Albanian Vacation

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.

I got my twelve sided die

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.

"Ja, I'm here to fix deine kabel"

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.

Who Wants This Dog?!!

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.

The Palester

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.