – again, so ‘eh’ was said. “Ummm, I’m pretty sure that in Paris the coffee drink that we both enjoy is called an ‘Americano.’ I don’t know of drink called a “Canadiano.’” “It’s just called beer.” Touché Canuck. Zach and I hit it off. I’ve been to Canada plenty of times and I told him about my giving Windsor, Ontario “Tijuana of Canada” status. Which Zach conceded. He related to the importance I place on my morning ritual of making French press coffee. “I really look forward to the whole process,” I said. And there is a very particular way that I like to make my coffee.” “I think you have OCD.” “Probably.” John, my site spouse, stopped by and we invited Zach over for dinner. “We just bought a grill,” we explained, “and we can make hamburgers.” Zach was in for burgers. The grill has been a big step in mine and John’s relationship. I think it’s brought us closer. For the last ten days, we’ve pretty much been grilling everything that we think is food. Like a lot of things in Albania that are at first so exciting because you had given up hope of finding them or being able to do it, grilling is pretty close to what I enjoyed back home, but is ultimately a new frustration because it gets you so close but really just not. The issue here is charcoal and actually lighting the grill. Here’s how I know how to start a grill: There’s usually a button with a picture of flame. I press this button (in an emergency I empty a bottle of lighter fluid on forty pounds of briquettes). The first trial was finding charcoal for our grill. We didn’t know how to say the word “charcoal”, and actually weren’t sure if it could be found at all. I had the following conversation at several stores around Lezha: “Good evening. How are you? I need something black that is for meat on a grill.” “Black meat?” “No, no. It is for me to cook meat…” “Pepper! You American. You want pepper.” “No, no. It is black and goes inside a grill. Meat is then laid on top so that the black thing can become hot and cook the meat.” I don’t have a very big Albanian vocabulary, and it can become rather abstract. Eventually, someone understood our request and we were able to buy charcoal. That wasn’t really charcoal. What we bought was a bag of really burned pieces of wood. Like just a lot of stuff left from a camp fire. I do know that charcoal really is just compressed wood, but this was just a bag of charred branches and shrubs. So we learned that charcoal can be a lot simpler of thing than compressed briquettes. And, we also learned that the shit that we bought does not catch on fire again. Determined to grill things, we’ve persisted over the last week. It takes a lot of paper, fanning and other cajoling to get the twigs burning, but we’ve managed. The Canuck joined us for hamburgers the other night. John and I talked mostly about our relief with the approach of summer. “It’s so great to see people outside again,” I said. “I didn’t appreciate Xhiro season last year, but I’m counting the days now.” “What’s Xhiro?” Zach asked. “It’s when everyone just goes out at night and wanders around,” John replied. “It’s amazing. Definitely the best thing in Albania.” Zach seemed a little underwhelmed by the whole description. We tired to impress upon him how great Xhiro is. Xhiro is not just walking round. There’s also sitting with a coffee or beer, maybe some fried dough or ice cream can be involved. But mostly, I love the people watching that Xhiro offers. As much as Albanians seem to love staring at me, I know I enjoy watching them even more. Part of it is that staring is perfectly acceptable, also, I can openly talk about people in English. But, the biggest reason I love Xhiro is because people are hilarious and I can give them nick names. “So Xhiro,” I continued. “We usually meet after work for a drink, then we’ll wander to a difference place, and, remember, the streets are packed with people. Everyone is wandering around for a few hours before dinner.” “And Xhiro doesn’t happen in the winter,” the Canuck asked. “No way. Strictly a summer activity,” said John. “So what do you do for entertainment in the Winter?” “I started smoking,” I said. We continued with our expectant talk of the summer. An early beach season has been an exciting development. I enjoy the beach, and during the summer Albanians expect you to have gone to the beach at least two times in the last week. So this works out well. The country can have beautiful beaches, however, it requires getting away from any coastal cities, as they’ve all seen dodgy seaside development, leaving the beaches gross. But, there are pristine places. The Albanian beach experience offers great people watching in its own right. Of course, just about everyone is laying around in bathing suits, swimming, building castles and doing what you do at the beach. But, there will also always be amusing sights that I can only hope never go away. “A lot of times people are wandering around the beach dressed just in a completely uncomfortable way,” I said to Zach. “Like girls walking down the beach dressed in jeans, a few shirts, big-heeled shoes, crazy makeup and just looking like they took a wrong turn from the Xhiro.” “And you also get people completely underdressed,” John added. “Always men. They’ll be in their euro-speedos, or, a lot of times, just laying around in their underwear.” “There are wild donkeys at our beach in Lezha.” “Sounds like a scene,” the Canuck offered. “It’s a gong show. Priceless.” A year ago I didn’t appreciate the Albanian summer. It was like summer in America without air conditioning. But, winter left me wishing I could just go out, wander around, drink and stare at Lezha’s cast of characters. Wasn’t I talking about coffee? I think I have undiagnosed ADD. Hey, look at that bird!

May 2, 2007 May Day was yesterday. I’m on my fourteenth month in Albania, I now have two May Day experiences under my belt, but I have no idea what this day is. I’ve been told that Americans have a May Day as well. Is this really true? I have no memory of anything called May Day. My 2007 May Day followed the standard pattern of most of my days. I sat at café for a few hours, watched people go by and then sat some more. There was at one point a Man Dance sighting in the center of town. In my experience the Man Dance is reserved for weddings and Christmas parties – though it has snuck up on me in what seemed like quiet cafés –a public staging of the Man Dance had to have been in recognition of May Day. To describe the Man Dance……..Well, it’s never planned, it doesn’t have moves or steps per se, but all Albanian Man Dances have a similar look. That is, a group of men – it could be one guy or seventy – start with a little clapping, the clapping escalates and is then replaced by some twirling around – the guys can be pretty light on their feet – more clapping, the formation of the Man Dance circle, more twirling, clapping and three and half days later the Man Dance might be over. There are variations, some guys are truly well-practiced Man Dancers, but there is always clapping, twirling around and Man Circles. There is of course a Woman Dance and a Co-Ed Dance. These are the same idea, with either no men or men encircling the women with their Man Dance. It’s truly majestic.

April 8, 2007 Happy Easter. I’m not counting on the Easter Bunny making the trip to Lezha. Buuuuut, maybe. A consolation is that Albanians are into dying and coloring Easter eggs. (This is something I didn’t notice a year ago, and am pretty sure is a new development. So what’s coming next? I’m pulling for St. Patrick’s Day and Green Beer). So this was a pleasant surprise, of course, it’s very likely Albanians have been doing this for three-thousand years, I’ve probably been told this, and I’m just an idiot. My former host family is Muslim, so no dying eggs happening in that house, but I was invited to dye some eggs last night at my neighbor’s house. It was fun, a lot like the egg dying of my childhood that involved balancing an egg on a paper-clip-thing while dunking it in colored water, getting bored with how long it was taking, trying different colors, becoming frustrated with the paper clip, and ending up with a brownish-colored egg. After drowning a dozen or so eggs I was ready to make my exit and began the routine of saying goodbye, knowing full well this would be met with resistance and I likely wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. There was a crowd at the house, all of whom I needed to say goodbye to and probably chat with, plus, there was definitely going to be an attempt to force dinner on me. To my surprise, I got through the cheek kissing and head bumping and I managed to beg off dinner, compromising for a coffee and raki. The family offered me one of the hard boiled eggs we had dyed, “thanks” I said, putting the Easter egg in my pocket. “No No Beni,” someone said, “it’s for you to eat. You want to eat the egg?” “Soooo, now we all just eat the eggs we dyed a minute ago” I thought to myself. This was a little different. I usually opt for the chocolate over the egg flavored eggs on Easter, but when in Rome I guess. I peeled the unidentifiably-colored shell – let’s call it mauve – and found that the dye had penetrated through the shell and colored the egg white the same color as the shell. “Should the weak Easter egg dye be able to seep through an egg shell? Was this “dye” really oil-based garbage truck paint? I got this stuff all over my hands! My skin has got to be more porous than an egg shell. What has gotten into my bloodstream?!!” I was panicking. I looked up to a room of expectant eyes. “Oh man. They really want the American to eat the Easter egg. How much of an insult will it be if I don’t? I gotta finesse this one somehow. What would not eating the egg do to my reputation? I thought. After awkwardly trying to express my gratitude while also saying that “I just wanted to save it,” I got my wits back and explained that “in America, we only eat the Easter eggs on Easter Day” (this was the evening before). My story was considered, the neighbors glanced at eachother with “so you believe this story?” looks. Finally, they accepted my excuse. I finished the raki, gave a few more smacks to some cheeks and came out having made a good impression on my neighbors. I have gotten so good at lying. 4-20-07 I’ve been lucky in that in the last thirteen months I have been free of the viruses and parasites that seem to afflict so many Americans in this country. Stomach issues are the most common ailment. There are lots of horror stories of people being bed-ridden for days, becoming convinced that they need to be cut open and have an alien removed from their stomach. I know people that have had mysterious eye problems and developed allergies that they had never had. John, my site spouse in Lezha, lives under a power-line tower and is confident that he has brain cancer. While my laptop and iPod have been victims of Albania, as far as my own health is concerned, I’m doing fine. The strangest medical matter that has afflicted Americans that I’m aware of is something called “trench foot.” It’s was common in the First World War among soldiers from both sides who spent days standing around in cold, wet trenches. Their feet would become numb, black and blue and eventually gangrenous. This is a nasty picture: http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/FWWfoot.htm Now, I don’t think anyone’s feet have become gangrenous, but I do know of two Americans that have been diagnosed as having trench foot. It’s only two, but I mean, trench foot?! Doesn’t this seem like something that shouldn’t happen to people? We’re not standing around in frozen mud all day. I’m wearing flip flops right now. It’s strange, Americans come to Albania overly prepared for a place that we anticipate being something akin to a WWI trench – we’ve got serious boots, coats, all manner of fleece and The International Badge of being American, Nalgene water bottles – and people still get something like trench foot. Now, it can get a little sloppy, but overall, Albania is a lot like Greece. I call it “Diet Greece,” not exactly the white-washed buildings and turquoise water, but not Stalingrad in 1942. So I don’t know about this trench foot thing. Actually, I do know. It’s really funny. Was this pointless to write about? I’m hungry. 4-27-07 I’m lucky to work in an organization in which most of my colleagues speak English. Of course, this has meant that my Albanian language skills have not just plateaued, but regressed. This probably owes to the fact that I spend most of my time with Americans and Albanians that speak English. I don’t have a host family anymore to chat up and the encounters on the street or in cafés with curious Albanians don’t seem to happen anymore. I suspect that these days when someone around town sees me who doesn’t know who I am there’s someone else nearby who can explain what the guy in flip flops is doing here. “Hey, who’s that guy?” “Oh, that’s the American. You’ve never seen him around?” “No, let’s go talk to him. Does he speak Albanian?” “Well…., he can tell you he’s from Michigan, his name is Ben, he’s American and he likes ice cream. That’s about it. I’ve talked to him before, he’s really not that interesting. Just kind of stares at you a lot.” At least that’s what I would say about me. There’s a pretty standard script that I follow whenever I’m speaking Albanian. I can explain the basics about who I am, but if the conversation moves beyond myself I’m done for – some have said that the fact that I can only talk about myself is reflective of my personality, whatever. – so people in Lezha must just be bored with me. One guy who I hope never loses interest in talking to me, and this is for purely selfish reasons, is a co-worker of mine named Andi. Andi speaks English well, but he has dialect all his own. I cannot imagine what he has read or TV shows he has seen that have shaped his English such as it is. For instance, I present an actual exchange Andi and I had this week, which inspired me to write something about it: “Now, beni. What am I thinking right now you ask.” “What’s that? Oh no, I didn’t say anything.” “Yes, well, of course. So am I hungry? Yes, this is true. So what I am doing for this? I will be going to lunch, and will I invite you? Yes, Beni, I think we should have lunch. Now, where will we have lunch? Yes, so, there are many places to have our pilaf. But, ahh, Beni, what is the best maybe? I say we can go to Café Nostalgia. And why? Well, because, Beni, because Nostalgia has the freshest meat. So, when to have lunch Beni? “Ummmmm, so you want to have lunch?” “Yes, of course. Why have I argued this to you? Because I think we should have lunch.” “How about in twenty minutes or so?” “Oh Beni, come on man. I’m no spring chicken! And, and, that is how the cookie crumbles.” That is how Andi talks. And love it. His favorite device seems to be the rhetorical question posed to himself. He can never quite bring himself to asking or suggesting something with out first posing a series of questions to himself. He also throws in a healthy amount of idioms and metaphors that make no sense – and I’ll be personally devastated if they ever do. I get so much out of my English conversations with Albanians that I think I have a fine excuse for neglecting to improve my Albanian language skills beyond “my name is Ben I am twenty-six.” But, I think I might try to learn Italian.

March 28, 2007 It is exactly one year and five days since I first set foot in Albania. In the last year I’ve made three trips to Europe – which I’m still undecided as to whether Albania is lumped in with. As a compromise, I’ll just refer to places like Italy and France as “Regular Europe.” I made trips to Florence, Paris and London, all places abounding with comforts that I had come to take for granted back home. A common question is what I miss the most from America. I can say, completely honestly, that material things, that for awhile I let my mind build castles in the air with, I’ve been able to kind of improvise or have just stopped caring about. American-style coffee can be MacGyvered with espresso grounds, the top of a 1.5 liter bottle and coffee filters – which can be found. Surprising, considering the absence of drip coffee makers in Albania. I never really cared about clothes, and now, entirely by accident, I’ve found myself in a country in which I’m one the better dressed people. My parents keep me in peanut butter, aaaaaaaand that would really be about it. So what I miss the most would be my family and friends. Seriously. Love you guys. Television is something that I never missed. I have never been a big T.V. person. The only shows that I have ever really cared about have been, in order of formative impact: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, The Wire, 30-Minute Meals, The NBA Tonight, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and, though I’ve only seen a few episodes, I’m gonna put Seinfeld in here. Everyone has told me I would like it. Albanian television has nothing I would care to watch. There’s a music video channel called BBF – pronounced “buh buh fuh” – a news channel which is simply a still picture of the national newspaper and a voice reading aloud every single article in the paper, Italian soap operas and a lot of soccer games. And I’d rather watch the newspaper channel than soccer. But, like I said, I had never been a big T.V. guy. Albanian T.V. was just funny, it didn’t make me yearn for the stuff I didn’t really watch in America anyway. Now, having been in Albania for a year, having made a few trips to Regular Europe, having – on a whim, just to see what was on – channel surfed a little bit, television has become……, let’s say enchanting. Firstly, MTV is endlessly entertaining. A week spent in both Florence and Paris, and what I remember the most from these trips, are a few music videos that I saw on MTV. Now, I took in all the sights and enjoyed getting lost everyday, I also just managed to carve some time out for MTV. So I think that’s okay – I mean, some people plan their days around drinking or drugs you know. After careful watching, there are a few lingering questions regarding MTV: 1) Who is this Nelly Furtado? She is beautiful; 2) Why are there about seventeen Pussycat Dolls? I think only one of them sings. I’m not arguing with the idea of stocking a band with models, but their videos can be a little busy; 3) Has there been a resurgence of music being played on Music Television in America? Cause they definitely do it in Regular Europe; 4) Have the Red Hot Chili Peppers disclosed the location of The Fountain of Youth? I think that would just be the fair thing to do; 5) And Britney Spears?!!!!!! Are the flags at half mast in America? Secondly – and we’re still on MTV here, but this needed its own paragraph – In Paris, I saw this show called “Yo Momma.” It features Fez from That 70s Show, who is a kind of ref for two guys that just stand in some alley and take turns telling “your momma” jokes. It is hilarious, not at all because of the jokes they’re telling, but for completely accidental reasons. The names of the contestants – my favorite I saw was “Big Skrill” – the crowd reaction to jokes that are completely nonsensical, Fez being kind of chubby. It’s all just incredible. I wish I could write well enough to describe how much enjoyment Yo Momma brought me. Tell me this show is still on in America. It can’t just be a Regular Europe phenomenon. I’m not sure I’m prepared to return to a country that doesn’t have Yo Momma. The third new T.V. addiction I’ve acquired are weather reports. They’re so….in depth and, just really enlightening. The fly-by radar things, a little bit of a meteorology lesson, forecasts for nearly a week at a time. Weather reports have become completely engrossing, and so helpful. I’ve written on this blog at least three times how I’ve been completely defeated by rain and wind in Albania. These guys in Regular Europe can anticipate a weather pattern’s every move. It just takes the guessing out of whether or not I should hang my clothes outside, if I can go for a run or exactly how hot and uncomfortable the bus ride will be. My mornings in Regular Europe saw me gripped by the forecasters. And it should be noted that these were weather reports being done in Italian and French, neither of which I speak a word of. “Yup, overcast today,” I’d say to one of my friends.

“I don’t think so man. It looks pretty sunny outside.”

I’d consider the actual, real time weather situation outside. “No I don’t think so. The guy says overcast. Man, I tell you, this weather…I don’t know.”

“Dude, can you stop talking about the weather. You’re an old man, and I can’t believe I hang out with you. Just look out the window, that’s the weather right there.”

“Oh, but looks like sun tomorrow.” So, MTV and weather reports. Two things I didn’t watch in America but that I now love. And now, back in Albania, I don’t miss Yo Momma or the radar machine. These things are the domain of, and will always be associated with Regular Europe. Sorry for not writing anything about my life in Albania. But you probably didn’t read this far anyway. March 30, 2007 One morning this week I arrived at work to find a colleague of mine – who is also my closest Albanian friend, and whom I’ll call Gary – seated at my desk waiting for me. He was obviously eager for me to show up. “Gary, are we getting coffee right now?” I asked. “I just got here, how about we go in an hour or something."

“No dude,” Gary has picked up on how my friends and I call each other ‘dude.’ “I just wanted to show this e-mail I have gotten from my friend. It is really funny dude.” I’d been through this before and was ready for an e-mail that would be in Albanian, probably made no sense to me, or just wasn’t funny. It turned out to be an e-mail forward, a cartoon-thing about the differences between Italy and the rest of the European Union. The forward began with a panel across the screen with a heading like “Lines in the EU,” then these little animated dots would orderly get in line and shuffle through. The next panel would be “Lines in Italy” and the dots would be zipping all over the screen and end up forming this kind of pile up. The forward had these dot skits for things like “Talking on cell phones, Elections, Dating” and “Newspapers.” The EU dots were always very reasonable, polite and well-ordered, while the Italian dots were always a complete mess. It was good-natured, and justifiably funny. “Beni, dude, what do you think? It was crazy right? I mean funny,” Gary said.

“Yeah it’s funny. I should pass that along to some of my friends in America. You know, there are a lot of parallels between the Italian dots and Albania. You know? Right?” I said, asking for confirmation from Gary.

“Yeah dude yeah….But no. It was about Italy not Albania.”

“Right, I mean your right. But you know how Albania is kind of messy compared to Europe. Just like the Italian dots, not bad or anything, just hectic.”

“How does this mean? How is Albania like the dots from Italy?” Gary was very skeptical of my comparison. I tactfully tried to explain how the e-mail forward made me think of Albania. How people don’t do lines, are rather cavalier about litter, don’t really have indoor voices, smoke in hospitals, “and especially the driving one Gary,” I said. “You know how people drive in this country. And I’ve been to Italy. And there are traffic lights and other driving rules that people follow most of the time…...” The driving in Albania isn’t one of those subtle, under the surface differences that you begin to see only after spending some time in the country. A visitor crosses the border into Albania and within a minute and half that person will feel a sense of uneasiness. After five minutes the person has figured out that the butterflies in their stomach is a combination of nausea and panic that has been brought on by the style of driving. And that style would be: “Do whatever you damn well please. We don’t really even know what those lines in the middle of the road are for, we’ve just seen them other places. And, ah, try not to hit anyone, but, you know, it happens. We understand.” I don’t think aggressive driving is the right phrase, it more like violent or destructive or antagonistic. Some aspects of the driving I’ve gotten used to: Feel like we should slow down? Uhhh, I haven’t seen a posted speed limit; Passing on a blind corner. Reckless you say? Well, we’ve got to get around the three-wheeled mini pick up; The centrifugal force might very well launch us off this mountain? Just lean in with the turns. I don’t drive. But if I did I wouldn’t feel any safer. Somehow, the chaos of the Albanian roads maintains itself, and I think my reasonable driving style would only throw off whatever kind of equilibrium has been achieved here and cause a truly horrific accident. I still can’t totally relax as a passenger. I’m always a little anxious, and the knack I had for being able to fall asleep in a moving vehicle has been completely lost. Now I just get carsick sometimes. In addition to the style of driving, almost every time I’m on the road in Albania I’m treated to a new sight, that, if I wasn’t seeing it right then, would seem completely unbelievable. Intercity minivans with maybe thirty-four people crammed in, faces and butts smashed against the windows; One car towing another, connected fender to bumper by a man’s belt; The aforementioned tripod truck, with a couch in the bed, with two people sitting on it; Stereo speakers adhered to the roof of a car playing music for, I guess, the other cars on the road that are passing it. These are things I’ve seen. Last week, I was riding in a van on the busiest and fastest freeway in the country. We pulled along side a car with two guys in the front seat and the entire back seat taken up by a full-grown horse. This was a four-door car, but I wouldn’t call it a sedan or a station wagon. More Honda Civic-like The horse was standing up across the rear of the car, it’s tail waving out the window, it’s head poking out the opposite window and staring at me with it’s big horse eyes as we drove by. I cannot imagine how these guys got a horse inside of a mid-size car. Horses are big, strong and scary. How would someone coax or force the thing into riding in the backseat?! It looked pretty content as we drove by. Once back in Lezha I relayed the story to my site spouse John. “I mean, why?” I asked. “Right? This was a full-grown horse in the backseat of a car.”

“I’m shaking my head man,” John said, “but you know, I’m not even that shocked.”

“I know. We drove past the thing, I’m like ‘are you kidding,’ and then I try to rationalize it, and I thought of some reasons that were kind of plausible to drive around with a horse.”

“Yeah. Maybe they just wanted to take it for a care ride. Dogs love it.”

“Horses are handy animals, maybe they thought they’d need it for something.”

“Dinner?"

“Sure. Maybe they just found it, like you find a couch in college, and you know if you let it go it won’t be there later, so you just load it up.” John and I decided, after thinking about the reasons why and given the fact that we are in Albania, it wasn’t that unreasonable of thing to see a horse in a car. Although, it would be the perfect nightmare scenario for me: Driving home from somewhere, something is blocking my rearview mirror, I turnaround and am face to face with a horse that is riding in my backseat. Then I’d wake up in a cold sweat. “…….So the driving man,” I said to Gary. “It’s pretty dangerous, right?” Gary considered the comparison I had made between the Italy dots and Albania, specifically the driving aspect. “You know dude, I think the Albanian driving is not so good.”

“That’s all I’m saying Gary.”

“Actually, yes, it is a miraculous that you have not been in a vehicle accident. That you are not dead from a vehicle accident. This is a miraculous.”

“A miracle.”

“A what? Hey dude, how about we make a coffee break now?”

“Let’s do it.”

February 17, 2007 There’s a new face around town. A few weeks ago my site spouse John and I were having beers at a café after work. This has become the routine. Lezha loses power around 4:00 p.m., while we wait for the lights come back on we kill time over beers. (I don’t know any Albanian city that has electricity twenty-four hours a day. In most places there are six to eight hours of no power. It’s usually on a schedule, and one just gets used to arranging their life around when the lights will be on. While I have adjusted, the whole power thing will always be puzzling to me. I’m sure the infrastructure is antiquated, but it’s good enough to work most of the time. And whoever is in control is able to keep the electricity on a schedule. The lights stay on all day for Christmas and New Year’s Eve. So I don’t get it. If there’s not enough power, just make more. Right? If you’re buying power from other countries – and how does that work exactly – buy enough to keep the lights on all the time. I don’t know. I should have learned by now that trying to figure something like this out is an exercise in futility). We usually go to the same café, we like this place because they give you a little bowl of peanuts with your beer. On this occasion we met a guy who had recently returned to Lezha after living in the U.S. for the last sixteen years. Having overheard us speaking English, the Albanian expat approached us and introduced himself. It was immediately clear from his English that he had lived in the U.S. for several years. He didn’t speak with the formality and awkwardness that is evident among the even the best English speakers who have learned the language, but have never lived in an English-speaking country. He seemed like a nice enough guy, a little chatty, but a nice guy. I honestly can’t remember his name – he doesn’t know mine either, he just calls me “Michigan” – so lets call him Martin. We got Martin’s whole story. He was given political asylum in the early 1990s, he ended up in Florida with his grandfather, and was back in Lezha for what he said was a “short visit.”“So what are you guys doing here?” Traveling? Passing through to someplace else? Your not Albanian-American are you?” Martin asked. “Uh, no, we’re not Albanian” I said. John, who is Asian, just stared at him. “Yeah I figured,” Martin replied. “He’s Chinese and all..” “South Korean.” “Right, so why are you guys in Lezha?” “We live here actually,” I said. “We’ve been in Albania for almost a year.” “Oh, you missionaries or something? Your church send you here?” “Nope. We’re here working. By choice. We came here to live for two years,” John replied. This was confounding to Martin. “Well…, what the hell guys?” Since our first meeting we’ve seen Martin around town quite a bit. In fact, the guy turns up seemingly out of nowhere. ALL THE TIME. He’s one of those people, and I think we’ve all known one, who will be suddenly standing right next to me as I turn my head to cross the street. I walk in any number of the different cafés in town and Martin is always there. I’ll go for a run five miles out of town and Martin is there, standing on the side of the road, waving, yelling “Michigan” as I run by. I’ve began to question whether or not this Martin character was a real person. Did I just hallucinate that night at the café? Maybe he’s just some imaginary guy I keep seeing. But John was at the café to. I don’t know. Weird. This is what I had been wrestling with recently. “No dude, he’s real. And he’s all over the place,” John confirmed. “You know his name? I can’t remember. He just calls me ‘Michigan.’” “No idea. He calls me ‘China.’” John and I continue to see Martin everywhere we go, most assuredly at our favorite beer and peanuts, lights out café. Last week some new light was shed on Martin’s “short visit” Albania. “So you’ve been around here for a few weeks man, when are you heading back to Florida?” I asked. “Well yeah. It’s not really just a visit,” Martin replied. “I’ll probably be here for awhile. I don’t how long exactly.” “Oh really, how come?” “Well, you know. I was sent back to Albania. Deported really. You know.” Now I felt bad. For a month I’d been going out of my way to avoid Martin, and the poor guy had been deported. I was sure it was an unjust thing. “Why man? What happened? I mean, you’d been there for sixteen years.” “Yeah I know man. But the judge, he was so unfair. It wasn’t a big deal, and he says ‘you have to go back to Albania.’” “Why?” “Well…, here’s the thing…I was convicted of a misdemeanor.” “Ohhhh,” I said, trying to nod in a way that conveyed sympathy and not the skepticism/wariness I felt. “You know, second degree assault. So I beat a guy up. You know. Not a big deal. Right? And the judge, he takes my papers and says I have to come back here.” Martin had gotten a little worked up. John and I exchanged glances. We had altogether lost our compassion for Martin’s situation. And, we were now a little scared of the guy. Martin is apparently here to stay, and continues to always be around. I’ve decided he’s harmless, but I am a little jumpy around the guy, and I try to be very agreeable. He sees me running and he’ll make the outlandish claim to have run twenty miles the other day. “Wow, that’s great,” I say, trying my best to feign admiration and hide the “no fucking way” sentiment. He’ll offer to be my personal translator. To follow me around and help me buy extension cords and order lunch. “Yeah sure, I’ll keep you in mind if I need any translating. Thanks a lot,” I say. About the last thing in the world I could ever want is to have Martin at my side any more than he already is. But, I don’t think we’re going to be able to shake him. He speaks perfect English, so I can’t pretend that I don’t understand what’s he’s saying – I’ve gotten good at this game of possum – and, I don’t want him to beat me up. February 18, 2007 It’s Election Day in Albania and I’ve been warned about traveling and to stay away from polling places. I’m looking out my window and don’t see any cause for alarm, things seem like any other Sunday. Lezha isn’t burning or anything. Two weeks ago I wrote, maybe a little mockingly, how there are two guys running for mayor of the capital city who have almost the same name, Sokol Oldashi and Sokol Oldashin. It turns out that Sokol Oldashin is not another person. The posters I had seen with a picture of a guy that said “Vote for Sokol Oldashin” are actually endorsement posters for Sokol Oldashi. The posters that confused me have a picture of a guy, who I thought was a Mr. Oldashin, a bizarro version of the real Mr. Oldashi. But, it turns out that these are just posters with a picture of some guy who has some prominence and he’s saying: “vote for Sokol Oldashi.” I was thrown off because his name is spelled with an “n” on the end. I had been going around for weeks telling people how I couldn’t believe that two parties would field candidates with very nearly the same name. Finally, it was explained to me that in Albanian, when a person is the object of a sentence a consonant is thrown on the end of their name. If your name ends in a consonant then you’re given almost a completely new name. “I am Ben’s friend” would be “I am Benit friend.” I’m told that this is a pretty fundamental concept of the language. So, I can barely speak Albanian and certainly have zero understanding of grammar. Not that different from my capacities with English really. The Albanian private service industry has developed quickly and haphazardly. A hotel and restaurant boom of this kind, in a country that until recently was closed to the rest of the world, has meant that the smiley, eager to please service staff that was familiar to me is absent. The concept of “the customer is always right” is interpreted more as “I’m doing you such a favor by bringing you coffee. You better not ask too many questions or I’m going to get really annoyed.” (To be fair, the overfriendliness that we associate with waiters and waitresses in America is absent in most of Europe. It has everything to do with the fact that American service staff work for tips). I miss the whole “Hi there, my name is Jill and I’m going to be taking care of you tonight” that I used to find grating. In most restaurants I’ve been to, Jill has been replaced by a surly Albanian who seems barely able to muster breathing. A typical encounter with a waiter – I can’t think of any place I’ve been to that had waitresses – will go as follows: Waiter: Appears standing over me, looking down. I’m not sure, but I think he’s in a coma.

Me: Hi, do you have menus?

Waiter: Shakes his head.

Me: Ok, what do you have for food?

Waiter: Rice, sausage, french fries, salad, meat soup, cheese.

Me: I’ll have a green salad an…

Waiter: Not have

Me: No green salad?

Waiter: Not have. This will go on until I have asked for everything that he said they had only to find out that the only thing they can make is rice. So I eat a lot of rice. Sometimes, at the places that are a little more eager to please, they’ll let you order a salad. But this means that the guy in the kitchen has to leave the restaurant, run down to the bazaar, buy vegetables, and return twenty minutes later to make your salad. At that point I wish I had ordered the rice. The brusque treatment isn’t reserved for foreigners. At dinner one night with a few Albanian friends from work we sat for two hours as each of our orders were brought out separately, about every half hour. The restaurant was clearly making each thing one at time, bringing it out, going back and boiling the same order of meat and potatoes over again. One of my friends ordered fish and the waiter, who deserves credit for his candor, when he brought the fish said: “we’ve never really made fish before, I’m not sure if this is cooked all the way or any good at all.” At that point I was ready to stand and applause. One thing that waiters are very much on top of is switching out ashtrays. You will never see an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts in Albania. I’ll sit down to a coffee, dump in a packet of sugar, put the wrapper in the ashtray, and before I sip the coffee the waiter has swooped in and replaced the “dirty” ashtray with a fresh one. If I am actually smoking the ashtray is replaced between every puff. A lot of times I’ll sit down to a table with a clean ashtray and they’ll just take it away and bring an identical clean one. For what waiters in Albania lack in most aspects of being waiters, they make up for in their diligence of switching out ashtrays. Clean ashtrays are the height of customer service.

February 3, 2007

The water pressure in my apartment has been dwindling since, it seems, the first day I moved in. In October, when I began my apartment search, I had a walk through the place that is now my home. It’s a newly constructed two-story home, a family used to live on the first floor but they’ve disappeared.

(It’s too bad. They were nice folks. They brought me candles when the power went out and one morning I was greeted by their eleven year-old daughter arms overflowing with my underwear which had blown off my clothesline and fallen to their front yard. I returned from work a few weeks ago to find the bottom floor completely vacated. They vanished in literally an afternoon. I speculate that someone in the family won the American Residence Visa Lottery. The “American Lottery” is BIG in this country. I’d compare the anticipation for the results to that of the expectancy that consumes Americans leading up to a Friends or Sex in the City Finale. So yeah, BIG. When people win the American Lottery – and “win” should be qualified, as this only grants permission to come to a country in which gainful employment for a comparatively unskilled Albanian will not be easy to find. And, where a week’s worth of groceries at Whole Foods costs the same as what I pay in rent. For six months. But, when you win the lottery, it seems you also have to leave in twelve hours).

But, it wasn’t the hardships of Albanians that compelled me to sit down and write something for the first time in two months. I’ve got water pressure issues. For the first few months I lived in the apartment I enjoyed a shower with good water pressure. It was a new shower head that could be adjusted to different water stream patterns, and the hot water tank was big enough to allow me to keep the water running throughout my showers, rather than having to get wet, turn it off, lather up and then rinse. Quite naturally, it lacked a shower curtain – characteristic of all Albanian showers, it is simply a shallow basin with a showerhead. Curtains or doors are never involved. These would be some of those little things, like price tags, that I miss.

So for three months I had the luxury of, not great, but good showers. Last week it all came crashing down. My shower and one of my sinks are now just a trickle. One sink just makes coughing noises. It takes about ten minutes to fill a glass of water. Making coffee and doing dishes have become hour-long processes. This really doesn’t bother me that much – if I was so inclined, I could ask any woman in town to come over and do my dishes for me. I’m already looked at askance because rumor has it I do my own laundry. But showering under a few warm drops of water is just dreadful.

February 7, 2007

Country wide local elections are approaching, scheduled for February 18. This is after months of delays – elections were supposed to happen sometime last fall, and at the very least before the end of 2006 – for reasons I have no idea about. As I understand it, every city and town has their local elections for mayor and other officials in the same year on the same date. For the last several months TV news was dominated by parliamentary sessions featuring bickering party representatives, highlighted by a Battle Royal last August in which chairs and fake plants were tossed around. Now that the disagreements over whatever have been resolved, the country is in full campaign mode.

Things have happened quickly. For what they lack in the American tradition of television and radio advertisements and interviews, Albanian campaigns make up for in sheer volume of posters. In the last week Lezha has seen several of its buildings wallpapered in posters. Whoever the campaign consultants are, the prevailing piece of advice seems to be: “you need posters. Lots of them. You don’t even need to make clear who you are or what office your running for. Just put your mug shot on a poster, use an ambiguous slogan like ‘together for Lezha,’ and then put about seventy of them on the same wall of a building.”

Judging by building coverage, there are two leading candidates for, what I can only assume is, mayor of Lezha. One guy got a jump on his competition, securing the three large billboards in town, usually devoted to a cigarette add featuring alternately swimmers, cyclists, or soccer players. And I should say, this candidate has made excellent use of this prime space. His billboard posters feature a smiling picture of the candidate off to the side with his left arm extended presenting a computer rendered vision of “Lezha of the Future.” The background of the billboard is a panorama of a city that resembles Lezha. Kind of. In this version the city has taken on a new greenness and sports an impressive skyline of colorful buildings. There’s a large fountain in the middle of a riverside park. Cafés line that same river, which I had mistakenly thought for seven months was a sewage drainage canal. Someone figured out how to use Photoshop.

In Tirana, the capital, the frontrunners in the mayoral race are two candidates with national prominence. The race is receiving a lot of attention and money from the competing parties. There are the usual posters and billboards, but also, city buses have been completely painted in support of one candidate or another. To its credit, The Public Transportation Agency has remained unaligned, as both candidates have bus lines campaigning on their behalf. Again, beyond the name recognition, it would take some research on the part of the uninformed voter to figure out who exactly the two guys are, what office they’re running for, let alone what the differences are between them. Maybe there aren’t any. It’s not like you can draw lines between American political candidates.

Further complicating the Tirana Mayoral election – and I don’t know why I’m the only one who seems to have noticed this and think it’s hilarious – is that two of the candidates have almost exactly the same name. There’s Sokol Oldashi and then you have Sokol Oldashin. Mr. Oldashi is one of the nationally prominent candidates who is in a tight race with his rival. Mr. Oldashin is one of a handful of candidates from smaller parties who have little hope of winning the Mayor’s office. It would be like if in 2004 there was a third party Presidential candidate named Jon Kerry. How upset would the real John Kerry have been? I have to believe this is an obstacle for Mr. Oldashi. Aren’t there going to have be at least a few votes that were meant for him that are going to bizarro Oldashin? Isn’t this a conceivable mistake? One that I would make myself? I think yes.

I have to say, the growing pains of a fifteen-year-old democracy do offer their lighter moments.

February 13, 2007

I have never appreciated so much the luxury of being able to escape the elements of weather. In America – I now refer to my home as “America” rather than the United States or the U.S. In my culturally sensitive days I used to think this was a little inappropriate, like South Korea calling themselves “Asia,” but everyone else does it – I took for granted being able to escape the uncomfortable hotness or bitter coldness. I’m pretty sure there are entire American cities that are linked by gerbil tubes.

The hotness and coldness of the concrete Albanian buildings is understandable, – it’s like living in a parking structure – but the weather that I have come to hate the most is the rain. Somehow Albanian rain makes me wetter. It has a sideways approach pattern that renders umbrellas useless. Matters aren’t helped any by the fact that, and I admit this is due to my own stubbornness, my only jacket is too short, not warm and not waterproof. It really has no value as a jacket. And most people think it looks strange.

Weather patterns in Albania aren’t in and out in few hours, or even a day. The same clouds settle in over an area for a long weekend. To be fair, the country’s weather is by and large pleasant, certainly better than that of the Upper Midwest where it’s just accepted that we don’t see the sun from November through April, and the weeks of sunshine are pleasant. But when the rain moves in it stays for a few days. A hard, violent rain is rare, it’s usually constant drizzle and wind that will get more intense whenever I’m walking across town with a forty-pound box from America – love you Mom.

After three or four days of rain the drainage issues of cities becomes apparent. A downhill street becomes maybe a class two rapid. Not strong enough to take away a person, but cats and dogs have no chance. The unpaved streets and back lots are impassable without those fly-fishing pants. The wetness of a rainy week is all-consuming, in that it has an effect on my personality. I know that as soon as I take ten steps outside I’m going to be wet, my umbrella is going to turn inside out, I’m going to drop something that I was really looking forward to – like a good sandwich – in a puddle, and I’ll be reminded of all this by the first Albanian I see who will point out that “Beni, it’s raining.” I’ll then sit and work and scare people as I turn into Jack Nicholas from The Shining.

So I just shouldn’t leave the apartment, right? Just stay in and maybe take a nice long hot shower. Oh wait…..

On November 23rd I ran in a marathon in Florence, Italy. I’m not a runner. Aside from a couple of Turkey Trots in Detroit, I had never taken part in any kind of event like this. A big part of completing a marathon is mental. You’ve got get your head right. Ignore the pain. Mind over matter. This is how I psyched myself through the Florence Marathon.

00:27:58

This is kind of fun. I’m feeling good. There goes the 5K marker, that’s like a quarter of the race right there. I’m on easy street. And people were like “Oh Beni, I can’t believe your still smoking and training for a marathon, blah, blah, blah.” Whatever. Hey, that girl’s pretty cute.

00:54:50

Still truckin along pretty good here. Wish I had my iPod. Okay, there’s the 10K mark. Those last five were a little farther than the first two markers, but I’m going slow. Respect the race. Much respect. Oooh, a sponge station. (Inhaling sharply) THAT’S A REALLY F----N COLD SPONGE! Alright here we go over the river. Not a fan of the incline on this bridge.

01:20:58

These guys behind me are totally confused by the Albanian writing on my T-shirt.

Guy 1: What language is that?

Guy 2: No idea. Russian maybe? I don’t know where this kid is from.

Guy 1: It’s not Russian. That thing’s got a crazier looking alphabet. I saw another guy back there with a similar shirt. His said something about puking.

Guy 2: Oh yeah, he might speak English.

Now they’re coming up next to me. Go away, go away, leave me alone.

Guy 2: WHERE ARE YOU FROM? DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?

Why is this dude talking to me? I’m kinda in the middle of something, I’m getting a little angry at this point and I’m about to dish out a haymaker to the neck.

Me: Yeah. That’s Albanian. I live in Albania. I’m in the Peace Corps in Albania.

Guy 1: Wow Albanian. Your English is impeccable.

Hesitating for a second.

Me: Thanks. I’m really good with languages. Kind of a natural. You know.

01:52:34

That’s halfway. So now I just have to do everything I just did,….again. Don’t think like that. We’re still good. Wow! That person has a dog on a leash. That’s a pretty healthy looking dog. He seems happy, got his tail wagging, appears to like being around people. I forgot those animals actually made really good pets.

02:12:54

Okay, so now I’m going past people running in the opposite direction. Are they behind me? I don’t remember doubling back down a street. There must be a longer course for the really fast runners. That makes sense. So we can all finish together. Nice idea. Ohhhahhh,….we are turning around up there. I’m sick of running on this bastard street. It is a really clean street though. Hey, there’s another person walking a dog. Crazy!

02:21:43

I fought the law and the, (pause) law won. I fought the law and the, (pause) law won.

02:36:11

SuperSweet! Looks like we’re heading to the center of town now. Still got about a quarter of this thing left. I guess they run us around the city for a little bit. Whoa, there are a ton of people lining the streets. Look cool, look cool. Oh hell no that lady is not passing me with all these people watching.

02:39:07

Dusted her. That was energizing. And there goes the 30K marker. You know what I wish I was doing right now? Not running. Alright pull it together. Only 12K left. Those first 10 were easy, fun, I enjoyed them. And where in the hell are we going now?!! We’re running out of town. Again!! There go my spectators. Oooo, they’ve got croissants at this water station.

02:42:36

Eating two croissants was a gabim. Shume gabim.

02:51:03

Mile 20 marker. From here, every single step I take is the farthest that I have ever run in my life. I’m seeing a lot of people walking. Some look like they’ve dropped out. There a few that have just collapsed. Is that guy alive? Is he still breathing? Does someone come out here and collect the bodies?

03:06:01

F--k this f---ing marathon! F—k running. F—k this city. F—k this stupid park I’m f---ing running through. F—k this person next to me. Yeah that’s right, you, with your stupid tights. If the Firenze Marathon was a person I would beat the crap out of him. I think I might be hitting the proverbial “wall.” There goes 35K. Alright, we’re going to walk for five minutes.

03:09:48

Is that? That’s the lady that tried to pass me back in town. And there she goes. Fine be the hero lady. I don’t even care. I’m in this for me. I’m the big winner for myself. Remember what was happening about 7 Ks back? You were getting dominated BY ME! I’m just collecting myself for the final stretch so I can ruin you again. I’m gonna enjoy that!……There’s no way I’m catching her.

03:37:28

40 Ks. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Everything hurts. Am I crying? I want my mom.

03:52:59 THE FINISH

Someone just threw a medal at me. Another person gave me a bag with crap in it. I need water. I’m feeling kind dizzy right now. A little loopy. Water. I need water. Yeah, I’ll have a banana. Sure take my picture. I’m about to get down and start lapping at this puddle. Where is the water?!! Hey there’s Brandon and Joey. They have water. Magnificent.

Joey: How was it man?

Me: I need a cigarette.

October 31, 2006

This is the conclusion of the story that I first posted ohh….about a month ago. In that time the world has apparently spun off its axis, as the Detroit Tigers advanced to the World Series! They didn’t win. But still.

No excuses for falling down on the postings this month. But, I pledge to turn over a new leaf in November and revive the Albania blog. Otherwise known as My Weekly Correspondence to my Mother. So, let’s bring home the camping trip story:

On the road now, the mood in the van was buoyant. Albanian Muzik Popullore blared, beers were passed around, and The Old Man kept doing the cheek kissing thing with Joe and I. Papi, managed the mountain road with a beer, cigarette and cell phone in his hands, turning around every ten seconds to shout at me and Joe.

“Oh Beni,” Papi shouted, “we’re going to Theth Beni! Very good Beni, very good!”

“Yes, very good. Watch the road please Papi.”

“Huh? I see the road.”

“Papi,” Joe said, “Please watch where you are driving the van.”

“Yeah sure Joey. Arti, another beer for me.”

Joe and I resigned ourselves to the fact that our lives were in Papi’s hands. “I better have another to,” I said.

After two hours we had descended from Puke and were driving through the city of Shkodra, an altogether unpleasant town which we naturally refer to as “Shkrotum.” This would be the last city of any size before we would begin the climb to Theth. We drove slowly through town, coasting up and down the streets, apparently in search of a store to get some last minute supplies. Papi stopped in front of a typical Albanian hardware/kitchen supply/7-Eleven/drugstore/ice cream and pastry shop. Joe and I let the seven Albanians in the van argue over what we needed. Papi’s son was dispatched to the store. He scrambled around the store while the rest of us sat in the van on the other side of the street yelling directions and orders. After about a dozen trips between the van and the store people seemed to be satisfied. We had a lot of stuff. The van now resembled the truck that the Hillbillies rode into Beverly Hills on, packed with things like a vegetable steamer, salt and pepper shakers, placemats, an espresso pot, and a few bottles of Skenderberg Brandy. This was true to form in what would become a theme of the weekend: when camping, it’s all about the quantity of stuff you have. Practicality and quality of said stuff is not considered in the equation.

“What is going on? Why are we buying all this crap. I mean, that is all brand new stuff that we’re taking camping.” Joe was incredulous

“Man, you know questions like that are futile,” I said. “This is obviously out of our control. Although, I can’t say I’m happy that ol’ Skenderberg is making the trip.”

“Yeah. Not a welcome addition.”

Our tenth passenger – eleven really, if you count Skenderberg Brandy – was picked up on our way out of Shkrotum. Stopped at an intersection, a group of middle-aged guys loitered on a corner – Papi tapped the horn and leaned his head out of the window.

“Oh communist!” he shouted towards the crowd of middle-aged guys loitering at the corner.

A particularly cagey-looking fellow looked over towards the van. Arti slid open the van door and motioned for the Communist – in three days I never heard his name used – to load up in the van for Theth. He hopped in and cracked open a beer. Music, toasting, cheek kissing and general revelry returned to the van. The Communist didn’t have a backpack, sleeping bag, or anything besides the leisure suit he was wearing. Joe and I were pretty sure that this was just a “hey there’s the Communist! Let’s pick ‘em up!” impulse on the part of Papi. He would join the Old Man and the Doktori as members of our party that were just inexplicable in general

As we drove out of Shkrotum the peaks of the Albanian Alps came into view to the North. Our final stop was at a café for lunch. Here we rendezvoused with three our four other van loads of Albanians. These turned out to be members of the Albanian Alpinist Association. Papi had trumpeted his being an “Alpinist” to Joe. We had reserved some skepticism at these claims. Couldn’t anyone just call themselves an “Alpinist?” I mean, I like to think of myself as a philosopher. The company of these twenty-some alpinists, many of whom Papi seemed to know, did lend some credibility to Papi’s story, and the trip in general, which had begun to veer towards “there’s no way we’re actually going camping.”

We lingered at the café just long enough for the rain to catch us before we ascended into Theth. The vehicle our group traveled in is difficult to classify. It was something like a fifteen-passenger van, but bigger. A little more bus-like. Maybe a step below a short school bus. We named it the Devastator. Whatever the make and model was on the Devastator, it was rickety. This did not seem like an appropriate automobile for driving into the mountains ahead of us. But, the Devastator was joined by a caravan of four other Van-Bus hybrids loaded with the Alpinists.

Immediately beyond the café the road deteriorated to a dirt path, not quite as wide as the Devastator. We rumbled on, the Devastator managing the road remarkably well. Joe and I took in the scenery and watched as we seemed to drive backwards across decades and centuries. Herds of sheep, donkeys, and women working in fields are nothing new. But here, the homes, wagons, fences, and barns seemed truly old fashioned. The surroundings were no longer of the usual out-of-date Stalinist variety. This scene, stone structures, craggy mountains and misty rain, was Lord of the Rings archaic.

The Devastator continued its ascent into the mountains. Trees closed in around the goat path we drove on. The ten of us on board the Devastator were getting increasingly jostled. It felt as if we were driving through a tunnel, then, the trees would part and expose dramatic mountain landscapes.

Papi plowed on. Seemingly being pushed to its limits, the Devastator’s shaking and sputtering became more violent. At this point the temperature had dropped significantly.

“I’m not sure the Devastator is going to make it man,” I said to Joe.

“She’ll hold together,” he replied. “Actually, I’d say the Devastator is handling the drive surprisingly well.”

“I’m a little concerned about the blue smoke coming out of the heating vent.”

“Yeah. That’s probably poisonous. Or something.” Joe said. “Oh Papi, I think we should turn off the heater. I think it’s smoking.”

Our concern with sitting in a fume-filled Devastator was not shared. Joe’s plea was brushed off as being petty. The Old Man gave his assurance that the Devastator was fine, flashed his charming gap-toothed grin and waved the bottle of Skenderberg at us mischievously. We begged off that offer.

Theth, the village that would be our Base Camp for two days came into view. The town was situated in a corner of a valley that now spread in front of us. Clouds hung low around the mid-sections of the mountain peaks. Theth was a ghost town. All that remained of most of the buildings in the village were stone foundations. Other structures were in various stages of crumbling. The farmhouses scattered through the valley were, for the most part, abandoned.

Unbelievably, we would discover that a handful of people continue to live in Theth. As beautiful as the setting was, this was a place with out electricity and served by a road that I would feel safer traveling on with a donkey than any car or Devastator. In terms of stuff, there’s whatever grows in the valley, and that’s it. In terms of stuff to do, there’s collecting and making stuff out of the stuff that grows in the valley. That, and trying not to die. The winters have got to be frightful. Joe and I decided that, while admirable in many ways, the residents of Theth are insane.

The Devastator trailed into town behind the VanBuses carrying the Alpinists. The wagon train of VanBuses circled up in what had been a playground for the imploded school nearby. It had been a long day of travel. No one had any sense of urgency to set up camp. We admired our surroundings, the Old Man pointing at and naming each peak. We milled around long enough for daylight to completely disappear before beginning to unpack the Devastator and set up Base Camp.

The lack of a tent for Joe and I – this had been major point of stress for Joe during the peak of his raki buzz a mere eight hours earlier – once again became an issue.

“Dude, they don’t have a tent for us,” Joe said soberly.

“Yeah I know. You already flipped out about that this morning. Whatever man. We’ve got sleeping bags, we don’t really need a tent.”

“I don’t think Papi likes that idea.”

Indeed, Papi was not going to have the two American guests of honor sleep sans tent. Joe and I were squatted around my dismal attempt at a campfire while a rapid exchange between Papi and several of the Alpinists ensued overhead. It became uncomfortably heated.

“Blah, blah, Amercans, blah, blah, tent, blah, blah, blah,” Papi said accusatively, pointing at the Alpinists.

“Tent?!! Blah, blah, blah Beni, Joey, blah, blah, Tent?!!” An Alpinist would respond.

“Hey Papi. It’s cool, we’re totally fine without a tent,” Joe pleaded.

“No Joey,” Papi scolded. “Blah, blah, blah, tent,” he said, pointing at the Alpinists. “Blah, blah, blah Beni, Joey,” he then pointed at us.

We didn’t need to follow the conversation. It obviously concerned me, Joe and the lack of a tent. Papi was demanding, not asking, that someone give up their tent for the sake of the Americans. He was our buddy and host, and was going to make damn sure we had a tent. The air was heavy with contempt at this point. We tried to look apologetic.

“I’m feeling like our company is wearing a little thin with these guys,” I said to Joe.

“Yeah. The dudes are not cool with us right now.”

The little chat over the tent ended with Papi firing up the Devastator, the Old Man and the Doktori in tow, and driving out of Base Camp. Now we were left alone with the Alpinists – not our biggest fans – and no Papi to stick up for us. This was awkward.

An hour later Papi returned with a tent. It wasn’t a new tent. There was no way he drove somewhere, bought a tent, and got back in an hour’s time. Where this tent came from was a mystery, but we had one. Joe and I were grateful that this latest episode had resolved itself.

Arti and Dori had been desirously eying mine and Joe’s headlamps. Setting up our tent presented the opportunity they needed to take the headlamps for a test drive.

“Oh, Joey. Please. Let me set up the tent,” Arti offered.

“No, no. We can do it man. It’s our tent we should set it up,” Joe pleaded.

“It’s a pleasure for me. It would give me great pleasure to make your tent.”

“Oh, Joey,” Papi said, steamrolling our efforts to be unobtrusive. “Arti will make tent for you and Beni.”

“Just let them roll with it man,” I said.

“Yes, it’s no problem,” Dori offered. “But we might just need your head flashlights to borrow.”

Arti and Dori LOVED the headlamps. They threw up the tent in about four seconds. This wasn’t nearly enough headlamp time. They proceeded to collect firewood, organize the food, fill water bottles and scrounge for any other chore that they could do in the dark.

“Arti, can I get my headlamp back. I’m getting ready to go to sleep,” I said.

“Yeah sure Beni. I just need to go to the ahhh….”

“The river Arti! We have to go to the river. With the head flashlight!” To the river,” Dori said.

They hurried down to the river for no reason at all. In the distance we could hear the headlamp thieves who were, apparently, having the time of their lives.

“Hey Arti, I see you!”

“Look up Dori. Look right, left! The light is on your head!”

The evening had seen a minor confrontation over a tent that Joe and I didn’t really want. The headlamps were just collateral damage.

“Those are definitely getting broken tonight,” Joe said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “But we did get a tent. So we got that going for us.”

“I guess.”

The next morning was leisurely. I woke up to find Papi, Arti, Dori, Samir, the Communist, and a couple of the Alpinists squatted around the fire. The rest of the Alpinists had set-up four or five other campsites throughout the schoolyard. The Old Man and the Doktori were nowhere to be seen. I was ready for breakfast and wedged myself in amongst the circle, hoping to snipe some of whatever food was going to be passed around.

The instant Nescafe coffee was welcome – after seven months in Albania I have learned to manipulate instant coffee in a way that creates a sweet milky drink that I would put up against the best New York bodega coffee. Delightful – the round of raki that followed was something I should have seen coming.

Albanians aren’t big on morning meals. A hearty breakfast might be Coffee, raki, and cigarettes. Thankfully, since we were camping and all, some bread and cheese came out. Joe and I, starving from the lack of dinner the previous night, demolished a loaf of bread and about two pounds of cheese.

“So Papi,” Joe said, “what’s the plan today?”

“Right,” Papi said, tipping back on his raki, “we will climb one of the mountains and make the tents on the mountain for the night.”

“Alright. So we going to get going pretty soon this morning?” Joe said, newly energized.

“Yeah sure. Just after a little bit.”

This meant hanging around Base Camp for the better part of the afternoon. For a group of Alpinists, they didn’t display much hurry in embarking on climbing a mountain, which I thought was what Alpinists did. After breakfast people sat around the fire and chatted. For about three hours. After that, there was an elaborate ceremony for something. The Alpinists gathered themselves and lined up formally behind Papi and two other lead Alpinists. The other Alpinists watched with reverence as speeches were made, hands were shook, cheeks were kissed, and commemorative photos were exchanged. We figured that this was some kind of kick-off event or pep rally thing. But the exact meaning of all the pomp and circumstance escaped us. We were ready for any surprise at this point.

Continuing the trend of the last twenty-four hours, just when it seemed that plans had fallen through and we had given in to the fact that we wouldn’t be going anywhere, something was triggered. A sense of urgency sprung up. People started moving around, things were thrown in backpacks, directions were given.

Joe and I were laying around, assuming that the Alpinist award ceremony was still carrying on. At first, the whirlwind taking place around us was a little disorienting.

“Hey dude, I think their done making their speeches,” I said to Joe.

“Yeah, they seem to be getting organized for something,” Joe replied. “You think we’re going to hike somewhere today? I mean, it’s pretty late in the afternoon to leave. I doubt it. Hey Arti,” he shouted across the base camp, “what’s going on man?”

“We leave for hike in the mountain now,” he responded. “Five minutes. Joey, Beni come we leaving now.”

“What?!” Joe said. “Come on dude, get your stuff, I think they want to leave.”

“Maaannn,” I whined.

We threw sleeping bags, clothes, and food in our bags and joined the group. We joined the Alpinists and began to size everyone up in terms of gear as we received the same scrutiny. There was no shortage of equipment in this group. The Alpinists had all manner of stuff strapped, clipped and hanging off their bags. Helmets, climbing harnesses, ice-axes, lanterns, swords, miles of rope and – you really can’t go camping without this – a gun. Joe and I conceded that the Alpinists did indeed seem to have bested us in terms of gear. The fact that most of this equipment – ice-axes!! – was wholly unnecessary didn’t seem to bother anyone. They were prepared for any number of situations we may encounter. Including a shootout.

Notably absent from the party was Papi. We asked Arti about his absence and got a hazy story about an injury and that Papi “didn’t really do hiking, camping and that kind of stuff anymore.” Well then. This made Papi’s story of having “climbed” Mount Everest all the more dubious.

One of the senior Alpinists designated himself Leader of the exhibition. He made a not short speech about nothing, and we finally disembarked from base camp as a single file group of thirty or so Alpinists and two irritated Americans. The hike began with a gentle incline towards imposing peaks in the distance. Joe and I were skeptical as to how far this group was going to make it. These guys had spent the morning and early afternoon drinking raki and lounging around, they each had about twenty pounds of completely pointless shovels, machetes, and rope strapped to them, and they were middle-aged Albanian men – not models of physical health.

“There’s no way we’re going to climb one of those mountains,” I said to Joe.

“That’s what they’re talking about man. I think the plan is to hike to one of the saddles between the peaks and camp up there tonight.”

“Uhhhh. Why man? I mean, we could have left early this morning, gotten to wherever we were going, snapped some photos, climb down, make dinner at base camp and sleep in the Devastator or something. What is going on? I mean, these dudes are crawling. My man over here has some World War One issued backpack,” I was out of breath at this point.

“Roll with it dude,” Joe reasoned.

Our pace was leisurely. The degree of incline gradually increased to the point of a pretty good uphill climb. Our group began to break up. I kept waiting for the lead Alpinist to announce that it was time to turn around. There were frequent stops, some of the younger Alpinists ended up carrying the older Alpinists’ packs, I found myself saddled with about three-hundred yards of climbing rope that someone brought along but decided they didn’t want to carry. Our lead Alpinist shouted directions and frequently stopped the procession to point at a rock and make a speech. Joe became further aggravated. I nearly committed a quadruple homicide. But the group soldiered on.

It began to seem that we might actually make it to the peaks that we had admired from Base Camp five hours earlier. Joe, myself, Arti, Dori, Samir, and a few other younger Alpinists had separated ourselves from the group. The terrain began to level out, trees had long since disappeared, and now bushes and other shrubs faded away. Wind swirled around like it hadn’t before. Things were looking barren. Like the surface of the moon, but grassier. We had come to a bowl in the mountains, surrounded by the peaks that – though I felt like we had climbed pretty high – still seemed far away.

“This is the first time I’ve been on top of a mountain man,” I said to Joe. “I guess I didn’t realize it’d be so…bleak. You know?”

“We’re not really on a summit right now,” he replied. “This is just a saddle between the peaks. I don’t know maybe about nine or ten-thousand feet. They’re, like, fifty-some fourteeners in Colorado. So this is pretty mid-range.”

“Yeah, I don’t think we’ve got those in Michigan. But I’ve been skiing on a landfill before!”

“Sweet.”

Daylight was going fast and it became cold. We had put some distance between ourselves and the leader of the Alpinists. We could hear Sir Edmund Hillary in the distance screaming about something. At this point Joe, myself and our three companions from Puke had lost faith in our leader and were happy to get away from him. Arti lead us on over the lunar landscape, assuring us that he knew of a good place to camp. Our campsite came into view. A depression, maybe fifty yards in diameter, kind of soft and grassy-looking, with a ruined barn and shack in one corner by a well. Evidence that, at one time, someone had actually lived up here!

Exhausted, our group of five descended to the campsite. We didn’t notice at first as we entered the crater, but after a few minutes of wandering around the abandoned home we realized that there were sheep, goat, bear, or some kind of animal droppings all over the place.

“Man, I’m pretty sure that there is animal shit all over,” Joe said.

“I thought that might be the case,” I replied. “Why in the hell would there be goats or whatever up here?”

“This is literally a shit hole dude. It is a hole, on top of a mountain, that is covered in shit. Animal shit. This is a shit hole. Arti! Are we sleeping in this shit hole?!!” Joe was a little hot.

“Yeah sure,” Arti said. “Is the best campsite on the mountain.”

Too exhausted to argue, let alone trek further on in search of a less-shitty hole to sleep in, we conceded to Arti and let the guys set up camp. We wandered around the ruined outpost and filled our water bottles at the well. It had been a somewhat irksome afternoon hike. Finally, with our packs off and the walking done for the day, Joe and I remembered to appreciate the backdrop to our shit hole campsite. We turned around to find that Arti, Dori and Samir had pitched the tents on the edges of the bowl of our shit hole campsite. Our tents were set-up at about a 45 degree angle.

“Arti man, we shouldn’t set the tents up like that. We don’t want to have them on such a slope,” Joe explained.

“Is not a problem,” Arti reasoned.

“No dude, really. We’ll all end up bunched in one corner of the tent,” I added. “Let’s move them to more level ground in the shit hole.”

“Oh come on Beni,” Dori said. “Is good here. Let’s have a fire. Look, Samir bring out the food.”

Once again we allowed ourselves to be rolled over. It was really our own fault for stepping away to admire the scenery. Joe and I were famished and Samir was going to dominate the bread and cheese we brought if we protested any longer.

The sun fell behind the mountains, wind crept up and quickly grew in intensity, bringing with it a new, bitter coldness. We crowded around the fire, Joe and I silent, too cold and tired to speak in Albanian, while Arti, Dori and Samir chattered over or heads. The smoke from the fire managed to blow in all our faces at once. This was not the therapeutic and meditative campfire that I normally look forward to at the end of a hike. It was time for bed.

The night was restless. The echo effect of the surrounding mountains made a typical thunderstorm into something that sounded ruthless. The rain flowed under our tent making the surface we laid on very cold. Naturally, water leaked inside the tent, dampening us and our sleeping bags. And then there was the severe grade of our tents.

“This is nuts man,” Joe said.

“This is what hell would be for me. Seriously. I’m cold, wet, and….Arti! Move over man! You’ve been rolling over on me for the last three hours.”

“Sorry Beni. I think it is hard to sleep straight on a hill.”

Daylight returned around six a.m. I stared at the ceiling of the tent in a haze of numbness and sleeplessness. I was sandwiched between Joe and Arti, the three of us heaped together in one corner of the tent. I turned to either side to see Joe and Arti in similar trances.

“Joey,” Arti said. “You want drink some brandy?”

“Yeah,” Joe said after a pause. “Let me get a pull off of Skenderberg.”

I watched Joe tip back with the bottle of Skenderberg. Completely spent, physically, psychologically and emotionally, all I could was laugh. Joe lost his composure in response.

“You want a shot?” he offered.

“Oh yeah. Pour me a double.”

I think we were hallucinating at this point.

Dori and Samir rustled next door. I stepped out of our rain-soaked tent and saw that compared to Dori and Samir we had come through the night in pretty good shape. Their tent had collapsed on top of them. Stakes and poles were spread around. Evidence that at one time a tent had actually stood there. Dori and Samir lay under a sheet of not-waterproof tent material. Dori sat up quickly and threw the tent off of him. He was clearly ready to get off the mountain.

The hike down the mountain took two hours. We began above the cloud line and gradually made our way through the fog until the abandoned village, Base Camp and the Devastator came into view. As we came through the clouds the rain returned. Not the downpour from last night, this was a more conventional rain fall. A drizzle compared to what we had slept through. Spirits lightened a little bit at the prospect of returning to base camp and the comfort of the Devastator. Inspired by the weather Arti, Dori and Samir broke into song with a rendition of “It’s Raining Men.” The meaning of the song was lost on the Albanians. They understood the lyrics to be more of a declaration pertaining to the weather.

“It’s raining man!” Dori declared. “Beni, Joey, it’s raining man!”

“It’s raining man! Oh yeah man, it’s raining man!” Samir echoed.

We were wet and getting ever grumpier. But Joe and I couldn’t suppress our laughter.

Our return to Base Camp wasn’t the homecoming that I had hoped for. Flapjacks, bacon and coffee was not waiting for us. We found Papi, his son and the Communist laying around by a smoldering fire. They sat amongst dirty plates and pots, empty beer cans and wine bottles, watermelon rinds, snack wrappers and other evidence of the feast that they had apparently enjoyed the previous night. We found ourselves left with cucumbers, bread and the Albanian white cheese that is similar to feta. Just not very good. Joe and I destroyed a couple cucumber and cheese sandwiches. We looked at each other, squatting on our haunches and munching cucumbers.

“We are so Albanian-looking right now man,” Joe said, shaking his head.

“I think about four months ago I wrote something in my journal about the ‘extreme poverty I saw in this one village where the kids were just squatting around eating raw cucumbers,’ I said.

“That’s when we still felt like observers. Like, it’s easy to have compassion when your sure that you’ll never be like that.”

“Yeah. But they do have damn good cucumbers in this country.”

“Cheers to that,” Joe said. “We got anymore of these things around?”

It had only been two nights. The camping trip had always had an indeterminate end. But now we were desperate for some light at the end of the tunnel. Joe and I spread out in the Devastator, decompressing from the previous eight hours.

“Glorious Devastator. Take me,” Joe implored as he fell back into the seats.

Arti, Dori and Samir showed up and announced that we were now walking to a waterfall. Arti explained that the rest of the Alpinists, whom had apparently not camped in a shit hole, had arrived in Base Camp and were now leading us to a waterfall. We were spent and tried to protest. “Prolong the waterfall trip for a few hours,” we begged. This was all in vain. It was clear that our lack of endorsement was meaningless. The Alpinists and our friends were walking to some waterfall, and while we “didn’t have to come,” people would be “kind of upset” if we didn’t. Joe and I dragged ourselves from the soothing confines of the Devastator. The march to the waterfall took us through the Theth ghost town, past a few restored barns and churches and included a precarious river crossing.

The river was moving pretty fast, swerving between boulders. It was traversed by a rotted wooden bridge, half of which was missing and had been replaced with a fallen log. Arti, Dori and Samir all scampered across the log. I opted to hop across the river from boulder to boulder. Joe wasn’t going to let the Albanians outdo him and opted for the bridge. He made it about halfway across, to the point where the bridge disappeared and he was left with a balance beam across the river. He paused at the edge of the bridge. Joe began to step onto the log just as his other leg broke through the bridge. He fell back, his leg dangling through the bridge, and grabbed the edge of the log. Joe pulled his lower body up through the bridge and made an about face off the bridge. We didn’t even bat an eye after his Indiana Jones moment.

“Well, I think I would have died if I fell through the bridge there,” Joe said calmly.

“At least been hurt kinda bad,” I said.

“Crazy.”

The waterfall was beautiful. Samir jumped around in the glacial water, demonstrating his lack of sanity. The Albanian trio then climbed around on cliffs and tempted death a few other ways, all in an effort to impress a couple of sixteen year-old girls that were hanging around the waterfall.

Back at Base Camp we found Papi and the Communist loading things into the Devastator. We were out of food – after two nights!! – and it was time to leave. Joe and I sprung into action, indiscriminately tossing tents, sleeping bags, pots, sticks, Papi’s son, and anything else laying around into the Devastator. The Old Man and the Doktori appeared out of nowhere – their whereabouts for the previous two days remain a mystery – we piled in, Papi behind the wheel and the Devastator rumbled its way out of Theth.

The drive back to Puke was more or less a replay of our drive into Theth. The Old Man’s enthusiasm for everything returned. He handed out walnuts in the shell to me and Joe. We were starving, but didn’t know what to do with these. Unable to crack them, we stared helplessly at the walnuts in our hands. Seeing our peril, the Old Man snatched them, flashed his million-dollar toothless smile and cracked the walnuts with his bare hands. Seriously.

“Dude has got Old Man strength,” I commented.

“That’s my man,” Joe said.

We made it to Puke. The next morning we reflected on the previous forty-eight hours, and a journey that had seemed like forty-eight days. Joe and I agreed that it had been something we had to record in some way.

“I need some time to digest it all, but I’ve got to write about the whole thing,” I said. “Right now my head is still spinning, Joe replied.”

Two months later, it’s a little dizzying to describe the trip to Theth.

September 28, 2006

Four weeks ago my laptop decided it wasn’t going to turn on. I don’t comprehend mechanical and electronic stuff – by that I mean the entire spectrum. From supercomputers to The Wheel – and I tend to apply human characteristics and personalities to these things. The situation with my laptop I interpreted as a bold display of civil disobedience. This was an altogether unwelcome development. My friend John diagnosed the problem as a computer virus that he characterized as a “worm.” This sounded sinister. Like something the bad guys from a Mission Impossible or James Bond movie might unleash on the world. After three weeks things had not improved, and I was ready to concede the battle to The Worm.

I can happily report that after four days of battle, The Worm seems to have been expunged from my computer. John used everything in his repertoire. All manner of virus killing things, screwdrivers and other miniature tools, and a full-blown exorcism routine. There were priests involved. It was a little unsettling.

So this is the excuse for falling down on the blog postings – I offer my sincerest apologies to my mother and the four other people that have ever read this thing.

I’ve been sleeping outside a lot in the last six months. There have been nights on the beach, and a few spent on porches. And like every summer since I’ve been of driving age, there have been the “camping” trips consisting of nothing more than a group of people taking beverages, not enough food, usually nothing to sleep in, and certainly not toothbrushes, to the top of a hill ten minutes outside of whatever town we’re in.

Exactly a month ago my friend Joe and I returned from a memorable four days of camping. We traveled to Theth, a region in a Northern corner of Albania. On a Thursday we were invited by a friend of Joe’s to go camping over the coming weekend. We left on the following Saturday and spent three nights in the midst of stunning scenery and amongst ridiculous – in generally good ways – Albanians.

The weekend before we embarked on out camping trip Joe was in Lezha. Over lunch he mentioned an ambiguous invitation he had received from his Albanian host father. Leading to an exchange that was unimaginable six months ago.

“So I think I’m going to go camping with Papi next weekend.”

“Oh yeah, where you guys gonna go?” I asked.

“No idea. Papi seemed pretty excited about me coming, and I think he said that we were either going to bring a goat and kill it or capture a wild goat and kill it,” John said with wide, expectant eyes.

“Whoa, I don’t think I’d wanna be around for that.”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen goats killed three or four times now. I’m kinda used to it. They’re tasty when grilled.”

“Oh, well that’s different then.”

We went on discussing the various animals we’ve seen butchered as if we were comparing recent movies.

Papi is Joe’s host dad. He’s something of a big name amongst Albanian mountaineers. Not a huge community of people, but most Albanians that know him would say that Papi likes to climb around in mountains and stuff. He’s quick to show off a tattoo that leads one to believe he was the first Albanian to have reached the summit of Mount Everest. This is slightly misleading. He has been to Nepal, he’s been in some big mountains, but he’s actually only seen Mount Everest from the base camp. But that’s just splitting hairs.

In spite of the possibility that I may be a party to a goat killing – or maybe because deep down I wanted to be a party to a goat killing – I pressed Joe to see if I could tag along. Joe secured my place in the camping trip, and I headed up to Joe’s hometown of Puke on a Friday to rendezvous with Joe and Papi.

The specifics of the trip were still completely hazy. All we knew of the destination was that it was “in the mountains.” We cornered Joe’s English-speaking friend Arti who was going on the trip and tried to nail down when exactly we might return.

“Arti man, do you know when we’re going to get back from the camping trip?”

“Yeah sure.”

“So when.”

“Just after a little bit, not very long.”

“Like how long?”

“C’mon dudes. You know. A few days.”

“How many days exactly?”

“Oh I don’t know two, three,…six, you know just a little bit. Too much questions, lets get a coffee.”

“Okay.”

Foiled by temptation of coffee! Not the first time. And still no straight answer on the duration of the trip. We resolved not trouble ourselves with such details. Just to place our faith and entrust our livelihoods Albania and Albanians. Things have gone good so far. And it’s just a lot less to think about.

Saturday morning. The day of departure. I sit at an outdoor café in Puke enjoying the briskness of the morning, waiting for Joe to show up at the agreed upon time of 9:00. I receive the following string of text messages.

8:45: Hey man, helping pack some stuff. Havn’t left yet might be a little late.

8:50: Did u bring a tent? Don’t know if they have one for us.

8:54: More people here. I’m havn coffee w/ them.

9:12: We had some raki. I call u when in town.

-Raki is this Albanian liquor. It’s like grappa. But hurts more to drink. It’s imbibed at all hours, and is particular popular for breakfast.

9:37: Hey. You. I thought we meet at 9:f0. Where u.

I call Drunk Joe and figure out that he rode into town with Papi, Arti, and apparently some other people that would be coming with us. Puke is a small town. I turn around in my chair and see where the group has congregated. Maybe a hundred feet down the street. Joe spots me and waves too excitedly. Papi jumps in his van, I get up quickly trying to indicate that the half block walk is no problem, but Papi zooms up the street, throws some money at the café waiter – whom I already paid – motions for me to get in the van, and screams back down the street where the guys were milling around.

“Dude, I didn’t know you were just up there. That’s crazy!” Joe blasted at me.

“Yeah, I thought we were going to mee…”

“You have to have a tent man. I don’t have a tent. Papi thought we’d have one.”

“No man. I don’t a tent.”

“Shit dude. Well whatever, I guess we’ll be alright, I’m not sure who these other dudes are, I think they’re coming camping to, I don’t know, they came over to the house, we drank some raki…, for like forty minutes or something, I don’t know man.”

I was starting to feel drunk from standing too close to Joe.

“And,” he rambled on, “Papi is wearing my Chacos.”

“What, you mean those crazy flip-flop things with all the straps?”

“Dude,” said Joe, Taking on a deeply serious tone. “Chacos are awesome for mild hiking. And I’m sure Papi messed up all the straps.”

“That’s just tragic.”

“You wanna get something to eat, I think I burned a hole in my stomach with raki.”

While I had another coffee and Joe sobered up over a bowl of pilaf he filled me in on some new developments. Along with myself, Joe, Papi, and Arti, there were four new additions to the camping party. Arti’s two friends, Dori and Samir, would be joining us, as well as Papi’s fifteen-year-old son, (a squirrelly little guy who seemed kind of afraid to talk to Joe and I. I never nailed down his name). And then there was the Old Man.

“So who’s the old guy?” I asked Joe.

“No idea. He showed up at the house this morning. I’ve never seen him before.”

“Is he coming with us? I mean, He’s pretty old-looking.”

“I think so. He was real excited. Kept hugging me and stuff all morning.”

“That might have been the raki.”

“Entirely possible,” Joe deadpanned.

Some new information had been gleaned as to our destination. Joe had nailed down the name of the place as Theth. It was an area North of Puke, near the Montenegrin border, in the heart of the Albanian Alps. We understood this to be one of the most isolated parts of the country. A place that few people who weren’t Albanian and didn’t live up there would have traveled through. And, rumored to be the last bastion of the notorious Albanian Blood Feuds.

“This sounds almost adventurous,” I said.

“I know man. At the every least we’ll have a good story to brag about. But, it gets even crazier.” He paused for effect. “Papi said that our cell phones won’t even work in Theth,”

“We are badasses.”

“Fuck yeah we are.”

As per standard Albanian operating procedure, we let the stated time of departure come and go. Cruising up and down the only street Puke, we picked up food, fueled up the van, stopped to yell at people on the other side of the street, got ice cream cones, and generally just paraded around for forty-five minutes.

The final stop was the hospital, where we would apparently be picking up the ninth member of the group. We waited outside in the van – Papi laying on the horn – for a guy that we would only know as “Doktori.” That’s not his name. The guy is a just a doctor who they all call “The Docotor”. When we asked who we were waiting for, the answer was simply “The Doctor.” He emerged from the hospital with a few boxes and loaded them into the van at my feet. The boxes contained typical medical supplies, as well as some more disheartening items like syringes and i.v. fluids. Joe and I exchanged “whoa, I hope we don’t need that” glances.

We were on the road. Descending from Puke’s mountain-top location to the coastal lands where we would head North before making a right turn and making the ascent to Theth.

I’m tired. I’m going to bed now. Tomorrow I’m heading to Montenegro for the weekend. I’ll get this story wrapped up and post the rest of it on Monday or Tuesday.

Peace Out.

August 31, 2006

The month of August has seen the return of immigrant Albanians. With all of Western Europe on vacation this month, Albania as a whole is swelling with those family members and friends that have left for greener pastures and have returned home for visits. Walking around Lezha nearly every other car has license plates from some country in Western Europe. (What’s more surprising are the vehicles with American license plates. This seems slightly suspect. The owner of a blue F-150, Michigan plates, number XXS 4732. Your car is in Lezha, Albania. Seriously. I see it cruising around. You’ve got a nice sound system. And rims).

The mass August homecoming has brought with it terrible traffic, a lot of weddings, a run on akullore (ice cream) and beach umbrellas, and Albanians with English accents. Judging by soccer jerseys being worn around Lezha, I’d say that Italy, by far, is home to the majority of Albanian immigrants. But, there are a few that land in England and acquire British English, or, as I’ve been corrected, “the Queen’s English.” Talking to these Albanians is a treat. How does a combination of a tenuous – at best – handle on the English language, a cockney accent, and words like “rubbish, dodgy,” and “trousers,” sound? If you can’t picture it, just rest assured that it is a recipe for comedy.

Only since coming to Albania have I learned that there is a large Albanian immigrant population in my home state of Michigan. Along with the crowd of European immigrants that have shown up this month, a smattering of Albanian-Americans have been around, many from Michigan. The Albanian-Americans are easy to pick out. I’ve seen guys with Detroit Lions jerseys, Detroit Tigers hats, and plenty of Pistons jerseys around town – no hockey jerseys, another indicator of that sports irrelevance.

Sports team paraphernalia aside, the Albanians that have settled in the United States stick out in this country in the same obviously not Albanian way that I do. They look like American tourist families. Picture the typical family of four you might see at Disney World. Mom and Dad lead the way, strolling up the street with their ice cream cones. The teenage kids saunter at the rear, carrying the same air of uneasiness I had during my first week in Albania. They are careful to be just far enough behind their parents that no one will mistake them for being attached to the two middle-aged losers with fanny packs and visors ahead of them who, they most obviously are attached to. The kids are salty towards Mom and Dad. They’ve been brought, against their will, to Albania of all places. They’ve sacrificed what was certainly going to be a most excellent summer back home of hanging at the mall and going to movies. AND, they’re probably staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

This is the scene I was treated to on Tuesday:

Sitting at my usual lunch café, a Mom and Dad walk in and sit down. I immediately identify them as Albanian immigrants. They look worn out. Like “day ten of family vacation” worn out. Dad is mildly pink from the day’s sunburn. Dad’s T-shirt gets my attention. Written across the chest is: “Up North, Sleeping Bear Dunes Michigan.” These people are from Michigan! They have assumed the look of Michigan tourists quite marvelously, and Dad has a T-shirt that, up until now, I had only seen in Northern Michigan. The fame of The Sleeping Bear Dunes has spread to Lezha, Albania! And why shouldn’t it? They are sweet dunes. Mom has on tasteful sunglasses – obviously not bought in Albania – sensible shoes, and is generally dressed like my Mother. In stroll the teenage sons. Mom and Dad perk up in an effort to transfer some positive energy to the kids. The boys, both with the distinctly American chubby teenager body type, are dressed in the baggy shorts and HUGELY too large plain white T-shirt uniform. One has his Tigers cap ever so deliberately a little off center. The other, without a hat, complains, in English, that he forgot his sunglasses.

I’m captivated. I order another coffee and settle in for spying.

“Here, I bought this hat, you can wear this,” his mother replies, in Albanian, pulling out a terribly uncool hat that says “Discover Albania” across it.

“Yeah right mom,” he replies in English. What kind of food do they have here? I’m tired of Albanian food, I hope they have other stuff.

Other stuff?!! Ummm… like maybe rice, Greek salad, yogurt, or meat soup. Oh wait, that’s what every café serves in Albania. Please god, let them ask the waiter if they “make quesadillas or anything.” Better yet, the waiter approaches, and Dad goes…

“Could we have a few menus please?”

The request was made in Albanian, but Menus?!! The word “please”?!! The waiter nods his head, giving the apparent affirmative sign, which of course in Albania means “No.” Dad understands the signal, the kids don’t.

“Oh, alright. Well then, ahhh…what food do you have right now?” he asks.

“Daaaad, he said they have menus. He was about to go get menus,” one son points out.

“That didn’t mean “Yes,” the head nod means “No.”

The parents continue to speak in Albanian, while their grumpy sons reply only in English. Do they speak Albanian? Is this a form of rebellion?

“What? Really? That is so weird,” the younger son says.

“So do they have menus?” the younger son asks?

“No. No menus. We just have to know what to order.”

“I don’t think so Dad. They’ve got to have menus. Ask him again in Albanian. I mean how do know what to order?”

The waiter is now terrified by all the English he has just heard. And I’m watching a group slog through what was a familiar dilemma: What to do when a place doesn’t have menus? I’m glued to interaction. Rapt with wide eyes. Like watching a good movie and eagerly anticipating what will happen next. “Please let the waiter tell them what food they have, please, please, please,” I say to myself.

“So, I’m sorry,” Dad continues – he said “I’m sorry,” I’ve never heard an Albanian say that. “What food are you serving right now?”

“Kemi pilaf me mish, sallat jeshile ose greke, qofte, tasqebab, dhe djathe.” Translation: rice, green or Greek salad, sausage, meat soup, and cheese. All Albanian food. The same Albanian food at every café. Except no yogurt. Just as well. I stay away from the yogurt.

“What he’d say?” One of the sons implores.

“The usual Albanian things. Do you two want that meat soup again? You seemed to like it yesterday.” The sons are incredulous.

“Are you joking? Can we go somewhere else?”

“I think most places will have the same food.”

“Is that the only thing people can get in restaurants in this country?”

That would be yes. I’m tempted to lean over and helpfully inform them that: “actually, on Wednesdays they have the Jack Daniels Ribs and Chicken Dinner. And you must have missed the Applebees on your way into town.”

Dad gives the order to waiter, who was totally unprepared for all of this and is sweating through his shirt. “Kater tasquebab, dye sallat greke, dhe pak djathe lutem. Faleminderit.” Translation: four meat soups, two Greek salads, and a little cheese on the side. A very nice sounding lunch.

“What did you just say to him?” the older son demands.

“I got the tasquebab, the Gree…”

“Is that the meat soup?”

“Yes, and Greek salad, and some cheese.”

“Oh cheese! What a good idea.” Mom interjects, looking hopefully at her sons. The boys slouch into their chairs, sending the message: “what the hell am I doing in this country on vacation with my loser parents, I would so kill for some Taco Bell right now.”

The food arrives and the drama continues to unfold

“I’m not touching that. Just order me a bowl of rice.”

“This is interesting soup, I wonder how they season it? Do you know what that spice is honey?” mom asks.

“That’d be salt, ” Dad responds, breaking his streak of not speaking English. I almost fall out of my chair.

“I think I’ll have a Diet Coke,” Mom declares. The waiter informs them that they of course don’t have Diet Coke, or regular Coke for that matter. He says they do have “cola,” and the table goes in for a round of four colas. The waiter returns with the dubious drink “American Cola.” While American Cola is cleverly disguised in a red Coke-resembling can, it’s flavor has been compared to Nyquil. The four sip their American Colas in unison.

“That’s a different flavor,” Mom says. “But I think I do prefer real Coke.

“Jeeeezuuuuus! What is going on in this country!!” the younger son puts it more bluntly.

Doubled over in laughter at this point, I spill my coffee and spray the sip I had just taken through my nostrils. This is an Albanian family, but they’re not at all Albanian. They have been in America long enough to become Chevy Chase and the Griswolds. In a terrible way, I’ve enjoyed watching other people become frustrated with things that were once frustrating for me. I linger at the café and continue to spy on the family throughout their meal. On their way out I’m spotted. One of the kids glances over and immediately recognizes me as American – much the same way I picked him out. We don’t say anything, just exchange a knowing look.

August 14, 2006

There are these missionaries in town – Mennonite I think, but they could be Mormon – that have a “Dungeons and Dragons” group. They live next door to John, we see them in passing and around town, or we’ll unexpectedly “drop-in to say hi” when John thinks they might be cooking something good. Twice a month a few other missionaries come to town for an evening of the role playing game “Dungeons and Dragons.” John and I have been invited. And now the question is: why is the prospect of playing “Dungeons and Dragons” with missionaries tempting? Why is my first reaction to the D&D group not complete aversion? Five months in Albania, it seems, has brought out some long-suppressed dork tendencies.

I will now proceed to negate any and all chances I had of getting married.

Dungeons and Dragons and I have a brief history. There was a time, around 1990, that I badly wanted to play this game. I mean I was nine, still getting over the Dinosaur obsession, I had friend who talked about all the game all the time, and, it was called “Dungeons and Dragons.” This sounded cool and I wanted in on the action. My dad and I made a few scouting trips to Rider’s Hobby Shop, discovering that there is probably more literature on D&D than there is on the American Civil War. We learned that there is an intimidating amount of stuff this game requires, and – for all the books, guides, magazines, and other materials – it was damningly unclear how one actually played this game. This D&D cult was one that was not going to be easy to join. I think my Dad was happy this was the case.

The thing with these role-playing games is that one doesn’t simply go to the store, open the box, press the Pop-O-Matic bubble and move a little race car or top hat. These games exist in some abstract state. I don’t know if there is a defined beginning and end to the game. I don’t think there is an objective. There is no way to define victory. The closest analogy to D&D may be the “War on Terrorism.” From what I’ve seen, it resembles a Ouija Board séance. People sit around, while the designated instigator makes up some kind of story. The others consider the scenario, at one point a 76-sided dice is rolled a few times, and the ringleader declares whether or not they killed the thing that he just imagined. Then they do it again,…for I think about twelve or thirteen hours. There’s also graph paper involved, but I don’t know why. That’s the game.

This is a game that is not suited to me. I’m set in my ways. I like know what’s coming at me. I was not into improvising with my Legos (the directions clearly show how the thing was supposed to be built, and that’s the only thing you may build with them. You want to build a spaceship? Then you have to go buy the spaceship set). I don’t like imagining a game. I want something concrete in front of me, something with little squares on a board, and clearly defined rules.

So my fling with Dungeons and Dragons came and went. I did at one point own a “starter-kit” that contained a couple of D&D guidebooks. They had a cool picture on the cover, but were about as interesting to read as the dictionary. But still, reeling it in now, I’m tempted to take the missionaries up on their offer and join them for an evening of Fanta soda and Dungeons and Dragons. Clearly, I need: a) a girlfriend; b) a hobby; c) general regard for the impression people may have of me; and, d) a girlfriend.

August 9, 2006

We’ve had no television at my host family’s house for the last week. The actual TV seems to be working, the problem must lye in the coat hanger sculpture my host father constructed that we get reception through. The only channel that comes in right now is the one that shows black and white Albanian Communist propaganda films – we’ve got this channel in America right? Isn’t it part of most basic cable packages these days? In the last few days, when I’ve returned home from work, I’ve been beckoned into the kitchen by my host father. He motions at the TV and makes a variation of a throat-slashing or choking gesture to indicate that his channels still aren’t coming in. I respond, in Albanian, with something like “oh, I’m sorry. That is too bad,” feigning any real remorse.

My host father doesn’t let me get away with merely expressing my grief. I don’t know how, but he seems to have gotten the impression that I should be able to fix the TV. “Oh Beni, Beni,” he says and then points at the TV. “televizor, televizor,” he continues pointing and then makes screwdriver and working-with-tools miming motions with his hands. I get the message. He wants me to investigate the televizor situation more closely, determine the problem, and fix it.

I decide to humor him. I turn around the televizor and carefully inspect the two cords running out of the back. I try to give my host father, who eagerly observes, the impression that I’m methodically analyzing the situation. I’ll poke around at a few little knobs, tug on some wires, then turn around and announce that the televizor has some problem that even I – with my breadth of mechanical and electrical knowledge – can’t fix.

This is not a satisfactory answer. My host father scrambles up from the couch, leaves the room, and returns with a screwdriver, pliers, and some kind of wrench. He offers them and looks expectantly at me. His face pleads to me: “here Beni, will these help you fix the televizor? Please Beni, fix the televizor.” At this point all I want to do is retire to my room for the afternoon nap before dinner. But how can I walk away from such a desperate man? I take the tools, my host father returns to his spot on the couch and watches on, rapt with attention. I try to block his view of what I’m actually doing, that being merely tapping away with the screwdriver, looking contemplative, and making the appropriate motions and noises to give the impression that I’m taking things apart and investigating the televizor situation. After a few minutes I turn around and indicate that the state of affairs is indeed hopeless. even the technologically savvy American can’t figure out the problem.

This was the routine on Monday and Tuesday. After two days of unsuccessfully trying to repair the televizor my host father, who has apparently lost faith in my capacity as a cable guy, has given up his pleas.

I should say that I also miss the televizor. There are a handful of American shows – not necessarily the best in American television – that come on from time to time in Albania. I’ve come to appreciate “Friends,” and am legitimately hooked on “Lost.” And then there’s the show about Superman, except when Superman was in High School and wasn’t really Superman yet, called “Smallville.” I’m a fan. Also, last week I caught some show that I had never seen before. It was an obviously American show. Not a sit-com, but a drama about these middle-aged women. Kind of clever, it held my attention for a good hour. It was “Desperate Housewives.” So yes, I watched that show, and was actually sorry to see it end. So to sum up, since coming to Albania I’ve discovered some real hidden gems of TV shows, including; “Friends, Lost,” and “Desperate Housewives.” Hey, have you heard of this obscure little band called the Beatles? I’m really into them right now to.

August 5, 2006

Happy Birthday Liz!

A final word on the palester. John and I continue to sculpt ourselves a few times a week. Yesterday I noticed that there was a “No Smoking” sign on the walls. “Are they serious,” I thought. “Could people actually come in here and smoke…, at the GYM!” About five minutes after I noticed the sign a guy strolled in, slipped off his shoes, took off his shirt – getting into full workout mode – lit up, and proceeded to do three sets of military presses with his cig hanging out of his mouth. I couldn’t make this up. Priceless.

To complement the rigorous weight training program – I hope the sarcasm came through in that – I’ve been jogging a few times a week. Usually in the late afternoon, when the bogginess of Lezha is not quite so bad, John and I will go on a leisurely thirty to forty minute run. Being stared at is something I’ve gotten used to, and now that I’m armed with a vocabulary that allows me to heckle Albanians back, I don’t mind the attention I draw to myself on these runs.

“Hey American,” someone will yell at me from the side of the road or a passing scooter. “You’re running, American is running!”

“Hey Albanian, you’re right!”

This doesn’t sound like much of a repartee. But not long ago I was reduced to pretending I didn’t hear people or just replying with “good day to you!” or “thank you very much!” Baby steps.

On Monday John and I were on our run, I was pushing myself – out of guilt after a weekend in which I fell off the no smoking wagon. So I’m a little ahead of John, kind of zoned out. Then a dog bit me. I didn’t notice the son of a bitch until it was too late. I looked up and he was standing on the other side of the dirt road, about knee-high, a typical mangy Albanian dog. They’re usually scared of people, I picked up the pace a little bit and tried to be nonchalant, then, for whatever reason, something went off in this dog. He chased me for about ten feet, I tried to give a few awkward sideways kicks while running away, but he managed to get his teeth into the back of my leg, and then ran off.

John didn’t witness the attack, I was bout five minutes ahead. Being a public health volunteer John was ready for action. Like Eagles Scouts and building fires, he was raring to go when the prospect of administering first aid presented itself.

“Hey man, I just got bit by a dog,” I told him as John came trotting around the corner.

“Really! Let me see.”

“He chased me for a little bit, got me on the ba…”

“Oh man. It broke the skin. Okay, this needs to be rinsed, cleaned, sterilized, and we need to put a dressing on it.”

“Yeah, I poured my water bottle on it.”

“You did. Man, we should really use filtered water. Alright, I’ve got filtered water at my place, I think it’ll still be okay.”

So John cleaned me up with only filtered water, emptied a bottle of antiseptic on the bite mark, wrapped, re-wrapped, and re-wrapped again the wound in a mountain of gauze and medical tape.

The prevalence of stray dogs in Albania warrants being called an “issue.” Some people have dogs that sort of hang around their homes, and are maybe thrown some leftover food or scraps. But no one has dogs as pets. Dogs don’t have names,you don’t throw Frisbees or tennis balls around with them, there aren’t really veterinarians in the country, and forget something like a dog-grooming company. Albanian dogs are a nomadic breed. They roam the streets and are part of the cityscape of any village, town or city. They’re always there, and I tend not to notice them the way I wouldn’t pay attention to a pigeon or a squirrel in an American city – having been bitten by an Albanian dog I am now keenly aware of their presence. We all love dogs – they’re just better than cats – and the mangy, homeless dogs in Albania are sad. But not sad in the way that a homeless dog in America makes me think I should help it. Albanian stray dogs are mean, they don’t like people, and the bastards bite.

As I limped home I talked through in my head the different scenarios I foresaw when I described the dog attack to my host family. I probably wouldn’t be able to piece together a description of being bitten by a wild dog – I don’t know the word for “bite.” When my host parents inquired about my bandaged leg, I would probably lead with saying “dog” a few times, pointing at my leg, curling my lips to look snarly, and making a kind of biting motion with my hands. The likely responses ranged from:

Scenario 1:

General freak out and being whisked to the hospital.

Scenario 2:

General freak out and some kind of home remedy.

Scenario 3:

General freak out leading to the organization of a dog hunting party.

I decided to conceal the injury altogether. I got home, gave a quick “hi” to my host mother, hopped up the stairs before she could turn around, threw on some pants, and tried to conceal the limping. After removing the tourniquet of athletic tape and Ace Bandages that John had applied I found that: 1) it was a lot easier to walk, and; 2) the injury was pretty minor.

The run-in has left me with a small scab on the back of my kneecap and a feeling of something between aversion and fear of Albanian dogs. It took six weeks – and being bitten – for me to come around and join the kids that, at the mere sight of any and all dogs, throw rocks, sticks, soda cans, or anything else at them. I’m still running the same route. Everyday I pass a handful of the drifter dogs, and, similar to the Albanian people I run past, most simply seem mystified by the site of the jogging American.

July 31,2006

I miss going to the gym. Sometime between my junior and senior year of college I started working out, and since then going to the gym has been something I did. I’ve never had any particular goal in mind, just to maintain my current level of mediocre fitness. In college going to the gym provided a new form of procrastination, and, one that I could spin to others and in my own head as being productive. After college – when, despite being gainfully employed, I was the most broke of my life and certainly couldn’t afford something like cable – the gym was a place to watch T.V. In hindsight, springing for the cable box would have been cheaper than the gym membership, and I could’ve enjoyed the Food Network in the comfort of my own home.

I like exercising, I’m not self-conscious about sweating, – which I do in abundance – or the different lifting weights faces. I feel good afterward, and, working out earns me at least two beers on credit when I go to the bar that night. I also miss the gym culture. Where to begin with this…

Division of labor: Men and women may use treadmills and bikes. It is acceptable for men to use the Stair Steppers, but it better be one hell of a climb, and efforts should be made not allow the phenomenon to spread. Ellipti-cycle things are for women only. Rowing machines are avoided by most – who can really do one of those things for more then ten minutes? Men use free weights, women use weird machines that certainly don’t do anything – most gyms conveniently segregate weight equipment into a Man Room and a Girl Room.

Etiquette: It’s annoying, and something that has nearly caused me to backhand a woman, but when someone comes over and says “umm, I’m sorry, but I signed up for that treadmill,” you have to relinquish it. However, it is unacceptable to sign up for a machine three hours in the future, and also to demand a particular treadmill if there are other identical treadmills available. Men may work in on sets with a man, and women may do this with women. If you are the one imposing, then it is your responsibility to be ready to work at the pace of the other guy, make note of the other guy’s weight and settings on the machine, and return them to where they were when your done. Bringing you own music and requesting that they play it on the gym speakers is not allowed and should lead to the revocation of membership. Filling up water bottles at the drinking fountains is fine, – get out of the way if there are people waiting – spitting in the fountains is not.

Gyms seem to have different standards when it comes to wiping down equipment after use. This is a practice that I’ve seen each and every person do like lemmings at some gyms, while leaving a small puddle behind is acceptable at others. I prefer to leave this up to one’s own discretion. It’s safe to assume that anyone that is paying ninety-dollars a month to go to a gym three times a week is a well-groomed person and that you won’t contract ring worm if the shoulder-press machine isn’t disinfected every three minutes. On the other hand, you should be aware of your own level of nastiness and wipe down when necessary.

Gym Socializing: I don’t do it. For me, Gym mingling will rarely move beyond a “hi, how’s it goin,” a wave, or a head nod. Outside of the high school girls – easily identified by the butt-sweatpants that say something like “juicy” or have the logo of the college they just visited across the ass – most people seem to be of the same mind as me when it comes to gym socializing.

People Watching: This alone is worth the price of membership. While I don’t talk to people at the gym, I do spy on them. I construct identities for people based on how they work out, the clothes the wear, the magazines they read, and the way they move around the gym. After going to the same gym for maybe a month, I am able to predict on any given day which people will be there, at what time, and what machines they may be occupying. The people I share the gym with, even though I certainly never talk to them, become part of the workout routine. When the middle-aged guy with the fanny-pack isn’t on the stationary bike at 5:30 I’m kind of thrown off rhythm.

It is inevitable that I see other regulars outside of the gym. We may pass on the street or be in the same checkout line at the supermarket. We recognize each other, and, through our mutual spying, we know things about each other. I know how much they can bench press, they know how far I ran yesterday, and we have well-developed opinions – with supporting evidence – about each other’s respective levels of fitness. Better yet is crossing paths in a social situation. I may recognize someone at a bar or restaurant, they recognize me, and we know things about each other that we probably don’t talk about with our friends and current company.

Locker Rooms: As I’ve already discussed, I don’t like to talk to people at the gym, and this is especially true in the locker room. I seem to be in the minority in this regard, but I see the locker room as a place to get dressed and get out.

Last week John, my site mate, and I decided we’d start going to the palester, (gym), in Lezha. As seems to be the case among Europeans in general, Albanians look askance at the idea of deliberately doing exercise. The fact that Lezha has a palester is only outdone by the fact that Albanians actually use it. John and I had heard about a palester in Lezha, had seen the building from the outside, and confirmed through others that there was in fact – on the third, windowless floor of a particularly Stalinist-looking building downtown – a place that Albanians went to exercise. It took five weeks for our curiosity to get the best of us and we decided to check out the palester.

The third floor of the building felt like an attic. It didn’t seem like the type of space that was intended to house people, but I’ve been in a lot buildings in Albania that seemed altogether inhospitable only to find out that I was in City Hall, a hospital, or a school. The palester was divided into two open rooms. One contained weights, machines, and other equipment. The other was an open studio kind of space. It looked like the room that, in America, the resident Tae-Bo or Jazzercise instructor would hold court might. Here, there were a few jump ropes lying around and a broken sit-up thing. The palester was carpeted in what I’m sure was the old Astroturf from Veterans Stadium. The smell…I’d rather not rehash it.

John and I stood just inside the door for a few minutes. There was what looked to be a reception desk directly in front of us. But, where at the Ann Arbor Y there are no fewer than a half-dozen uniformed people clicking away at computers and going over brochures with people, here there was nothing. On the wall was a chart of diagrams of free weight exercises that looked like the things Soviet gymnasts would have been forced to do at a Siberian Olympic internment camp.

We wandered through the palester. There were about twelve guys ranging in age from fifteen to forty pumping iron and one poor bastard struggling with a self-propelled treadmill – why were these things ever made?!!!! There was a marked contrast in gym attire from what John and I were used to in America. Rather than the UnderArmour, BreathRite, Nike, or GoreTex designer stuff, most guys just didn’t wear shirts or shoes.

“Dude, if we start working out here I’m going to bring a bottle of Windex or something to hose this stuff down before we touch it,” said John, the public health volunteer.

“If we start working out here I’m going to wear latex gloves,” I said. “May be I’ll just get a space suit.”

We did start working out at the palester. Our first trip was quickly derailed. We decided that we’d go in the afternoon, in the hope that the no-shirt, no-shoes guys were an after work crowd. We walked in and immediately noticed that there were only women in the palester. John and I could not remain inconspicuous, the needle came off the record, and we were met with a:

“Ahhhhh, djem, djem, djem jeni ketu!!” – boys, boys, boys are here.

The women scurried behind the cubicle partition that was the locker room. We were confronted by a compact woman who proceeded to speak quickly and accusatively at us until we fled. Apparently, for a few hours in the afternoon the palester is for women only. We would have no choice but to share the palester with shirtless Albanian men. Who’s jealous ladies?

There are some things that carry over from American gyms. Every gym in the U.S. has a few guys – it’s only ever men – who, when they lift weights, have decided to sacrifice all form, technique, and safety in favor of throwing up a huge amount of weight, once maybe twice. They pace from end to end for most of the time they’re in the gym, stare down the barbell they’ve decided to dominate, approach their victim, grip the bar, take several big bad wolf breaths, lift the bar, and proceed to writhe, squirm, yell, kick, and almost give birth, before they get one repetition. Afterward they leap up, stare down the lesser men in the gym, and strut around for a few minutes like they just performed something truly impressive before hitting the showers. What a workout!! That would be how every Albanian man lifts weights at the palester in Lezha. John and I are sure we’re going to see some guy get his arms ripped off SNL Hanz and Franz style.

All this being said, having a palester in Lezha is somewhat of a coup. John and I have been going about twice a week – by that I mean once a week – and have been treated to the Albanian gym culture. I still miss going to American gyms with their air conditioning, multiple TVs, nice machines that are actually comfortable to sit in, and attractive people. But I’ve come around to the no shirt no shoes thing. It’s a lot less restrictive, kind of liberating, and….just kidding.

July 12, 2006

After four months, I can usually anticipate an approaching uncomfortable situation involving myself and Albanians. Sometimes these can be avoided, but usually it’s beyond my control and something that I just have to roll with. There have been a few circumstances this week that have left me feeling particularly ill at ease.

The oldest woman I have ever met has been staying at my host family’s house this week. On Monday the mother of my seventy year-old host mother came for what I think is a week-long visit. This is a woman whose grandchildren are my parents age and has great-grandchildren my age. I’ve tried to nail down how old she is but anything that Stergyshe, (great-grandma), has said to me is indecipherable, and neither her children or grandchildren seem to be sure. I’ve gotten ages ranging from ninety and a number in the hundreds that I’m unable to count to or understand in Albanian. She looks every bit of a hundred-and-thirty – although she still gets around pretty well – with apparently only one bad eye, corrected by an inch-thick monocle she wears making her left pupil absurdly magnified. She has a witches nose, long and hooked inward with a wart on the end, like exaggerated stage makeup meant to be seen by people in the fifth balcony.

The family has decided that I need plenty of alone time with Stergyshe. When I’ve been in my usual “Beni wants alone time” spots the last few days Grandma shepherds Stergyshe into the room and sets her up within speaking distance of me. I’ll look up from my book or game of Snake on my cell phone to be met by one enormous eye behind a monocle trying to focus on me. I’m positive Stergyshe finds this at least half as excruciating as I do, but, like me, she is helpless to the whims of my host parents.

I’m not sure of her name and have fallen back on calling her great-grandmother. “Si jeni Stergyshe?” – how are you great-grandma? I ask as clearly as I can. This is met by a giant one-eyed blank stare. We sit awkwardly for a few hours every day, a few brief outbursts from Stergyshe – which I can’t understand but are probably her recollections of the Ottoman Empire – punctuate the silence, I shake my head knowingly.

I do think that Stergyshe likes me. She tends to snuggle up close to me on the couch or at the dining table, doesn’t say much of anything, just hits me with her magnified eye, occasionally petting my shoulder or hand. I never not notice when she’s in the room.

Last Thursday morning a colleague from WV, my NGO work placement, asked if I’d like to get a coffee.

“Sure, where would you like to go Gjovoline?”

“Oh, maybe not now but maybe later Beni, I thought we get coffee and then I can get to know about you, because I have made this my homework when I am not at work to learn more about you and we can talk, okay?” he replied nervously.

“That’s fine Gjovoline, we’ll have coffee today sometime.”

“Yes, this is what I thought also, and then we can talk…..”

Gjovoline really likes to talk to me. At some point every day he’ll corner me at work and talk himself into a circle about the sandwich I’m eating or the shoes I have on. He has an anxious, panicky manner when he speaks English, – it is his third language – but we get a lot further than we would if we spoke Albanian. I do terribly at the office small-talk game in English, in Albanian I can get as far as “it’s hot today!” before I have to flee the situation.

So the day moved along, my coffee date with Gjovoline was still pending at four-thirty when I was getting ready to leave. “Gjovoline, do you want to get coffee after work, or maybe tomorrow?”

“Oh yes Beni, we can go after work today and have coffee maybe we can go and sit and talk with coffee that would be good today after work maybe we will go at seven this is a good time for you to have coffee?”

“Sure, that’s good,” I said, not understanding why this was being put off for two and a half hours.

I killed time over beers with my site spouse John until about six forty-five when Gjovoline drove by. Town was just starting to get lively with the early comers for the evening xhiro, there was good people watching to be had and a leisurely coffee sounded nice. “Where would you like to go Gjovoline?”

“Beni come, get-in, we will go and have a coffee now, we can go wherever you like Beni, get-in the car and we can drive to a coffee, do you think so?”

There were plenty of cafés within walking distance, but Gjovoline seemed to be set on driving somewhere, I wasn’t going to fight this battle. I’m usually pretty good when asked things like “where should we go, what do you want to eat, what movie should we see.” I’m not shy about saying what I’d like to get out of the situation, knowing that replying with “I don’t care,” or “whatever” will certainly lead to the one thing that I had no interest in.

In the car with Gjovoline I hesitated. He gave a few suggestions of places to go, and my fate was sealed as soon as I said “whatever you think is good.” He suggested we drive to the nearby beach town of Shingjin, I went along with the idea. The beach in Shingjin is crowded with hotels, bars, and restaurants, all of which I’m sure serve a fine thimble of espresso. We pulled onto the shore road and began to slowly cruise. At this point I was restless, ready to get out of the car and enjoy a quick coffee before heading home for dinner. We kept driving, to what I assumed was some destination Gjovoline had in mind, talking in our usual way.

“Beni, how are you finding Albania in this time that you have been here with living with families and do you find Lezha to be a good town I think you have lived and seen other cities in Albania do you have family in America that you can speak to about Albania the sea is very nice near Lezha I think….”

“It’s goodGjovoline, things are good.”

“Yes Beni, I think you will find Albania to be a nice place in the summer but winter can might be very cold outside but do you know Beni that the snow does not come to Lezha it is only very cold I think I have heard that snow will come to America in the winter…”

“I don’t like the cold.”

Gjovoline might have been wrapped up in our disjointed conversation, we continued to drive along the shore road for twenty minutes, the hotels and cafés disappeared and the road eventually deteriorated to a dirt path. “So Beni, whenever you find a place that you like we can stop for coffee.”

My reluctance to suggest a venue for coffee had come back to hurt me. Not only had I passed on the opportunity to determine where we would go, but Gjovoline was apparently just going to keep driving until I said “hey, let’s go there.” We might have just driven to Vienna, I’m sure they have good coffee there, hmmmmm.

I said we had better turn back towards civilization and just go to the first place we saw. This turned out to be a grass-roofed, open air beach bar, about twenty feet from the water. Uncomfortable backless chairs that looked like foot rests surrounded a dance floor, a few shirtless guys stood behind the bar, and atrocious euro pop completed the ambiance. Gjovoline and I were the only ones at bar, – why do places have to blast music when no one is there? – they didn’t have coffee, but margaritas were a welcome substitute. We sat on footrests and sipped our umbrella drinks, the music made conversation impossible. I’m sure that Gjovoline was thinking the same thing I was: “why did I ever want to get coffee with this guy?”

July 4, 2006

I realized it was the Fourth of July about thirty seconds ago when I looked at my watch. I announced to my colleague sitting next to me that today is America’s independence day.

“Well then, happy fourth of July American independence from the French day Beni,” he offered rather disingenuously, shaking my hand.

“British.”

“Oh, I have seen that movie ‘Independence Day’ with Will Smith,” another co-worker added.

“But I thought the French were in America?”

“They were around, but I’m pretty sure it was the Brits that…”

“Have you seen that movie Beni? With the aliens and the flying ships? I thought it was a very nice movie.”

“Yeah, I did see ‘Independence Day.’ I’m pretty sure the President flies a fighter jet in that thing.”

“Yeah, awesome man!”

So happy Fourth of July, I hope the fireworks are nice. Moving on…

The form of ADD that I have manifests itself in my impatience with the places that I happen to be living in. It usually takes thirty-six to forty-eight hours for me to get bored with any locale, and begin thinking about where I’d like to go next. When I visit a place I compare it to wherever I’m calling home at the time, and, inevitably, come to the conclusion that I would prefer life in this other place. I could spend a weekend in Paris or in Ohiopyle, Pennsylvania, and in either place I’d walk around town and picture myself living comfortably there.

I make excuses for places that if viewed objectively would be judged unpleasant by most people. “I like that smell. It’s earthy.”

I make distinctions between two places that are pretty much the same town by different name. “Yeah, but the diner in this town has really good home fries.”

I convince myself that I would fit in and really enjoy living in places that I’ve never been to, only maybe heard one good thing about. “I would definitely like Missoula, I mean the fly fishing is supposed to be great.”

Here, my ADD of place has meant that every weekend I’m cutting town for what I am sure of in my mind are the greener pastures of other Albanian cities. Last weekend it was a trip to the village of Puke – technically it’s pronounced “poo-kah,” but how can I not call it Puke. I wish that the humor in this wasn’t completely lost on Albanians. “I have friends that live in Puke,” has become my favorite thing to say in Albanian to people. This is usually met with:

“Actually Beni it’s Poo-kah, you have friends in poo-kah.”

“Right, I know. But in English Puke means…”

“Poo-kah Beni, please it is called poo-kah.”

No fun at all.

The trip to the land of Puke was a harrowing, mountain clinging, two-hour furgon ride along a road that was about six feet wide. The first twenty minutes were scary, then I settled into a calmness of knowing that there was nothing I could do to prevent us from driving off a cliff, which I was sure was going to happen. I attempted an Albanian crossword puzzle from a newspaper left in the furgon while John, who had been left with the dreaded front seat, dug is fingers into the dashboard and wet his pants about seven different times.

John and I crawled out of the van and took in the sights, sounds, and smells of Puke. Surrounded by mountains in every direction, downtown is one windy, up-hill road, maybe four or five blocks long, it dead ends at a hotel, the standard Albanian cafés surround the kind of cul-de-sac turnaround. Furgons congregate in front of the hotel, the drivers filling the cafés, giving the center of Puke the kind of bustling feel of European plazas. Charming would be a stretch, but for all the harshness of the Stalinist architecture Puke is still a pleasant town.

Friday night John, and I and our two friends we were visiting in Puke, Joe and Kevin, made dinner – Kevin brought Mrs. Dash from home. I think I want to marry that woman – and watched futboll at one of the local watering holes. Saturday we spent hiking around the mountains of Puke.

Joe is from Colorado, and lives up to the stereotype I have in my head of a guy from Colorado. He’s into hiking, rock climbing, kayaking, mountain biking, snowboarding, and has all the designer accessories that seem cool until you see the price tag. He seems to have about three dozen different “packs” – he buys these things like my mother buys shoes – including the one with a “bladder” and a little tube that allows him to drink water from his pack the way a calf would suckle its mother’s teat. He also has all the appropriate ultra light, breathable clothes, hiking shoes, shades, thirty-seven carabineers for who knows what, and other accoutrements.

We had with us as our guide a local kid that Joe and Kevin had met named Genci. Genci spoke excellent English, he had gone to school in Austria. He looked, and, when he spoke English, sounded like the German exchange student that lived with us in high school. Joe showed up in full regalia. Water bottles hanging off of everything, a larger than seemed necessary pack, and something that he claimed was chair but was really just two plastic flaps hinged together. This “chair” probably cost more than any piece of furniture I’ve ever owned. Genci came in a typical Albanian uniform of tight jeans, shoes that look like they’re for women, and a WWF Smackdown t-shirt.

We headed off to the mountains for what was a pleasant day of hiking. Ten minutes by foot from the center of Puke and we were in the middle of stunning scenery. As we suspected, Genci was not the best hiking guide. One, Albanians just don’t do things like climb around in the mountains just because. This meant Genci didn’t really know his away around the hills like he gave the impression he did; two, Genci was generally adverse to doing things like walk uphill or veer off the road we were walking on; three, he was wearing women’s shoes.

“Oh Joe, I think maybe this way here is the way to go.”

“I kinda want to get off this road. I see a path up there going into the mountains.”

“Oh yes okay then. Whatever you want to do. But to my opinion walking in the road is more easier, there aren’t as many trees in our way, and we can see the mountains nicely from here”

“Yeah, we kinda want to hike up the mountains for a little bit. It will be nice on the trail going through the woods. What do you think Ben?”

“I’m with Genci on this one. I didn’t bring enough carabineers to go hiking up in the mountains. Can I get a pull off your backpack bladder.”

“You can just go fuck yourself Ben.”

We did manage to trick Genci into hiking through the mountains. He made it clear throughout the day that he didn’t really want to be doing this, but did so in a “I think maybe this would be a good way, but it’s whatever you guys want to do” way. We enjoyed his company, and I enjoyed his German accent.

Mrs. Dash was once again the guest of honor at dinner Saturday night, that woman just makes things delicious. Followed up by more futboll matches in a smoky café, the only kind of nightlife in Puke.

Sunday was rainy. Given Puke’s elevation, it seemed like we were in the middle of rain cloud, adding another variable to our descent from the city back to Lezha. This time we could see about ten feet in front of us, I just closed my eyes and tried to forget where I was. Only four months ago I would read tragic stories buried in the international news section about a ferry that had 800 people crammed on it that sank, or a goat stampede that devastated a village. Stories like these used to seem far off, the prospect of me ever being one of those 800 people on the ferry was inconceivable. After four months in Albania, and several rides in furgons like the ones to and from Puke, the odds seem to be that I’m bound to be a part of some calamity. My name stands a good chance making it into the New York Times, or at least on the CNN scroll bar. So I’ve got that going for me.

June 25, 2006

One week down at my new site of Lezhe. The adjustment curve to living with an Albanian family has been much lower this second time around. Three months ago I showed up at the doorstep of an Albanian family able to say “my name is Ben,” and “thank you.” My language skills now allow me to say things like: “thank you very much; in the morning I eat breakfast; today I went for a walk; I have a pet dog in America;” you can imagine the engaging conversations I’m able to have with Albanians.

Just about every conversation I have with my host family – or any Albanian for that matter – advances to a point where I am no longer understanding what is being said to me or what we’re talking about. In the instances that I’m in over my head, I try to keep up appearances and give the impression that I’m following right along. When the Albanian stops his monologue and indicates that it’s my turn to respond I just fire off a few “mires, shume e mires, pos, kuptojs,” and “ska problems” – “good, very good, yes, I understand,” and “no problem” respectively. In English, the typical conversation I have with an Albanian probably sound something like:

Albanian: Hey Beni, how are you today? Good?

Me: Good, very good, beautiful morning.

Albanian: Beni, what are you doing today?

Me: I am going to work now. Later I will eat lunch. Then I will return to my house.

Albanian: Very good. Hey, did you see the futboll match last night? It was a pretty exciting game.

Me: (hesitating for several seconds, picking out the word “futboll”) Yes, I like futboll, my favorite team is America.

Albanian: Yeah. So how has your time in Lezhe been so far? It’s a nice town, not too small, close to the sea. Have you found the good markets yet? I really like this market down the street, and you should try the café on the corner over there, they do a great pilaf.

Me: (smiling as if I completely understood what was just said to me) Very good, very good, yes, no problem.

This will usually give the poor Albanian that’s trying to talk to me the impression that I’m in agreement with him and we can stop talking about that now, allowing me to escape the conversation.

My host father, who apparently enjoys creating awkward situations, doesn’t let me off the hook as easily. Not only will he continue to prod me with questions, statements, maybe even jokes, that I don’t understand, but he also mocks my propensity for saying “shume mire, kuptoj,” and “ska problem.”

“Oh Beni,” he’ll blurt out whenever I enter a room. And then, barely able to contain his laughter, he’ll add a mocking “ska problem Beni!”

“Si Jeni Baba?” – how are you Baba – I’ll answer.

“Shume Mire Beni! Shume Mire!” Again mimicking my favorite response to any question.

At this point Baba has pretty much brought the house down, Grandma, and whichever of their children and grandchildren happen to be hanging around will double over in laughter. I’m not really bothered by this that much. At least I’m a source of entertainment.

June 27, 2006

A couple of stories from the first two weeks in Lezha.

The Keymaker

John, my site mate in Lezha, and I got a P.O. box in. The Zyre Postare, (Post Office), only gave us one key, this gave John and I the project of figuring out where to go to make a copy of a key. Little tasks, like figuring out when the buses leave, which dyqan, (like a bodega, pronounced “du-chan”), occasionally restocks its shelves, and how pharmacies work – you actually just walk in, say something like “morphine” and they sell it to you – are challenges that offer either a great sense of accomplishment or that of total incompetence. John and I started by trying a few dyqans that had screwdrivers, nails, and other hardware-looking things.

“A mund te ben celes,” – can you make keys? – we would ask. We never got out with a simple “yes” or “no.” We were met with either a drawn out response that left us nodding and smiling, or an interrogation as who we were, where we were from, why we were in Albania, did we like Albania, and would we be interested in marrying someone’s daughter. A few tries yielded directions to a place that we thought could make a copy of a key. We found the appropriate dyqan, inquired about the key, and sure enough, the guy disappeared in the back for a few minutes and returned with copy of our P.O. box key. Success!! We chatted for a minute and the guy didn’t even charge us.

I wasn’t expecting any mail, and hadn’t been to the Zyre Postare yet. I decided yesterday that I’d stop buy just take the celes for a test drive. The key didn’t work, not even close really. It wouldn’t even slide in the key hole, I got down real close to the key hole, examined the key and the slot, turned it over, tried every possible way, nothing. I’m not a locksmith, but this key didn’t seem to be remotely close to the right shape to fit in the key hole. I was literally trying to fit a square peg in a round hole.

Did the “key maker” just find some key he had laying around his shop and pass that off on us? Did he cut this thing with any kind of machine or did he just eye-ball it? I’m glad we didn’t get charged.

Plazh Camping

Last Saturday, myself, John, and four other friends from Northern towns decided to head to the plazh, (beach), in the nearby town of Shengjin, about six kilometers from Lezha on the Adriatic Sea. As the plan came together it evolved into a romanticized vision of a campout on the beach. I want to emphasize that it was, for the most part, a enjoyable day and evening, but also one of those ideas that sounds fun and low-maintenance but comes with unforeseen tribulations that require a good deal of maintenance.

The plan was to hike about 30 minutes to a more secluded beach, spend the day relaxing in the sun and swimming, bring some food and beverages, and build a campfire during the evening to sit around and stare at. Easy, relaxing, stress free

We spent the morning in Lezha doing our shopping. It was one of those situations with too many people trying to do something that really one or two should have been assigned to. No one wants to step on any toes, but getting six people moving in one direction to decide on supplies for the day was frustrating for everyone. We were impatient, it was REALLY hot, and we wanted to get to the plazh, this lead to us not buying nearly enough food, WAY too much wine, and forgetting entirely about water.

The walk to the plazh was hot and sweaty through woods that resembled Northern Michigan. We came over a hill, the trees opened up, and below the dune we stood on spread the Adriatic Sea. If our day had a soundtrack this moment would have required a women’s chorus hitting that one open “Ahhhhhhhh” note. We dropped our loads, kicked off the shoes, and ran towards the relief that water offered. The sand was painfully hot on our bare feet. As we ran our strides changed to a kind of sideways high-step in an effort to make as little contact with the sand as possible, I still think I got first degree burns on my feet.

The water was refreshing, after a frustrating morning we were at the beach enjoying ourselves. At this point it was about 10:00 in the morning. Another oversight was failing to think about how much beach, sun, and heat we actually wanted. I have to confess to being the ringleader and demanding that we get an early start so that we would have the entire day to enjoy the oppressive heat. At about noon, I had had enough sun – it doesn’t even get terribly hot until 3:00, and we have daylight until about 8:00 p.m. – and was ready for a snack, a nap, or, ideally, a combination of the two. Our rushed grocery shopping had yielded two kilos of hotdogs, six rolls, a few apples, five bottles of red wine, and a watermelon. I didn’t want any of that.

A nap in the shade was going to have to be good enough. This didn’t work out because of bugs. Mosquitoes are in Albania in a big way – why do these wretched things only fly around in nice, shady places? I tried ignoring them, mind over matter, but after about forty-five seconds I couldn’t take it – it felt like I was literally being eaten by thousands of little bugs. I grabbed my sleeping bag and spread it on top of my entire body. The solution of hiding under the 30 degree, down sleeping bag almost led to me suffocating. A refreshing, shady nap was not in the cards.

At about 4:00, having weathered most of the afternoon, we were all sick of the heat, starving, and thirsty for anything but the now hot red wine that had been laying around all day. Joe and I decided that we would walk back to town and buy the supplies that we didn’t get the first time. We went to the first dyqan we came to, bought them out of snack food and water, – we drank about half the water on the spot – and indulged in some completely melted ice cream bars – they felt like Capri Sun juice bags, we tore them open and pretty much poured melted ice cream in our mouths.

At about 7:00 p.m. the day began to cool off, the sand was safe to walk on, and the beach was very enjoyable. A final swim, bottles of wine we chilled in the Sea, a campfire, and two kilos of hot dogs to look forward to for dinner. Between the six of us we ate maybe a third of the dogs – at the time of purchase I was grumpy and stepped outside of the dyqan, I accept no responsibility for buying TWO F---ING KILOS OF HOTDOGS! Whatever.

The sun went down, the bugs returned, and we all doused ourselves in a combination of insect spray and insect cream – I prefer the spray. The campfire, as they always are, was truly hypnotizing, the only reason I like camping is because it offers the opportunity to stare at fire. When the wood ran out it was time for bed. We all woke up with the sunrise at about 5:00 a.m., feeling quite disgusted by the combination of sweat, salt water, sunscreen, bug spray, and un-brushed teeth that we had going. None of us slept well and we were ready to get the hell away from the plazh. I mentioned how back home after nights like that one I always had a sloppy breakfast at some grease spot to look forward to. This prompted a comparison of our favorite hangover breakfast joints back home.

“This place in Denver, it’s called the Omelet Palace, but you go for the pancakes. Just delicious.”

“We used to go to the Heritage Diner. Great sassy waitresses, terrible coffee, but they had this one breakfast that consisted of everything on the menu for like three bucks.”

“You remember tearing out of the dorms at about 10:28 Sunday morning, half awake, half drunk, trying to get to the dining hall before they closed the omelet station?”

We shared a furgon back to Lezha with a few guys that smelled slightly worse than us. John and I were home, we pointed the others in the direction of where the furgons congregate, I was glad not to have a few hours in one of those things between me a shower, and a bed.

So, again, a few days later the campout at the plazh can be judged as fun. But, typical of things like sleeping in your car and canoeing, camping on the beach is something that sounds really attractive, but for some reason causes one to overlook the work and discomfort that come with it.

June 11, 2006

Last week in Labinot Fushe before heading to my new home of Lezha. It’s tragic really, it took three months for me and the people in Labinot Fushe to get used to being around each other, and now I’m moving on to be a sideshow in a new town. My departure will leave behind a sizeable void, I’m sure of this. I’ve been trying to let the locals down easy, giving them plenty of advanced notice, and trying to impress upon them that life can carry on without me – admittedly, I’m not sure how. Today I was talking with Edgar, a waiter at our local café, he speaks English.

“Well Edgar, we’ll be gone in a week. I hope to maybe make it ba…”

“Hey! Beni, back up right where you were a second ago.”

“What, did I drop something?”

“No man, when you stand next to the T.V. the reception comes in a lot better. Do you have plans for the rest of today?” Edgar said, only half joking. He was watching a World Cup game.

The World Cup is something I always thought was kind of fun and neat, but it has consumed this country. I’m sure there are plenty of stories in newspapers, magazines, and on T.V. about how life stops in places for these soccer games, – I will not call the game “football,” I know what football is, it’s played in pads and a helmet – Albania is definitely one of those soccer-obsessed places. The pictures you might have seen of the parties in the streets of Germany are sort of similar to the World Cup atmosphere in Albania. Just replace that image with one of men sitting in smoke-filled cafés on plastic chairs, huddled around a little grainy T.V. and trying to direct an American where to stand so the reception comes in better.

What Albania does have, that I doubt happens in Germany very often, are runaway cows. I was a witness to an attempted escape today. I was walking home this evening and I heard what I thought was a gate or a door slam shut behind me. I turned around in time to see a cow lumbering up a driveway, I don’t think cows can run the way a buffalo or rhino can, but this gal had a pretty good head of steam going, faster than I’ve seen a cow move. The fugitive took a hard left out of the driveway, now heading in my direction, two women from the house were in pursuit. The women were yelling something at me, probably “hey, stop that cow!” – a request that I never would have thought would be directed at me, but now seems completely plausible.

I stood for a second as Bessie continued to rumble towards me and the situation changed from “amusing to watch from a distance” to “now I’m a little scared of this thing.” The cow wasn’t moving very fast, and it was just a cow, not a grizzly bear or a moose, but I didn’t like the feeling of being in the path of a large animal. I took evasive action, ran across the street, and watched as the cow trotted a few more feet, got tired, and came to stop to munch some grass. The women caught up, they didn’t feel the need to take the precautionary measures I did, and just grabbed the beast by the horns and lead it back to the pen.

I thought it was an exciting thing to have had a minor role in, not exactly running with the bulls in Pamplona, but a good story that I can inflate later.

June 15, 2006

7:30 a.m.

My last day with the Labinot Fushe host family, tomorrow afternoon I’ll be on my to Lezha. I’ll head into Elbasan today in search of a parting gift for my host family. I hate shopping, in the U.S. I take a sort of NAVY SEAL approach to gift buying. I have a defined target, the necessary reconnaissance has been performed – preferably, someone else has scouted the gift for me – and a clear plan of action that allows me to get in and out quickly and with as little impact as possible. Today, I’m going in blind, more of a guerilla shopping adventure.

There are probably World Cup games this afternoon as well, which I have to admit I’ve managed to get moderately wrapped-up in. Maybe its because it’s the only game in town, but I keep a T.V. schedule of the games in my wallet that lately I’ve planning my days around. A far cry from the weekend itinerary I would set for myself in college around football, but I have been looking forward to watching soccer everyday.

I just stared at that last line for about a minute without blinking…okay, I’m over it now.

I watch soccer games the same way I watch baseball game. I genuinely pay attention for about fifteen-percent of the game, the rest of the time I’m talking about what I had for lunch, the number of people I shared a furgon with, – a new record yesterday, sixteen plus two baby sheep – and trading other amusing stories. The banter between my friends and I is facilitated by the fact that we’re speaking English and no one has any idea what were saying, it’s very liberating. Whichever soccer game may be on at the time is far down the list of reasons I may be sitting in the café. The game functions like a decent jukebox, nice background noise most of the time, a few moments that are kind of nice that add to the overall mood, and a few moments that are completely puzzling and make me consider asking for the bill.

I do have one friend, Joe, who is a genuine soccer fan and actually watches the entire ninety minutes of the game. Joe and I will stare at the same game, watching, what looks to me, guys just pass the ball around the middle of the field. Joe on the other hand will be completely riveted by the game.

“Oh, man!” Joe will say excitedly. “Did you see that?”

“What?” I’ll reply.

“That pass man. It was sick, the guy almost got through.”

“No I missed it. Hey, why does Italy wear blue uniforms? It’s not a color on their flag or anything.”

“What?…Oh, oh, pass it back!” Joe yells at the game.

“I think they need to spend more time moving forward. Hey I think I want some ice cream, what’s the word for ice cream?”

“Dude, it’s the strategy of the game to pass it back. You just don’t understand futboll.”

Joe insists on calling the game futboll, something to do with the rest of the world calling it futboll. That’s not enough for me.

“Oh, I do understand football” I say. “For instance, that particular sport is characterized by the forward pass and advancing the ball down the field. Soccer on the other hand distinguishes itself from football with its general lack of scoring and offense. It is true, I don’t get soccer. But, I do know that there’s a humongous goal down at the end of the field but for the last hour these guys have been knocking the ball around the middle of the field while there is still about a mile and half between them and the goal. I think these guys could stand to watch a little football just to see how much scoring points enhances a game. It might be a little racy for them, what with all the touchdowns, and the tackling might be kind of scary for their little soccer player eyes. And I’m sure they wouldn’t understand that after a guy gets tackled, rather than rolling around on the ground like he just broke his leg in three places, he gets up just to do it again. All in pursuit of scoring a touchdown and getting to dance in the end zone. We like points so much we give teams six, when it could just as easily be one, and let them kick an extra point just for the hell of it. Now, what is the word for ice cream?”

At this point every Albanian in the café is more interested in our conversation than the captivating soccer game.

“Akullore. I don’t why you can’t remember that word, we get ice cream every day. Get me a pistachio. I call it futboll because the rest of the world calls it futboll, and it’s actually played with your feet…”

“Another flaw!”

“Whatever. They can’t just charge down the field, they have set up their offense blah, blah, blah….”

At this point I’ve already left the table to head down to the akullore stand. So that’s how Joe and I have been watching the World Cup.

8:00 p.m.

I decided to go with a baklava for my host family, I think they liked it. We did see a World Cup game this afternoon, I believe it was Trinidad and Tobago versus Saudi Arabia, but I’m probably completely wrong about that. I don’t know what the score was. I also had some hazelnut akullore. DE-lightful.

June 4, 2006

Last Thursday, June 1st, was “International Children’s Day” – I don’t remember June 1st being an International Children’s Day in the United States, but it’s entirely possible I was oblivious to its existence for twenty-five years. Is this like Mother’s day but for kids? Did something happen on June 1st that has something to do with kids? On Thursday afternoon I went with two colleagues from WV, the NGO I work for, to a village to help facilitate the nje i Qershori, (1st of June), celebration at the local school.

The activities at the school did little to shed light on the ambiguity of International Children’s Day for me. The front entrance to the school had a new facade, a cardboard set piece that was painted to look like a stone or castle wall. Above, a “Gezuar nje i Qershori,” (happy June 1st) banner was hung. Still no clues here as to what this day was.

It was about 10:00 a.m., the students had apparently been let out of school and were milling around the school yard with ice cream cones waiting for us to show up with microphones, a stereo, and much to the kid’s delight, an American to taunt. We finished setting up the audio equipment just in time for the village to lose electricity for the afternoon. The ice cream lady had been bought out, and with that pacifier gone the kids were getting restless for whatever kind of presentation was supposed to happen.

My colleague Dana, a woman of mild disposition but with a confrontational streak that seems to be characteristic of Albanian women, had a quick exchange with the Director of the school, a person who seemed to be unconcerned with whatever turmoil may be going on around him, a characteristic of Albanian men.

The story I was able to gather was that the Director knew a guy, who had a friend, who was related to someone, who might have a generator we could use, or something like that. We set off in our NGO-mobile in search of a generator that I thought we had zero chance of tracking down. As I’ve come to realize is often the case in Albania, situations – like this nje i Qershori Festival or our school-yard repair project in Labinot Fushe – that seem to have fallen apart or aren’t getting off the ground at all have a way of salvaging themselves at the last possible moment. In this case, we knocked on a few doors in the village and located a generator in about fifteen minutes. The generator reminded me of a lawn mower engine, mostly because it was started with a pull-cord. The next miracle occurred when a guy pulled up with his furgon, saving us from hauling the generator back to the school.

After a few false starts, we got the sound system up and going and the nje i Qershori festivities commenced. The program included a few songs performed by kindergarten-aged kids, some skits that I couldn’t follow, a pie eating contest, and the attention-grabbing finale of a lip-sync to a Shakira song by a couple of high-school girls. My assignment was to take photos of the whole production for documentation purposes for WV. I stood backstage – just inside the main entrance to the school behind the castle set – for most of the proceedings. Back there with me was a kid holding what I thought were two stuffed pigeon or dove-looking birds. After about thirty minutes I noticed that these birds were in fact alive. I cannot imagine how the kid managed to get his hands on these two birds, but he clutched them until the nje i Qershori extravaganza wrapped up and then threw them out the doorway. The birds seemed pretty stunned and just sort of fell to the ground the way a stuffed bird might have. They wandered around for a minute, got their bearings, and then flew off to a delayed applause.

I left the school still with no idea what exactly “International Children’s Day” was exactly. In this case it was a jumble of songs, skits, pie-eating, and terrified doves being tossed around. The kids love the fact that it involves ice cream and leaving school at 11:00 a.m., the teachers seemed to be okay with this arrangement as well. Actually, after the generator had been emitting gas fumes into the small school’s windowless central hall bringing students back into the school would have been a bad choice – or perhaps a good one. In hindsight, it was really a very similar day to the “assemblies, activity days, field days,” and “half days” that were part of my education. If International Children’s Day is not already on the American school calendar with Columbus Day, Presidents Day, Labor Day, Exceptional Day, Celebration Day, and Eat Ice Cream Day, then it needs to be.

June 7, 2006

The following was inspired by an article in The NewYorker by Jonathan Stern. Does this constitute plagiarism? Experiences of my own and others have been combined.

The Lonely Planet Guide to My Host Family’s Shtepi (House)

ORIENTATION

The layout of My Host Family’s Shtepi is such that even the first time visitor will quickly be able to grasp and navigate comfortably. Upon arrival you’ll first find yourself in a central echo chamber lined on either side with rooms. To the Northwest is the Banjo, a giant shower with a hole in a corner (see “Squatting Exercises”). Southeast of the Banjo sits My Room, directly adjacent to which is the T.V. Room. The former is decorated with the notable prints “Girl Running with a Pack of Unicorns” and “White Tiger Posed in Front of a Solar Eclipse” (see “Visual Arts”). A popular gathering spot for Grandpa and other locals, The T.V. Room offers the opportunity of genuine local interaction and large amounts of Second Hand Smoke.

WHAT TO BRING

Toilet Paper, Toothpaste, and Drinking Water are all considered luxury items in My Host Family’s Shtepi and are not readily available (see “Health and Hygiene”).

WHEN TO GO

The best time to visit is when the weather outside is comfortable and pleasant, as My Host Family’s Shtepi tends to take on the exterior climate, and often magnifies the coldness, heat, or wetness. Visits when Gjyshe is around are highly discouraged, and can result in incomprehensible conversation and lengthy delays (see “Getting There and Away”).

LOCAL CUSTOMS

The population of My Host Family’s Shtepi have roles correlated inversely to what we might expect given their physical health and gender. As a general rule, the older the woman the more time she will spend performing back-breaking labor, while the younger the man the more time he will spend doing absolutely nothing. Meals are taken in The T.V. Room during episodes of “WWF Smackdown, Fiks Fare,” and Italian Soap Operas (see “Cinema”). Don’t be put off by questions regarding income, age, marital status, sex life, weight, and what can sound like shouting matches but are in fact the exchange of niceties. The daily raki session (see “Festivals”) can take the form of a breakfast aperitif or an evening tour de force of which the visitor will have absolutely no control over.

HEALTH

Sexually transmitted diseases are totally nonexistent in the My Room section of My Host Family’s Shtepi. Owing to an intensive, though non-voluntary, program of abstinence. However, visitors should be prepared to encounter really horrible teeth, bad breath, hands that were probably touching the utter of a cow today, and general body odor. While not contagious and easily avoidable for the visitor (see “Medical Services”), all of these things are just gross. Travellers should also be wary of shaking Gjyshe’s hand, as she has a grip that could crack a walnut.

SOCIETY & CULTURE

The inhabitants of My Host Family’s Shtepi tend to be welcoming, overbearing, gregarious, puzzling, warm, meddling, hospitable, and just about any other adjective. This is likely the result of hosting an American (see “History”), which has dominated the lives of residents in recent months. With the end of the American occupation within sight, life will hopefully return to a state of normalcy for the local population.

WOMEN TRAVELLERS

Female travellers will likely be forced into manual labor of some kind, unless you are a guest of mine, in which case it will immediately be assumed that we are dating. The best advice, unless you do in fact want to perform yard work or attend your own Albanian wedding, is to not visit my Host Family’s Shtepi.

DANGERS & ANNOYANCES

While the My Room section may seem like a secure respite from the chaos that can consume My Host Family’s Shtepi, this area suffers from constant barging in and a complete lack of privacy. Blaring music in the form of bad American and European pop, and occasionally, traditional Albanian music has a way of popping up at particularly annoying times.

THINGS TO SEE & DO

In the dynamic My Room section one can take a nap, read Newsweek, or write rambling journal entries. A short walk from My Room brings you to the porch, a spot favored by Grandpa for staring at people and traffic, and by adolescent boys for heckling Americans. Back inside, the South Quarter is home to the Kitchen, a mecca for the foodie tourist. Men can expect service ranging from Turkish Coffee to a full-blown meal, while women will likely be asked to help cook dinner. The lively T.V. Room offers the opportunity to take in an episode of the aforementioned “Smackdown” and “Fiks Fare,” as well as futboll matches and the occasional movie in English, always popular with visitors no matter what the movie. This section of My Host Family’s Shtepi is also the usual venue for smoking and awkward conversation with my host family.

PLACES TO EAT

For an authentic dining experience at My Host Family’s Shtepi, ignore the dining room table and join the locals at the small coffee table in front of the T.V. This is no place for a lingering meal, eat as if it’s the Coney Island Hot Dog Contest. It might sound like your dining companions are choking, they’re just chewing. It’s all part of the ambiance!

NIGHTLIFE

Dinner may occur anywhere from late afternoon to early the following morning at my Host Family’s Shtepi. After which, head to My Room for games of snake on my cell phone or catch the BBC World Service Newsreel. There are occasional unannounced drop-ins by locals, and a favorite activity among foreigners is staring at the stars. Although this last activity is avoided by locals (see “Superstitions”).

SPORTS & OUTDOOR ACTIVITIES

I do pushups sometimes.

EXCURSIONS

A short trip from my Host Family’s Shtepi is the local café. Here, visitors can sample a distinctive menu of pilaf, qofte, mish, and sallate domate. Also nearby are a number dyqans, where tourists can stock up on cookies, candy bars, sugary drinks, cigarettes, and other items that aren’t remotely healthy. Farther a field, outdoorsmen will enjoy the nearby hiking opportunities, although locals will think your crazy for “just going for a walk.”

WILDLIFE

My Host Family’s Shtepi is a veritable petting zoo of chickens, turkeys, cows, and sheep. However, the dog is a mean son of a bitch, arm yourself with a rock or stick when the qen is around (see “Arrival”).

May 28, 2006

After three nights in Tirana I arrived in Lezha this morning for a week-long orientation with the NGO I’ll be working with, I’ll be moving to Lezha for good at the end of June. I had a second go-round today with host family introductions with the couple I’ll be staying with in Lezha. They’re an older couple in their sixties, they have two sons and two daughters who are all grown and no longer live at home. My host father, we’ll call him Don, is the owner of brick factory just outside of Lezha. It is an antiquated factory to be sure, but one that is still in operation. Grandpa seems to still oversee the daily operations of the factory, he looked to be about eighty and I was surprised he still put in days at the factory – he’s actually only sixty.

Things went smoothly in general today. I slipped up at one point, I usually just respond with a “yes” or “good” when I don’t know what is being asked or said to me, today I apparently gave the impression that I was married. This led to a series of questions like “where is she? What does she do? Why is she not here?” The conversation had been going so well, we talked about my family, where I’m from, what I’m doing in Albania, and then I was hit with several questions about some woman. It eventually came full-circle, I backtracked and told Grandma and Grandpa that I am, in fact, not married.

“But Beni. You said you were married.”

“I’m not married, I have no wife.”

“But why did you say you did have a wife?”

“I made a mistake”

“Why”

“I forgot I wasn’t married”

Sound like a reasonable explanation?

May 30, 2006

The last two nights have seen two consecutive dinners with my host Grandparents; this is two more times than I have eaten with my training host family in Labinot Fushe in nine weeks. Each night a different son or daughter has brought their family over to the shtepi for dinner, last night it was a daughter, her husband, and their two sons. It was a nice dinner, one son spoke enough English to get me through the questions that I don’t understand at all and usually just respond to with “mire.” At one point last night Grandpa said something that everyone found hilarious. I laughed along heartily not having any idea why I was, I think it was the perception that I understood what was going on that prompted Grandpa and his Son-in-Law – two men with abundant guts – to stand up, lift up their shirts just exposing their bellies, compare how each was endowed, and then bump their stomachs together a few times. At this point I was genuinely in tears laughing and nearly rolled off the couch.

The family has a large two-story house, it sits on a hill overlooking the brick factory compound, grape vines line either side of the driveway leading up to the shtepi. Unfortunately, I think the grapes are probably grown not make wine, but rather raki, a drink similar to grappa and with hazel – raki deserves its own five-hundred words, I’ll get to this sometime. As I mentioned, the house is large, I have the entire second floor to myself, which has, I think, four bedrooms. Grandma and Grandpa sleep downstairs where there are another three bedrooms, a kitchen, and a large living room with a fireplace, several couches and chairs, and dining table.

There are two small couches in an L-shape in a corner of the kitchen, in the middle of the room is a small coffee table. This arrangement seems to be the favored dining venue over the grand living room that I described, which is complete with a dining table that could easily seat six. Last night, there were seven of us crammed around the kitchen coffee table, it was certainly cozy.

I think that all this has to do with the television that is in the kitchen. It’s not that people are glued to the T.V. during dinner, there’s lively conversation but the T.V. is constantly on providing background noise. Last night we watched some show in English that I’m pretty sure was American. It was about Superman, except it took place when Superman was in High School before he knew he was Superman and he was just Clark Kent, his friends were Lex Luther and Lois Lane. I’ll try to defend myself by claiming that it was just the appeal of watching a show in English, but I kinda got into the teen angst Superman show, I’m definitely watching next week.

May 23, 2006

On Thursday I’ll be traveling to Tirana, the Capital of Albania, for a weekend conference and then will be moving on to Lezha for a week-long site visit in what will be my home after just three more weeks. In Tirana I will also meet my counterpart. Contrary to what the title “counterpart” suggests, this is not some Bizarro Beni, just the guy that will be my supervisor at WV once I start work there. Part of our conference in Tirana includes an anniversary celebration at the United States Embassy. We all have high hopes of this including nice food and drinks, but at the very least I plan on stealing toilet paper, towels, and an ashtray.

For the last eight weeks we’ve heard stories and talked about Tirana the way Fievel and the rest of the mice in “An American Tale” talked about coming to America.

“I’ve heard you can get real hamburgers in Tirana.”

“Hamburgers? Man, I was a talking to a guy who told me about a Chinese take-out place, Mexican food, and a place that has American coffee,…..bottomless cup dude.”

“Doritos, Combos, Pringles…I’m getting light-headed”

“Dark Beer.”

“I’m going to get so fat and drunk in that town.”

“Gjithashtu” – me to – “my friend, gjithashtu.”

That was the conversation Dave and I had last night.

As the Pistons have moved on to the Eastern Conference Finals, I have high hopes of finding some place in the capital to watch basketball – there’s got to be some place where the Embassy Marines watch American sports.

In preparation for meeting with my counterpart I’ve been assigned to transcribe my resume into Shqip (Albanian). All the “action verbs” that I had been coached to pepper my resume with – things like: “consulted, researched, analyzed, networked, oversaw” – have lead to some thorny translation issues. After slogging through this for a few days, I’ve given up on trying to write things like: “Researched and analyzed trends in philanthropy.” My resume has been pared down quite a bit, and don’t think my counterpart is going to be very impressed by the Beni he’ll see on paper. Imagine you were a prospective employer and a resume resembling the following slid across your desk:

Ben

Education:

I went to college

Experience:

I had a job before

Skills:

I can throw a Frisbee

I hope Bizarro Beni speaks English.

May 24, 2006

We had our last Shqip, (Albanian), language class today. Nancy gave each of us large wall maps of Albania, the Texan and I are both map nerds and this was very exciting. After nine weeks of language of class I feel confident in my ability to do things like order food at a restaurant and figure out which bus to take. I can have simple interactions with Albanians, but I’m still pretty helpless once we get past “what’s your name” and “what are you doing.” I tried for about an hour to write something reflective and thoughtful about our struggles and eventual successes with the language, and our whole relationship with Nancy. Instead, I opted to write about a few petty characteristics of Shqip that I find to be peculiar.

In Shqip the words “mengjes, dreke, and darke” mean morning, afternoon, and evening respectively. These words are also used for “breakfast, lunch and dinner,” Albanians have no problem with this word-consolidation, I on the other hand find this unusual. I’ve spent entirely too much time in class trying to impress upon Nancy how weird it sounds in English to say things like :“I wake up in the morning and I eat morning” and “I come home in the dinner in time to eat dinner.” These are things that Albanians say to each other every day.

Whoever is responsible for this language was not one to waste words. Now, I realize that I could probably stand to take a page out of the Shqip brevity book, but the language can seem too efficient. Think of words in English used to express any degree of satisfaction. In spoken Shqip people use “mire” (good) almost exclusively, this covers, “great, nice, awesome, cool, outstanding, alright, etc.,” as well as positive characteristics like “pretty, nice, and fun.” In Albania things are just “mire,” I need some more adjectives in my life. If an Albanian asked me about the movies Shawshank Redemption – love it – and Jerry Maguire – overall positive, though nuanced position – I want to make sure that they don’t get the impression these two are both just “mire” to me. But that’s all I’ve got to work with. What if someone wants me to expound on the Weezer albums Pinkerton and The Green Album!!! These can’t be described with the same word!!!

Moving on to a peculiar aspect that I find endearing. Double negatives are common parlance in Shqip. “Jam i lodhur” means I am tired. Now brace yourself, “NUK jam i PAlodhur” translates directly to I am not without tiredness, or I’m not not tired. Unfortunately, this is understood as someone is, in fact, not tired. I just like double negatives, though the hilarity of saying things like “I don’t not eat rice and beans every night, I’m not not kinda afraid of all the stray dogs in this country,” and “I’m not not licking frogs” is lost on any Albanian.

Last is a minor gripe to be sure. This would be how an adjective or any kind of descriptor comes after a noun. I’ve taken German 1 at least a half-dozen times in middle school through college, I’m pretty sure that this is the way it is in that language, and probably in French, Spanish, Polish, Chinese, and any language but English. But I just can’t wrap my brain around things being called “sandwich ham, water with bottle, book long,” and “aspect annoying.”

That’ll do for tonight, off to Tirana tomorrow.

May 14, 2006

Happy Mother’s Day!

The NGO that I’ll be working with in Lezha, also operates in Elbasan, I spent four days this week shadowing another American at the Elbasan office, his name was Nick. Like myself, Nick is a volunteer, he’s been in Albania for just over a year, my role with the NGO in Lezha should be pretty comparable to what Nick’s is with the organization’s office in Elbasan. Each day I accompanied the NGO’s staff on site visits to small surrounding villages, observing community meetings with citizens and local governments and touring completed school rehabilitation, water, and infrastructure projects. Much to my delight, the NGO has a small fleet of the stereotypical international aid organization white LandRovers with the logo on the side. Riding in these trucks, I definitely had the “well-meaning, humanitarian American, who has a cool ride” vibe going.

On Tuesday I tagged along on a site visit the village of Paper (pronounced “Popper”). I was told that Paper was one of the poorest villages in the Elbasan area, this became evident in just the way the kids were dressed, most did not have shoes. On this day the NGO was there to begin work on a fundraising initiative to raise money for the reconstruction of the local elementary school. I don’t know if Albania is what would be considered a Third World Country, it is still Europe, but the conditions of the school in Paper were about as poor as I could imagine. A two-story concrete building that was literally crumbling, 150 or so kids were crammed in the four or five classrooms in the school that were still the slightest bit hospitable. The rest of the rooms were covered in litter and other debris from the disintegrating ceiling, many were under water which has seeped in through the porous walls. The entire second floor was closed off due to the probability that the floor would collapse.

A large part of the fundraising campaign is directed at individual donors from the United States and Western Europe. The most effective mechanism has proven to be “Sponsor a Child” campaigns. We’re all familiar with the brochures and commercials asking for something like twenty dollars a year to sponsor a specific child. In the case of this NGO, children aren’t actually receiving twenty-dollars, the money that is donated is reinvested into schools, road projects, water and sanitation, and other similar projects in communities. On this day we were in Paper to take photographs of the impoverished kids that will be the faces of the donor campaign. I sat and recorded the names and ages of the terrified Kindergarten through fourth grade kids as they filed through for their mug shots.

On to lighter talk.

For the sake of exercise, the Texan and I try to go on two to three “strenuous” short hikes a week, the criteria is that we want to be sweaty and tired when we’re done. The idea of walking, let along something as radical as jogging, just for the sake of exercise is a foreign concept. Without fail, any Albanian that we bump into on our hikes is very interested to know what exactly we are doing and where we’re going. I’ll transcribe a typical conversation into English.

“Hey, Americans, what are you two doing? You look tired.”

“Yes, we are Americans, we are out walking today.”

“Yes, I can see that, but where are you going? This is a long road, here comes a furgon, let me flag it down for you.”

“No thankyou. We are just walking today.”

“Yes, but why? Do you live in the village down there?”

“No, we live in Labinot Fushe.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but Labinot Fushe is back the other way. You poor Americans, you’ve been walking the wrong direction. Let me call my brother-in-law, he’ll give you a ride back to Labinot Fushe.”

“No thankyou. We like very much to walk this way, then we will return to Labinot Fushe.”

“Why?”

The conversation inevitably leads to this question; why exactly are we out walking for no good reason, only to turn around and return from where we started. Further complicating the matter is that there doesn’t seem to be verb in Albanian for “exercise” or “work-out.” The words “ushtrime, detyra,” and “stervitje” all mean exercise in the sense of “Please complete exercise four in the workbook for homework.” There are words for “fitness,” and “athletic” and things like that, but nothing really useful to describe why you may be out hiking just for the sake of hiking.

The Texan and I have had mixed success with saying “we are walking, and we like to be healthy/fit/athletic/etc.” Sometimes this is accepted, but usually this leads to a response like:

“Well then why on Earth are you out here walking!? This isn’t good for your health, my grandmother has a terrible back because she walked around too much. Please, come to my house and my wife will make you lunch. This will make you healthy.”

Granted, the people that we run into on our hikes are usually traversing the same trail as we are with a load of firewood, hay, babies, chickens, and a gomar, (donkey), loaded with stuff. Walking – or what we call hiking, another verb that doesn’t exist in Albanian – is not a leisure activity. Albanians go on an “ekskursion ne kembe,” – literally an “excursion by foot” – when they have to carry something from one place to another. These are not fun trips.

Thus far the Texan and I have been able to negotiate our way out of any offers for rides – by car or gomar – or invitations for lunch.

May 17, 2006

I had already written the post mortem for our community project. Four weeks ago, after a meeting with the Krjetar (mayor) of Labinot Fushe, we had decided that we would repair the cobblestone courtyard in front of the village school. Since that initial meeting nothing had happened, not in the way of planning, gathering materials, recruiting people to help, nothing. Myself, the Texan, Dave, Chris, and Kevin would occasionally discuss how exactly this was going to happen, but would come around to the same “yeah, we’ll have to get to that tomorrow” resolution.

On Monday we cornered the Drejtor, (director), of the School at the local café, and with the help of Nancy we talked through the project and how we could try to get this thing to happen in the next week. A round little guy with gray hair and a Spartacus chin cleft, the Drejtor began by explaining that he could get the students to gather rocks anytime, but he was waiting for us to show up with the tools and cement that the Krjetar had said he would provide. We replied that we thought the kids were going to get the rocks first, and asked if he and the mayor had met personally about this project. “We don’t have to meet,” Nancy translated, “we already know what we need to do, I just need you to show up with the supplies and the students will go get the rocks.

As we were on the midst of our chat the Krjetar pulled into town with my host Father, Steve, they were riding in Steve’s furgon. The Texan ran out of the café, corralled Steve and the Krjetar and herded them into the café to join our meeting with the Drejtor. The two of them sat across from each other, with Nancy at the head of the table between them. Nancy began: “Projekt ne shkolle me vullnetaret Amerikan…”

She was cut off abruptly by the Drejtor. This began a rapid fire exchange between him and the Krjetar. They went back and forth for about ten minutes, constantly interrupting, and the level and intensity of their voices raising. Nancy seemed to be moderating the discussion to some degree, we had no chance of following the discussion, our heads just moved back forth following the tennis match in front of us.

Steve sat at the end of the table near me, he pulled out his new cell phone and held it out to me for approval. Steve’s new phone is very small, and seems rather petite for man of Steve’s broadness. The delicate phone in his hands reminded me of an SNL skit with Will Ferrel where he drives around in a motorized cart and has some microscopic cell phone. I gave Steve a “shume mire” and a thumbs-up on the new toy.

The meeting came to a close. The five of us were tired from just trying to follow the discourse. Nancy summarized the terms that were agreed upon: tomorrow the Drejtor was going to get the male students at the school to collect rocks; the Krjetar had committed to bring over tools and cement from the Commune Office; and, there would be a couple of eighth grade boys help us with the labor. I was skeptical about the prospect of the students collecting rocks – they like to throw them, but collecting and sorting them I couldn’t envision – and the plan of having eighth grade boys help with the labor seemed particularly dubious. I’m sure middle school-aged boys can’t operate something as sophisticated as a wheelbarrow, and am also certain that a shovel in their hands would just be hazardous.

Two days after our talk with the Drejtor, to our general astonishment, there were rocks piled high in the schoolyard, tools and cement had arrived, and work commenced on the project. After language class we gathered in the schoolyard, the Drejtor rounded up a few guys that looked to be about fourteen, pointed at the spots he wanted to get filled in with new rocks, and then had to leave town for the day to get to a “funeral.” We had two wooden wheelbarrows, a pick axe, a couple hammers like the one that Andy Dufresne used to tunnel out of Shawshank, a railroad tie – and I was worried about shovels in the hands of fourteen-year-olds! – and two shovels that seemed a lot flatter than I remember shovels being, they were more like big spatulas.

The five of us were left to coordinate the project with the students that wanted to help. We started out with a labor force of what seemed like seventy kids. It was chaos, but I loved their enthusiasm, with only five tools and a railroad tie to go around the kids just started digging away and moving rocks by hand. Cement was poured into the sections we excavated and the rocks were placed and tapped down one-by-one. After about five minutes of moving rocks from one pile to another most of the kids moved on to the much more entertaining activity of playing keep away from Dave with the frisbee they stole from his bag. The project came to resemble the union jobs I have seen around Philadelphia, with the four of us – Dave was chasing frisbee thieves all over the village – and two other kids who remained committed to the task working, and about fifteen to twenty “supervisors.”

The work continued to move along, in two hours we were out of cement and had picked through the good rocks, bringing the project to a close. While we lost most of our workers early on, the many elementary-aged spectators did offer constant advice. I had exchanges along the lines of the following with about nine different kids, with approximate English translation.

Kid: Hey Beni, here’s a really nice looking big rock. You guys should use this one.

Me: You’re right, can you put that in the wheelbarrow, how about help us carry these over there?

Kid: Oh, no I can’t.

Me: Why not?

Kid: Hey look! I’m going to go play with that Frisbee!

My favorite was a little guy named Andi. He’s probably ten or eleven and part of the usual gang of kids that always seem to be hanging around whenever we walk through town. Andi comes up and talks to us just like all the other kids, but not in the same admirative way that most young kids do, his is obviously a mocking tone. On this day he was a particular menace. He would do things like come sprinting right up to the edge of the wet concrete, we would all be waving our arms, pleading with Andy not to run across the concrete, and would stop about a centimeter short, and then double-over in laughter. I asked him several times, “Andy, pse ti nuk punon?” – Andi, why aren’t you working – he would motion apologetically at a small scrape on his arm, as if to say: “oh, you know I would, but I’ve got this scrape on my arm, and I’m just not physically up to it.” He would then snatch Dave’s frisbee and scurry up a tree faster than I think a squirrel could. Hurt arm my ass.

Just as we finished the job the kids were called back for after school activities. We realized that had we waited a couple of hours, the kids would have cleared out, we had decided to do this over the two hours in the afternoon when the kids had a break and were loitering around, and able to harass us. I didn’t mind all the spectators, some pitched in a little bit. Dave on the other hand described the atmosphere we had worked in, with a hundred or so fourth through eighth grade Albanian boys running around with his frisbee, as “Hobbesian.” I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, I called Dave on it, guessing he had just heard it once and wanted to flash his vocabulary.

“It’s like, when something, or a situation, is…chaotic,….no order, ….and ahh,” Dave trailed off. “I don’t know, those kids are just crazy, and they stole my Frisbee, I call that Hobbesian.”

I guess.

May 18, 2006

It seems the world of Detroit sports has been turned on its head. Today at the internet café I let out a fairly loud “ohh, what the f----” when I checked up on the Pistons only to find out that, after winning the first two games of their series with Cleveland, they have lost three games in a row and will face elimination from the playoffs tomorrow. This prompted a few heads to turn my way. I attracted yet more attention when I exclaimed: “NO F----ING WAY?!!” after seeing that, one month into the season, the Detroit Tigers possessed the best record in baseball. Most eyes in the café were now one me. In an effort to take my vibe down from “loud, obnoxious American” to “just excited about the Tigers,” I attempted to show the girl sitting next to me that I was just looking at the standings of American baseball teams. I was met with a vacant stare.

May 20, 2006

Unable to find a way to watch the Pistons last night - or this morning as the case would have been - I made a bee line for the internet cafe today. Big sense of relief today to find out that they came away with the game six win.

May 4, 2006

It’s 9:00 p.m.; the power has been out for about five hours. This is a fact of life in Albania, nowhere is there electricity for twenty-four hours a day. I don’t know why, but the Elbasan area in particular suffers from lack of electricity, the city has the capacity to provide electricity for only about eight hours a day. During the better part of the daytime there is no power, surprisingly, it’s not that disruptive of daily life. People simply open their windows to the daylight, most businesses have independent generators, and things like traffic lights aren’t really obeyed anyway. I had not even noticed the lack of electricity during the day until Nancy explained to me last week why all these generators were running all day. My experience over the last six weeks has been that the power reliably kicks in around 6:00 p.m., this is the first time we’ve been without electricity this late into the evening.

Right now the light of my laptop is all I’ve got in the house. I had dinner by candlelight, very romantic indeed, and had no idea what I was eating – not for the usual reason of not being able to identify what was in the stew, tonight was because I literally could not see what was in the bowl. I just went to the bathroom, I’m about sixty-percent sure I hit the Turkish toilet.

My candle’s getting down to the wick, I guess it’s almost bedtime. Real quick, I heard a funny story from the other Asian person in our group, a girl named Lisa. Lisa, a Vietnamese-American, has had an experience similar to John’s, general confusion as to why she insists on calling herself an American. In the village that she is living in she is simply known as “Mulan,” probably the only depiction of Asian people that Albanians are familiar with. Lisa isn’t sure if the people in her village call her this in a joking way, or if they’ve decided that she, clearly, must be The Mulan of Disney cartoon fame.

My cell phone died about an hour ago. I hope I’m able to charge it in time for the weekly Sunday call from Mom and Dad.

May 7, 2006

As we try to get things in order for our school-yard repair project we’ve been trying to meet with people that we’ve picked out as the “mover-and-shakers” of Labinot Fushe – the school director, the mayor, teachers, anyone with a wheelbarrow or tools – and enlist their help. It seems to be a roundly popular idea with people, but we haven’t gotten the “yeah I can help, I’ll be there tomorrow with forty men, tools, cement, rocks, and a blueprint for the project” response that we’ve been hoping for. In a conversation with my host father, Steve, last week he mentioned someone in the village called the “Kryeplaku,” and that we should talk to him about our project. I looked up “Kryeplaku” in my dictionary, the translation was rather mysterious, the word means “Village Elder.”

It took a couple of days of asking around about the Kryeplaku before word got back to him that the Americans wanted to talk to him. He showed up last Friday at the café when we were having our usual afternoon coffee. At first we had no idea who this Albanian guy was that sidled up to our table, introduced himself, and looked at us expectantly – this type of thing does happen nearly everyday. Thankfully, Nancy was with us and introduced the stranger as the Kryeplaku. The five of us released a collective “Ahhhhohhhh” as the light bulbs switched on.

We talked to the Village Elder – a much more interesting title than “alderman,” I think I’ll call him Merlin – for about an hour, mostly about what exactly he is, and briefly about our school-yard project. Disappointingly, Merlin isn’t some kind of oracle or yoda figure that the townspeople come to for advice or approval as the name “village elder” implies, and as I had a hoped he would be. He’s actually just an alderman of sorts, he hears issues from people and brings them to the mayor and the commune council on their behalf, BORING. Obi-Wan Kenobi also wasn’t that old, probably in his forties. He was a big guy, full head of black hair, and the standard kind of Greek/Southern Italian look to him – which I guess is really the Albanian look.

The Great Owl – Secret of Nimh anyone? – liked our project plan –We also learned that he has a daughter living in the United States. At first when I asked where she lived Gandalf replied that it was a “secret.” None of us were sure what this meant, – I figured she must be in the country illegally – after some prying the Wizard revealed that his daughter lived in Atlantic City. He had been there himself, “Atlantic City, shume bukur, po” – very beautiful, yes he offered. I’ve been to Atlantic city, there are a lot of phrases I’d use to describe the place, “shume bukur” is not one of them. Apparently under a spell cast be the Witchdoctor, we nodded and declared in agreement that Atlantic City was, indeed, “shume, shume, bukur.”

“Wow, I must go this Atlantic City,” Nancy said after our meeting with Nastradamus.

“Actually, what I meant by ‘shume bukur’ was ‘sewer-like,’” I said.

“It’s on the coast, there are some beaches that are ok, but it’s really dirty, and unless you gamble there’s not much to do there,” Chris added.

“This place, it sounds like Albania,” Nancy deadpanned.

Ba-doom-ching Nancy!

May 8, 2006

Last Saturday we gathered at the Ministry of Culture Building in the nearby village of Peqin for Culture Day. The Mayor of Peqin invited us to attend the event, which was being held in recognition of “Heroes Day” in Albania, the equivalent of Memorial Day. We filed into an auditorium – in which the seats offered slightly less leg room than the Dumbo ride at Disney World – along with a sizeable crowd of townsfolk for a morning of traditional Albanian music and LOTS of circle dancing. Many of our language teachers were on hand, decked out in dresses and gowns that I have a hard time describing, but if you saw the outfits you would immediately associate them with the Balkans. Lots of fabric, simple, bright colors, kind of heavy-looking, attractive, but not in a light and graceful way. That probably doesn’t help.

The dancers were backed up by the five-piece house band, playing instruments that looked like – but were all called something completely different – a fiddle, a rounder version of a guitar, a recorder, a giant tambourine, and an accordion. The men wore pirate shirts, small red-wool vests, and baggy pants that were tight around the ankles, kind of Riverdance looking but not as shiny. The Music was also hard to give a good explanation of, but when I heard it, it definitely sounded Albanian. The band’s set was one ninety-minute song. Three different guys came out and yodeled along with the music, while the dancers performed an endless circle dance, which I thought looked like a combination of belly-dancing, the hokey pokey, and the robot, in a kind of circular conga line. As I feared the circle dancing turned into a forced participatory activity for all the Americans in attendance.

My favorite musical performer was a guy who played a very small version of a recorder, about the size of kazoo, purely because the musician weighed about three-hundred pounds. When the big guy stepped up to the mic I was expecting him to belt out another yodel song. Instead he pulled out his little recorder, it looked like a normal-sized person playing a toothpick. This little thing could play about three or four notes, and it was incredibly loud. It sounded like someone was playing the bagpipes about a foot away from me. I think it’s a Daffy Duck and Marvin the Martian cartoon where Daffy gets his hands on some huge laser-gun and Marvin just has this little pea-shooter, but it’s really powerful and blows the feathers off of Daffy. That’s what this little kazoo/recorder thing made me think of.

After the song and dance we were ushered through different tables that had been set-up throughout the Ministry of Culture Building, each with a different cultural theme; literature, history, arts and crafts, food, and so on. The tables were all manned by townspeople who were very eager to show off their wares, and it all was very cool. I particularly enjoyed the table with backgammon and dominoes – similar to marbles, before coming here I didn’t know that there was actually a game you played with dominoes. They’re actually not just for lining up and knocking over. I played with a grizzled old guy who probably played a lot of dominoes back when television, music, books, magazines, pictures, pencils, and paper weren’t allowed. He took it easy on me the first game as I figured out the game, and then schooled me as any good domino-shark would.

The Food table was another big hit. Another American, who will remain nameless, asked what I thought was particularly tasty. “Ooo, I’d have to say that kind of lemony custard thing,” I replied.

“Oh, really? I thought that was just okay.”

“What did you like?”

“Oh, I don’t know. To be honest I think the food is better back in the U.S.”

1) We’re at Culture Day; 2) The food is good; 3) I almost decked this guy. And as I’m writing this I’ve decided I don’t want to protect his anonymity. Eric Anthony. There, I feel better now.

May 9, 2006

There’s an office supply and computer store in Elbasan with the regrettable name “Hard and Soft.” I think they’re trying to emphasize that they sell computer hardware and software, and I’m sure it’s only my American friends and I that snicker whenever we walk by the place, but still. Maybe the Mormon missionaries around town share our middle-school sense of humor, but I doubt it.

So, I realized the other day that Hard and Soft had a Visa / MasterCard sticker in their window. This was exciting, I could now purchase the prohibitively expensive D batteries I’ve needed for my radio, and have my financial manager – my Dad – back in the U.S. arrange for payment. In nearly seven weeks this was the only store, restaurant, hotel, furgon, or little girl selling apples that I had seen that would accept a credit card. Even though Hard and Soft would only allow me to spend beyond of my “walk-around stipend” – which literally provides enough money to walk around, and not much else – at an office supply store, I was looking forward to splurging on pens, notebooks, binders, watercolor paints, and of course batteries.

Dave and I stopped in Hard and Soft last Sunday. The D batteries cost three hundred leke for two batteries, only about three U.S. dollars, but still about three times what the gypsies sell them for at the bazaar, and about double what I pay for lunch everyday. I filled my basket with twelve D batteries, nearly all that were on the shelf, and walked up to pay. The woman behind the register spoke a little bit of English. As has been the case in every situation I’ve been in with an Albanian that speaks just some English, rather than talk to each other in either English or Albanian, we play a game of chicken to see how far the other can get in their respective broken second language.

“Miredita, Une kam batteries. A mund te bleu me credit card?” – Good day, I have batteries, can I buy with credit card? I asked.

“Yes, always, you can even pay for things with cards of credit at here.”

“Mire, une kam dymbedhjete batteries. Sa kushton?” – Good, I have twelve batteries. How much?

“Of course, because I will add the price.” She added up the price of the batteries, confirming that each set of two did in fact cost three hundred leke. “The whole price is even one, eight, zero, zero leke. I can even take your credit card.”

“Mire.”

The transaction began to break down when she tried to run my credit card through their machine. She claimed that the machine was “not having ability to like the card.” I wasn’t entirely sure that my credit card was still active, I thought I had it squared away when I left the U.S. seven weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure and its not like I’ve had the bills sent to Albania. She handed me back my card while I had terrible thoughts of my credit rating having been ruined because of some unpaid thirteen-dollar bar tab at Arbor Brewing Company from the night before I left the country.

Dave was fairly certain that the cashier had put the card through the machine backwards, or it wasn’t turned on, or something that was not my fault.

“Yo, yo. A mund te pagoni me credit card tjeter, te lutem?” – No,no. Can you try to pay with the credit card another, please? Dave asked the cashier.

“Yes, I have tried twice, I will try even three times.” She ran my card through again, this time Dave was certain that the magnetic strip was on the wrong side.

“Yo, yo. Ju keni perdoroni nuk mire” – No, no. You have used not good.

“What are you mean?”

“Ahh, credit card, magnetic strip, backwards, turn around, kupton?” Dave mimed out the action of turning the card over. Unfortunately, the words “magnetic strip, backwards, and turn around” had left our poor saleswoman looking very scared. She replied with a slur of extremely fast Albanian, leaving us with our heads hanging and staring helplessly at the coveted D batteries I would clearly not be able to buy.

On the way home we acknowledged that Hard and Soft may have won this battle, but the war for D batteries was not over, and we would return.

April 30, 2006

I got back from a trip to Fier and Berat today. We headed South to Fier on Saturday morning, from there we rode about another forty minutes to Berat, spent the afternoon there, and then headed back to Fier to spend the night there with an American who lives in Fier – pronounced “fear,” our friend “lives in fear.” I was the only one that found this amusing. It was a long day, but a nice trip, made all the better by the pasta salad and barbecue chicken that our host made for dinner. The chicken was just boiled and then tossed around with some sauce, and pasta salad is something that I really don’t even like that much, but just a couple of different flavors made the meal quite extravagant.

Berat is another extremely old city, inhabited for the last four thousand years, and was declared a “museum city” by the government in the 1970’s. As a result the historic town center was spared from the communist urban planning and architecture that seem to characterize most cities in Albania. The big attraction in town is the citadel, sitting atop a severely steep hill in the center of town. The white brick tile-roofed houses that cling to the hillside leading up to the citadel is a pretty well-known image associated with Albania.

There aren’t any clear directions or explanations when you visit sites like the citadel in Albania, you just wander around, if a door’s open you go through it, you can climb all over things, and there’s usually a handful of chunees hanging around. Chunee is word for “boy,” but in a different, more condescending way than the other word for boy, “djale.” We’ve attached the term chunee to a specific kind of boy that the country seemed to be rife with. These would be the boys between the ages of twelve and seventeen, who spend their time loitering around, spitting sunflower seeds, and heckling people that walk by the same way people heckle opposing pitchers warming up in the bullpen. In appearance, chunnees closely resemble the “Jets” and the “Sharks” from “West Side Story,” but are quite a bit less threatening.

I believe that the citadel as it looks today – very fortified and castle-like, kind of like Fort Mackinac on Mackinac Island – was completed in the 1400s, when Berat was a mostly Muslim town and Christians lived within the citadel walls. The citadel was quite a complex, it was really more like a small village, with several churches and homes, some of which people still live in. I walked through one open door and found myself standing in a kitchen with a gyshe, (grandmother), eating lunch.

The Texan and I ran into a group of boys playing soccer, using some ancient ruin as a goal – I’m not going to use the pejorative “chunee” to describe these kids. They were pretty young and didn’t have the fifteen year-old attitude that typifies chunees. We were quickly corralled by our new tour guides and led all over the citadel. They chattered away at us in Alabanian and a little bit of broken English, we responded with our usual combination of broken Shqip, (Albanian), and English – Shqiplish. The boys were very insistent in leading us to a particular corner of the citadel. We rounded a corner and the boys motioned towards a parked Mercedes, we could see two guys sitting in the front seat smoking. The Texan and I stood there for a second with the boys wondering why exactly, when were walking around this ancient citadel/castle, we were interested in these two guys having a cigarette break, we’ve seen this a few times in the last five weeks.

One of the boys tapped on the drivers side window of the car, startling the guys inside, they talked for a second, the boy motioning at the Texan and I. The two men stepped from the car, revealing their attire, bright red and green Hugh Hefner-esqe satin robes. They both wore absurd toupees, one guy tried to straighten his stick-on mustache.

“Miredita,” (good day), “Italian, German?” one guy asked raising his eyebrows at us.

“Yo, jemi American,” I replied.

“Fine, I have little English, no problem.”

The two Sears Catalogue robe models took a few steps from their car, briefly discussed something with each other, and began the show.

“Here in these citadel we may be protected and our religion grow,” said the guy in the green robe gesturing toward the perimeter of the citadel.

“Yes, in this year we must be safe from the persecution from the muslims,” red robe replied. I was impressed with the word “persecution.”

“Lets have a walks around and tour this citadel.”

“Fine.”

And the Texan and I were ushered back through all the homes and churches that we had already seen, this time accompanied by two men in satin robes, toupees, and fake facial hair, giving what seemed like a fairly revisionist history of Christianity and Islam in this city during the Ottoman Empire. After the little introduction we figured that these guys were sort of historical re-enactors – not unlike the dozens of Ben Franklins that wander around Philadelphia harassing people – except it was entirely unclear as to who they were supposed to be, with the robes we figured monks or some equivalent, but that wouldn’t explain the toupees or fake mustache. So they were really neither historical nor portraying anyone in particular or re-enacting anything. The Texan and I stuck with Father Green Robe and Father Red Robe for the comic relief, and were even prepared to pony up the few hundred leke that we thought the “tour” would cost. Surprisingly, we weren’t hit with a fee for something we never intended to buy – which does happen to me daily. Best show I’ve seen in awhile.

May 2, 2006

Just some rambling recaps of the last couple of days.

My host uncle’s wife, Mira, walked in on me in the shower yesterday. This was really not her fault at all. My strategy for conserving the hot water for the duration of my dush has been to turn off the water while I’m lathering up. I didn’t have the door locked, and without the water running Mira just walked in. I’m not really embarrassed, but Mira ran out of there completely mortified, I’ll probably never see her again. Just another chapter in the awkward relationship I have with my host family.

Yesterday was also May 1st, May Day. I had known that we would have the day off from language class and other training, but I had no idea what May Day was, or what it was recognizing precisely. I have since learned that it has something to do with Communism, I don’t know what exactly, but I think it’s on this day that big military parades have traditionally been held. We’ve all the seen the newsreels of Soviet, Chinese, and North Korean troops marching through the public square de jour in perfect formation, complete with tanks, jets, warheads, and thousands of people obediently observing. My reaction to pictures of these parades has always been: “wow, they are really good at marching in a perfect formation. It’s a good thing we fought the British and not these guys in 1776.” I think that’s what May Day is.

With communism fifteen years in Albania’s past, May Day has been kept around to provide a free afternoon for people to head to town to see and be seen. I met up with a handful of other Americans for lunch, after which we settled into a café in a park in Elbasan and enjoyed a few frosty beverages. This particular park includes a bumper car rink, very similar to the bumper cars that are a part of every traveling carnival. The rink in Elbasan is popular, and on May Day in particular, there was a big crowd of people lined up, and plenty of heckling chunees to go along. Tragically, the whole concept of bumper cars seems to be largely lost on Albanians. The bumper cars are loaded up with three or four to a car, the Shakira soundtrack gets blasting, and the vehicles are turned loose. However, in anticlimactic fashion, people spend their ten minutes behind the wheel just driving around in circles. They make a concerted effort to avoid bumping, the thrill of wheeling around a twenty square-foot rink to the sounds of euro pop is, apparently, all people are after. We watched the “bumper” cars for at least an hour and saw not a single collision. After having now gotten over the initial shock and awe at how people drive cars in Albania, this was truly shocking.

Last word for today. I now have a decent enough handle on my shqip, (Albanian), and am able to talk about what I’m doing, what I have done, and what I will do in the future. This also includes the ability to say to a kamarier, (waiter), things like: “I will have the rice with meat; how much does the salad cost; do you have soup,” and so on. However, a frustrating pattern is taking shape. When I order something – in a way that is admittingly akin to the way a four year-old would speak to an adult, but simple and clear nonetheless – my request only prompts confusion.

“Une pelquej supe me pule te lutem,” – I’ would like the chicken soup please – I’ll say. The kamarier stares back at me with the puzzled, helpless expression I give to most Albanians when they speak to me. I repeat myself, and still no acknowledgement of understanding. The kamarier will look to our language teacher, or some other person with us who has already established themselves as being able to speak Albanian, with an expression that says “bail me out please.” They’ll repeat what I ordered verbatim, and then it all becomes clear, it just needed to come from someone else’s lips. I’m sure my shqip is not easy to understand, but when I’m just saying “sallate” – can anyone guess what that is – I feel like the request can be grasped. As I’ve gained what I thought was new independence with the language, this has become especially frustrating.

I didn’t sit down tonight with the intention to bitch and moan for 800 words. Maybe half way through my sixth week in Albania the honeymoon has ended and I’m beginning to get annoyed by little things that, at first, were kind of novel and quaint, and I could just chalk up to being in a very foreign country. But, then again, my biggest grievances are the lack of understanding of my broken Shqip, and the mis-use – or non-use – of bumper cars. I’m sure this pales next to the trauma that Mira went through yesterday.

May 3, 2006

In an attempt to stretch my few remaining leke until Friday, payday, I returned to my host family’s shtepi this afternoon for lunch. I enjoyed a nice green salad, rice soup, and some yogurt while watching the same Italian soap opera that I’ve now seen a handful of times and am beginning to pick up on the plotlines. Frank, my host father’s brother, popped his head in for a second. We chatted just briefly, Frank had a bag packed and was obviously waiting for a ride to stop by the house.

“Mire Beni. Mbaron shkolle sot?” – Hi Beni. Finished with school today?

“Po, pak shkolle sot” – Yes, short school today.

“Mire. A po ben mbadite?” – Good, what are you doing later today?

“Do te lexoj liber, bej pak dyterat, pastaj, do te takoj shoku im ne local. Si jeni? A po ben?” – I’ll read a little bit, do a little homework, then meet my friends at the Lokal. How are you? What are you doing?

“Do te shkoj ne Greqi per punon.”

I sat silent for a second trying to dissect the last thing that Frank had said to me. I had gotten through “I will go to ….” when he gave me a quick “mirepafshim,” kissed his wife and one year-old son, and was out the door. From the living room window I saw Frank climb into a furgon driven by my host father.

Frank’s wife scooped up the baby and walked quickly to her room, closing the door behind her. Grandpa was the next to come into the room. “Ku eshte po shkoj Frank?” – Where is Frank going? I asked.

“Ne Greqi.”

We went back and forth for a few minutes trying to come to an understanding as what “Greqi” was. Grandpa left the room and came back with a travel brochure for Greece, mystery solved. “Pse ka shkuar ne Greqi?” – Why has he gone to Greece?

“Punon” – Work.

“Frank do te punoje ne Greqi?” – Frank will work in Greece?

“Po.”

“Sa gjate? Kush do te largohet ?” – How long? When will he return?”

I didn’t understand the response to my last question. I didn’t catch a number, or the words for “days,” “months,” or “years.” Grandpa repeated his response a couple of times, I think he may have been saying something like: “I don’t know, however long it takes, maybe soon maybe later.” I won’t attempt to transcribe the monologue that followed from Grandpa, but I’m fairly confident that I caught the just of it: “there’s very little work in Albania; it’s hard to find a job, especially in a small village like Labinot Fushe; there’s much more work in Greece, Italy, England, Germany, France, and America; Frank has to leave to Greece to make money.”

The whole story is not one that I haven’t heard or read about before. This was not some “aha, people actually cross borders and leave behind families because of lack of work” moment of clarity for me. But I saw the departure and heard the justification first hand.

In six weeks I have not felt a flicker of resentment from my host family. I can rely on our interactions to be socially uncomfortable, but not because I’m American, and I have stuff like a camera and a computer, and I filter my water, and I have three pairs of shoes. But, after telling Frank fifteen minutes earlier: “oh yeah, just a few hours of school today, I’m having a nice day, I’m just watching this soap opera, I’m going to meet my friends for happy hour later on, oh, and by the way the food your grieving wife just brought me for lunch, shume mire,” smiling like an idiot the whole time, I feel a small tinge of, not so much guilt, more naiveté.

April 22, 2006

Earlier this week The Texan, Dave, Steve, Chris, and I met again with the Mayor of Labinot Fushe to discuss our ideas for potential community projects. A friend of Carl’s, the mayor, was also at the meeting to translate for us. We’ve had several meetings over the last two weeks – due in no small part to the fact that these meetings presented the opportunity to bring happy hour to Labinot Fushe – and had narrowed down our ideas to three.

The Texan’s host father is actually Carl’s brother, since he was a little more familiar with Carl, we decided to let The Texan give a brief summary of each of the three ideas, this proved to be short sighted as our poor translator Ervin, (“Air-Veen”), had trouble understanding the Texan slang. Carl was particularly enthusiastic about an idea to refurbish the courtyard in front of the school in Labinot Fushe, an area about half the size of an endzone with a couple of dirt paths cutting through a front lawn of cobble stones. The courtyard is the only kind of outdoor space for students, and feels more like a middle school cafeteria rather than a playground, just a place to loiter around before and after school that is very clearly segregated by gender. Coming and going from Shkolle every day, I get the same anxieties that I did in sixth grade when I walked through the half auditorium half cafeteria “Cafetorium” at Forsythe Middle School, that the whispers between the girls and the snickers amongst the boys probably have something to do with me. Why are thirteen-year-olds so disarming?

The courtyard’s cobblestone surface is in need of repair, right now it looks like a cobblestone street with a lot of pot holes. This was an idea that amongst the three of us we had decided was not feasible. We don’t know where to get the rocks and other materials, we don’t have any sources of funding, with only eight weeks left in Labinot Fushe it seems like time might be an issue, plus, we agreed that refurbishing a cobblestone school yard would include a lot digging and stuff, we’re all more “ideas men.” To our less than pleasant surprise, Carl assured us that we could coordinate with the Director of the Shkolle to get the students to collect rocks – if this guy can get middle school kids to pick up rocks all day, then I want him facilitating negotiations in Iraq – there were people in the village that could provide technical knowledge in how to lay the stones as well as some labor, and the Commune government could cover any funding that was necessary.

So the meeting was a success. We walked out with a clear idea of what our project will be for the next eight weeks, and Carl gave us some leads as to potential resources in the community. My hope of centering our community project around a drive to get the local café to subscribe to DirecTV in time for the NBA playoffs met with little support. Instead I’ll be stuck with the European Champions League soccer playoffs and the World Cup, wheeeeeee! Go Pistons!

April 23, 2006

8:00 a.m.

Get your maps out, on Friday I received my permanent site placement. After our final eight weeks of training I will move to the city of Lezha (Lay-Jsha), and will work for an NGO. The organization’s initiatives include education, poverty reduction, infrastructure improvement, and the environment. The NGO is, I think, the largest in Albania, and a fairly big name internationally, I’m going to withhold the name of the NGO for now, I’ll call it WV. WV’s primary projects in Lezha are currently the reconstruction of several schools, implementation of social programs for local children, mobilization of local parents into a kind of PTO group, and a program to increase the involvement of women in local affairs and raise awareness of the potential of women – I would characterize this last project as an attempt to move a mountain. My site assignment describes my role as a “capacity building” volunteer. I will assist in the implementation of community development initiatives and provide capacity building support to the staff. So I have no idea what any of that means.

Lezha is a city of about 30,000, just inland from the Adriatic Sea on the Northern coast, maybe twenty miles from the border of Montenegro. The literature I have on Lezha is pretty cursory; the place is really old – around 2,500 years – and its biggest claim to fame is that is the site of the tomb of Skanderberg, the national hero of Albania. The Albanian version of Braveheart, Skanderberg’s place in history is due to him having united the disparate clans of Northern Albania, who spent most of their time fighting each other, and focus on fighting the Ottoman invaders. Quite miraculously, the Albanian clans managed to hold the Ottomans at bay for 34 years until 1466 when they were finally forced to surrender, allowing the Ottomans to continue their spread across the lower right hand corner of the Risk board game. Lezha is the site where Skanderberg initially brought together the clan chieftains and convinced them to come together, I think he may have died in Lezha as well.

Aside from the whole Skanderberg thing, I believe there’s an eighteenth century Illyrian castle in town, some nice beaches and fish restaurants in the nearby port city of Shengjin, and a national park with what my guidebook describes as a “large and varied population of seabirds.” I found a few photos of Lezha on-line, it looks like, ….pretty much what the rest of Albania looks like. It seems to me that the name “Skanderberg” offers tremendous marketing opportunities for the city of Lezha. In the last ten minutes I’ve already thought of two possible names for food shops, “SkanderBurger,” and better yet “SkanderBagel.” I say to Lezha, take a page out of Philadelphia’s book, when you’ve got a historical big name associated with your city just roll with it – Philadelphians are probably wondering if I mean Benjamin Franklin or Rocky. Name and rename everything in the city after Skanderberg, create museums around the guy, dig up some kind of anniversary every month to celebrate that you can attach to Skanderberg. Whatever it takes to convince people that your city is not just a poor man’s Boston, or this case I guess I poor man’s Shkodra?

I’m heading off to a nearby village this afternoon, there are rumors of a pick up basketball game in this town on Sundays. It’s been awhile since I’ve shot hoops, but Dave and I are confident we’re better than any Albanian, and we spent yesterday harassing Nancy about how to talk trash in Albanian. I going to drop “i ndyre” all over the place, it means “nasty.”

10:00 p.m.

Back from hoopin’ in Librazhd. The staring in Labinot Fushe had begun to subside in the last week, until today when I strolled through town in basketball shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers, I felt like I was either naked or wearing a spacesuit.

There was a nice turnout today. Along with Dave and I, three other Americans showed up. We played at an indoor gym at a local school, when we showed up there were a handful of guys awkwardly shooting around with a soccer ball, everyone was very impressed with the basketball that we brought. We anticipated the usual gang of eleven year-old gawkers that tail me just about everywhere I’ve been in this country, but were completely unprepared for the attention that five Americans playing basketball in one place brought. Everyone came out of the woodwork and demanded to play basketball with the Americans – I’m pretty sure we played with every man, woman, and child in Librazhd today. It’s been over four weeks since I really exercised, I walk a lot but it’s not the same, and after four games of basketball I was gassed – then we played what seemed like sixty-seven more games, we could not get a breather all afternoon. We played for about four hours, after the first five games we were ready to wrap things up and head down to a local café, but more people kept appearing eager to run around with us. When we realized that offering the court to other people wasn’t going to work – no one really wants to play basketball – we thought we’d just stop trying to win – actively trying to lose actually – and get booted from the game. Waiting for the Albanians to score eleven points also proved to be futile, and only resulted in one excruciatingly long game. We weren’t going to be able to go anywhere until we played EVERYONE.

As we expected, Albanians seem to be truly dreadful at basketball. It’s a game that no one in the country has ever really played, and that was exactly what it was like to play against these Albanian guys; generally fun, a little too easy, and absolutely maddening when one of their ridiculous shots actually goes in. My favorite opponent of the afternoon was a squat little guy named Orgent – he also had pretty good English and must’ve seen the NBA on T.V., he would say things like “No-Theen but nayt.” Orgent showed up in a mismatched three-piece suit, when he came in the game all he did was lose his jacket and played the whole game in loafers, a vest, and a tie. He shot the ball with two hands, releasing it behind his head, like a soccer player would execute a throw-in. It wasn’t the smoothest shot, most of Orgent’s bullets would ricochet severely off the backboard, rim, or wall and fly back to about mid-court. He wasn’t gun-shy either, as soon as he got the ball he’d get a head steam going, barrel his way down court dribbling the ball at about eye-level, lose track of where he was, get about three feet from the hoop and fire away while everyone else in the vicinity would dive for cover. Truly hazardous

We finally managed to talk people into letting us leave, and just in time, after hour five Dave suggested the following:

Dave: Man, I think we could just make a run for it to the furgon stop.

Ryan: Too risky, we don’t know when those things come. We need a quick and reliable getaway.

Me: (gasping for air) Does anyone have a cigarette?

As I’m writing this I’m remembering that this was a really fun afternoon. I felt like I was suprememly good at basketball today, and the ongoing challenges from the Albanians had nothing to do with a desire to beat Americans at something. I felt like it was out of genuine desire to do something with us – like being a camp counselor when your eighteen, you pick up a stick and start whacking a pine cone and all of a sudden forty kids want to do the same thing. I also have aches in my body that I’ve never had in my twenty-five previous years.

April 25, 2006

Last Saturday instead of the usual morning language class we all gathered in Elbasan for “The Assimilation Station” – which was quickly twisted into the “Imagination Vacation, Assasination Probabtion, Stimulation Inspiration,” and so forth – Language Experience

For the afternoon we were spilt into small groups and were given a list of tasks we had to do around Elbasan, sort of like a scavenger hunt. Groups had to do things like buy groceries, inquire about prices of food and sizes of clothes at the bazaar, ask about movie times, things like that. Every group had an Albanian language teacher with them to bail us out if some merchant got particularly annoyed, but they would only speak to us in Albanian, we were pretty much on our own. After four weeks I felt pretty confident about being able to ask simple questions and navigate a bazaar, but several mitigating factors made for a frustrating afternoon.

To begin with while my simple inquiries seemed to be understood, I was unprepared for the responses, which were nothing like the neat dialogues we’ve been studying in class. “Sa kushton molla?” – how mush does this apple cost – I would say confidently, ready for the stock answer of “nyezet leke” – twenty cents.

“eshte guopa dhbme kupton nyezet e pese, afer erdhe ti kam nuk molle kam ju jibber jabber, jibber, jabber, jibbe, jabber, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Would be the response.

Buried somewhere in that was a price, I think, but after a monologue like that I was helpless. I would come back with: “A mund te paguaj nje molle?” – can I buy an apple.

“Po, ju vishe leke dhe shkoj ne stilolaps hengra i darke kembe qen katerquind paguaj.”

After another slap in the face like that I was demoralized and resolved that I really didn’t want an apple that bad anyway.

To compound the confusion even further is the whole concept of “old leke” and “new leke.” The Albanian currency, the leke, is easy to convert into dollars, one-hundred leke equals one U.S. dollar. A coffee costs thirty leke (30 cents), a sandwich costs one-hundred leke (one dollar), a very decadent meal might run about five-hundred to six-hundred leke ( five or six dollars). These prices are all in “new leke,” as opposed to “old leke” where the conversion was one-thousand leke equals one U.S. dollar. New leke came into to play sometime in the nineties, when the Albanians revalued their currency. However, while prices were appropriately adjusted, it seems that when quoting a price or talking about how much something costs people still talk about prices in old leke.

For instance, when a guy says that a loaf of bread costs one-thousand leke, it actually costs one-hundred leke. The seller knows it costs one-hundred leke, he doesn’t expect anything more than one-hundred leke, he just says that it costs one-thousand leke, just because. This would be like asking “how much does this beer cost?”

“Forty dollars.”

“Cool, here’s five, keep the change.”

“Thanks, have a good night.”

People just quote prices this way. No one can explain it, its just the way it is. Worse yet, sometimes people will quote prices in new leke when they know they’re talking to a foreigner, but only sometimes. Hardly being able to understand what is said in response to my simple questions about prices, let alone the challenge that mathematical pose, have left me with no other option than to pay for everything with ten-thousand leke bills and hope that the seller is honest and gives me correct change. I really have no idea how much I should be getting back. It would be like only paying with one-hundred dollar bills for packs of gum, shoelaces, pencils, etc.

By the end of the assimilation extravaganza our group had successfully accomplished every task on the list, but language skills hardly had anything to do with it. The universal hand gestures and expressions that we’ve all had to employ in non-English speaking countries were the most effective means of communication, much to the chagrin of our language teachers.

I’m on a roll right now, one last story before I wrap up.

There is one other American from my group who will be placed in Lezha along with me. His name is John, he’s about my age and will be working in health education, John is also Asian, Korean-American to be exact. After four weeks John and I hardly knew each other, but with both of us assigned to the same city for the next two years our solidarity formed quickly last week. As an Asian, John’s experiences over the last four weeks have been what he and I both find to be hilarious. His name isn’t really John, so I think its okay to write about a story that he told me – of course he is probably the only Asian person in Albania. I doubt it will be too hard to trace this back to the Asian twenty-something living in Elbasan, it’s not embarrassing or anything, just amusing.

When John first was dropped off at his host family’s house there apparently were some question as to why instead of an American there would be a “Chinese” person living with them. Not at all unlike my experience, John was helpless in trying to converse with his host family, let alone describe that: one, his parents were Korean; two, he was born and raised in Rochester, New York; and three; he is in fact and American. A translator attempted to convey this to John’s host family, but he’s pretty sure that they didn’t buy it, and have just come to terms that through some mix-up they were sent a Chinese kid rather than an American. He gets daily questions about what life is like in China. He described typical dinner conversations as going something like:

Host family member: What is China like?

John: I’ve actually never been to China, I’m from Rochester, New York.

Another host family member: Can you speak some Chinese for us?

John: I have no idea how to speak Chinese, I’ve lived my whole life in America.

Third host family member: Do you live in The Great Wall of China?

John: Yes, I do actually. I also know karate.

Entire host family: (Stunned silence).

I was rolling on the ground when John told me this story, I had to share, sorry John.