Life's a Beach

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.

Goooooaaaaaaal!!

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.

My Host Family's Shtepi

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”).

Life in Lezha

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.