I think I'm going to Puke

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.