I was in a state of delirium as the lights clicked on in the cabin. Outside the window, a distinctly European landscape rolled by under the belly of the plane. Fairy tale cottages dotting rolling hills, and immense, snow blanketed mountains. I heard one of us say, “Are those the Alps?” I’m pretty sure they were.
The daylight and the landscape washed away enough of my fatigue to make me think that I could make my transfer without falling asleep in the Munich duty-free. I talked in an intensely gravely morning voice with my sleeping seatmate, not realizing that she was asleep.
“Are you going to Albanian?” A well dressed, and well rested man stood in the aisle of the airplane looking down at me expectantly. I told him that we were, and explained our purpose without going into the nitty-gritty details of the Three Goals of the Peace Corps. He announced himself as an Albanian, living in Tirana. Bells and whistles and alarms began shouting in my brain- ALBANIAN! ALBANIAN! ALBANIAN!
I should explain; while in California, I searched high and low for an Albanian person to talk to about their country, as if I would land in the country and say, "Do you know, that Albanian guy Edgar from Whittier? Yeah, I know him!" And then the country would think I was cool. I even went so far as to post an ad on Craigslist with the title, “Are you Albanian?”* This was all without result. If Los Angeles had Albanians I would have found them. But here I was, face to face with a real Shqiptare.
I began mumbling inanely, wondering if I should use some of the guidebook greetings that I had memorized with flashcards I had made for myself. I thought about asking him if he knew any of the Albanian Hip-Hop that I had listened to on Youtube. I considered asking him if he wanted to circle dance in the cabin of the airplane. Instead I stared at him, opening and closing my mouth intermittently. He introduced himself as Igli, a businessman, who spends half his time between Tirana and Washington, he gave me his card, and told me to let him know if I was in Tirana. He turned on a heel and left.
I sat there for a stunned moment, feeling as if I had just received Jay-Z’s personal number. Albanians are rad. I thought.
*I'm sad to say this is true.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
9- Body Clock
My watch was wrong. It was just outright wrong. It was a series of useless numbers on my wrist that bore no resemblance to the actual time. I got my watch specifically for the Peace Corps. I wanted a watch with a compass. Where most men have an innate infallible compass deep within the primordial recesses of their brain, I have a useless dusty lava lamp in mine. While in California, I had the oceans and the freeways to navigate off of, in Albania, without a sense of direction, I could only assume that I would wander off and be eaten by a bear the second day.
The point is; my watch has an altimeter, barometer, compass, stopwatch, a light, and yet on the plane to Munich, the time was as useful to me as a third elbow. Upon leaving California during daylight savings time, and arriving in Washington D.C. and subsequently sitting on a plane from D.C. to Munich, the time on my watch could not be farther from the actual truth. I decided to neglect changing it until; I finished my journey in Elbesan, Albania. This did not stop me from staring blankly at my wrist for several seconds every few moments, as if I could suss out the actual time, by squinting properly.
Time meant relatively little to me at this point. As far as I could tell it has been 2am on a Thursday morning for the last three weeks. My body shed the need for sleep like a snake wriggles out of its skin. On a long journey, little else matters besides getting where you’re going in one piece, without losing anything important. Time telescopes to become the pain in your feet or the sweat on your brow as you wrestle your overstuffed bag into the overhead compartment, knowing full well that everyone in the cabin is watching... and judging.
Sitting in the darkened cabin of my Lufthansa flight to Munich and punch drunk from lack of sleep and free airplane wine, my new friends Nick, and Ben, and I chattered in giddy whispers about the only thing that mattered, making it to Albania in one piece.
Another passenger drunkenly lumbered up to us, interrupting our conversation and chastised us with a diatribe of her own that went something like this:
“You all should go to sleep. You’re going to be fatigued when the plane lands, because you’re not asleep. That’s why you’re tired… from fatigue* you’ve got to watch out for your body clock,” She then stared vacantly at us and repeated the word “Body clock,” as if the repetition would lend legitimacy to her fictional chrono-vestiage.
We turned to her slowly, eyes bleary with fatigue. We mustered polite smiles, and stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, I was thinking something along the lines of:
“Lady, my body clock has been out the damn window for weeks. I haven’t gotten anything close to sleep since I can remember! The only thing that is allowing me to keep me from spontaneously combusting from fatigue and terror, is chatting AT AN INCREDIBLY REASONABLE VOLUME, with my new friends, coupled with the fact that True Grit is on the in flight movies! You’re fortunate that my friends and I have dedicated ourselves to peace and understanding, because if that was not the case we would surely throw you from this plane over Greenland! And we’ve given up two years of our lives to move to Albania! Albania! I’m going to Albania! AHHHHH! AHHHHH! AHHHH!!!!”
Instead we all dug deep within ourselves to find our inner boy scout, plastered a grin on our faces, and promised to keep it down. She then stumbled back to her seat and promptly passed out... for the good of her body clock. We turned reddened eyes to one another and giggled raggedly. I glanced at my watch for no reason. In California it was 5 P.M. any other week I would be teaching five year olds how to play improv games. I couldn’t wait to set my watch to Albanian time.
* OHHHHHHHH, you get tired from fatigue! I was wondering why that happened!
The point is; my watch has an altimeter, barometer, compass, stopwatch, a light, and yet on the plane to Munich, the time was as useful to me as a third elbow. Upon leaving California during daylight savings time, and arriving in Washington D.C. and subsequently sitting on a plane from D.C. to Munich, the time on my watch could not be farther from the actual truth. I decided to neglect changing it until; I finished my journey in Elbesan, Albania. This did not stop me from staring blankly at my wrist for several seconds every few moments, as if I could suss out the actual time, by squinting properly.
Time meant relatively little to me at this point. As far as I could tell it has been 2am on a Thursday morning for the last three weeks. My body shed the need for sleep like a snake wriggles out of its skin. On a long journey, little else matters besides getting where you’re going in one piece, without losing anything important. Time telescopes to become the pain in your feet or the sweat on your brow as you wrestle your overstuffed bag into the overhead compartment, knowing full well that everyone in the cabin is watching... and judging.
Sitting in the darkened cabin of my Lufthansa flight to Munich and punch drunk from lack of sleep and free airplane wine, my new friends Nick, and Ben, and I chattered in giddy whispers about the only thing that mattered, making it to Albania in one piece.
Another passenger drunkenly lumbered up to us, interrupting our conversation and chastised us with a diatribe of her own that went something like this:
“You all should go to sleep. You’re going to be fatigued when the plane lands, because you’re not asleep. That’s why you’re tired… from fatigue* you’ve got to watch out for your body clock,” She then stared vacantly at us and repeated the word “Body clock,” as if the repetition would lend legitimacy to her fictional chrono-vestiage.
We turned to her slowly, eyes bleary with fatigue. We mustered polite smiles, and stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, I was thinking something along the lines of:
“Lady, my body clock has been out the damn window for weeks. I haven’t gotten anything close to sleep since I can remember! The only thing that is allowing me to keep me from spontaneously combusting from fatigue and terror, is chatting AT AN INCREDIBLY REASONABLE VOLUME, with my new friends, coupled with the fact that True Grit is on the in flight movies! You’re fortunate that my friends and I have dedicated ourselves to peace and understanding, because if that was not the case we would surely throw you from this plane over Greenland! And we’ve given up two years of our lives to move to Albania! Albania! I’m going to Albania! AHHHHH! AHHHHH! AHHHH!!!!”
Instead we all dug deep within ourselves to find our inner boy scout, plastered a grin on our faces, and promised to keep it down. She then stumbled back to her seat and promptly passed out... for the good of her body clock. We turned reddened eyes to one another and giggled raggedly. I glanced at my watch for no reason. In California it was 5 P.M. any other week I would be teaching five year olds how to play improv games. I couldn’t wait to set my watch to Albanian time.
* OHHHHHHHH, you get tired from fatigue! I was wondering why that happened!
8- Host Family Gifts
I kept thinking I want something that says “America,” but not “AMERICA!” It’s really hard to find gifts, which will ingratiate you into another culture at a CVS. I already had a couple of copies of my mom’s books, and a video of my family attempting to speak Shqip*, and I forgot a blanket that I was planning to bring them. Needless to say I needed to show some American gratitude for letting me sleep in their house, and eat their food, while I butcher their language, and take pictures of their stuff**.
I searched through the aisles of the CVS for some food that was particularly American, while not being sold anywhere else. This was difficult, because I’m pretty sure they have M&M’s in The Sudan. I went with Mike and Ikes. They’re sufficiently delicious, while also containing the name of a former president. Perfect. I also bought a package of pizza flavored Combos. I believe that Combos elucidate two undeniable facts about the American condition:
1: We are constantly trying to deliver the concept of “pizza” via more efficient media. It is as if pizza is far too difficult to transport and consume on it’s own. See Pizza Bagels for a perfect example of this phenomena.
2. Pretzels can be wrapped around any foodstuff to make it more enjoyable.
I also picked up a tube of Burt’s Bees lip-gloss and some coco butter*** for the lady of the house. I was not told who would be in my host family, so I thought that I should be prepared for small children.
Buying gifts for theoretical children is difficult. First of all, I couldn’t assume age or gender. To this end, I had to find a gender-neutral child's toy that would not make noise, be used as a weapon, or be construed as a cultural insult. I thought briefly about silly putty, but I had a short nightmare about trying to break through the language barrier, while waving my arms, and yelling in slow, broken English, NO FOOD! DON’T EAT! IT’S TOY! TO PLAY! HOSPITAL! That would be a bad first impression. Several head scratching minutes later, I decided on a stuffed bunny. It was quiet, packable, unable to be swallowed, or taken as an act of war… perfect.
I checked out of the CVS. My bags couldn’t get any heavier.
*The Albanian language. It’s half way between the word “sheep” and “ship.” Fun Fact: Shqip forms it’s own branch of the Indo-European language tree, and bears little resemblance to other languages as it is about as old as Ancient Greek. Translation: not many people speak it. Upon my return I will find a restaurant in which someone speaks Shqip, and take all first dates there, where I will casually rattle off some Shqip. Then, with an air of cool detachment say, “Oh that? Yeah, I speak Shqip. It forms it's own branch of the Indo-European Language…” I would finish the thought, but my imaginary date is already totally making out with me… Like toooootally making out with me.
**Only the stuff that looks super Albanian.
*** I was informed later by my friend Lauren, and literally all of the other female Peace Corps Trainees that coco butter is used for stretch marks, post pregnancy. I thought it just smelled like Coconuts.
I searched through the aisles of the CVS for some food that was particularly American, while not being sold anywhere else. This was difficult, because I’m pretty sure they have M&M’s in The Sudan. I went with Mike and Ikes. They’re sufficiently delicious, while also containing the name of a former president. Perfect. I also bought a package of pizza flavored Combos. I believe that Combos elucidate two undeniable facts about the American condition:
1: We are constantly trying to deliver the concept of “pizza” via more efficient media. It is as if pizza is far too difficult to transport and consume on it’s own. See Pizza Bagels for a perfect example of this phenomena.
2. Pretzels can be wrapped around any foodstuff to make it more enjoyable.
I also picked up a tube of Burt’s Bees lip-gloss and some coco butter*** for the lady of the house. I was not told who would be in my host family, so I thought that I should be prepared for small children.
Buying gifts for theoretical children is difficult. First of all, I couldn’t assume age or gender. To this end, I had to find a gender-neutral child's toy that would not make noise, be used as a weapon, or be construed as a cultural insult. I thought briefly about silly putty, but I had a short nightmare about trying to break through the language barrier, while waving my arms, and yelling in slow, broken English, NO FOOD! DON’T EAT! IT’S TOY! TO PLAY! HOSPITAL! That would be a bad first impression. Several head scratching minutes later, I decided on a stuffed bunny. It was quiet, packable, unable to be swallowed, or taken as an act of war… perfect.
I checked out of the CVS. My bags couldn’t get any heavier.
*The Albanian language. It’s half way between the word “sheep” and “ship.” Fun Fact: Shqip forms it’s own branch of the Indo-European language tree, and bears little resemblance to other languages as it is about as old as Ancient Greek. Translation: not many people speak it. Upon my return I will find a restaurant in which someone speaks Shqip, and take all first dates there, where I will casually rattle off some Shqip. Then, with an air of cool detachment say, “Oh that? Yeah, I speak Shqip. It forms it's own branch of the Indo-European Language…” I would finish the thought, but my imaginary date is already totally making out with me… Like toooootally making out with me.
**Only the stuff that looks super Albanian.
*** I was informed later by my friend Lauren, and literally all of the other female Peace Corps Trainees that coco butter is used for stretch marks, post pregnancy. I thought it just smelled like Coconuts.
7- Leaving Day
It was 9 o’ clock when Ben knocked on my door. I did not punch him in the face as per my threat*. I had to respect, not only his patriotism and devil-may-care attitude, but the fact that he was able to get up before 10. I took off the clothes that I slept in, and threw on some new clothes, which I assumed that I would subsequently sleep in. I thought about making a complimentary cup of Holiday Inn coffee, but I thought better of it, since I had no idea how long we would need to get to the monuments. I also still needed to buy some extra host-family gifts.
We took the bus from Georgetown to Monument Park. Ben is a computer programmer from Oshkosh Wisconsin. He’s one of those guys that you trust immediately, because he starts out sentences with the phrase, “Back in Oshkosh…” You know… those guys. We chatted about pretty much everything, hometowns, Albania, Peace Corps, computers, monuments, families, Albania, friends, Washington, Oshkosh, Los Angeles, and then back to Albania… it always went back to Albania.
A bunch of young children got on the bus. They had accents and sweaters that said, “The British School of America.” When we didn’t know where to get off the bus, a gentleman from India, who worked for the IMF pointed us in the right direction. It may have been the fact that I was leaving the country that day, but it felt as if the world was coming to me, rather than the other way around.
As you walk to monument park, there are a series of smaller monuments, before you reach the big boys. There are monuments commemorating all manner of events which have either passed through my cultural grip, or I never learned about in 11th grade history. There is seemingly a monument for everyone**. Ben and I continued talking:
Eric: I wonder what our next monument will be.
Ben: Back in Oshkosh, we don’t have many monuments.
Eric: Yeah…
Ben: I guess we’ve had a lot of wars.
Eric: We need the wars to get the monuments.
Ben: Yeah, America doesn’t have a problem with going to wars, we have a problem with building monuments.
Eric: That makes sense. Monuments are cool.
We saw the Washington Monument. No matter how many times I see it or how many pictures I’ve seen of iconic American events taking place near it, it’s difficult to not be staggered by it’s grandeur. The flags were at half mast. Neither Ben nor I could figure out why that was.
We walked past the reflecting pool, which was drained and being worked on. We wondered briefly what they found upon draining it. We mounted the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, melting into groups of tourists and field trips and looked at Old Abe for a bit. It’s hard not to be a little more high-minded when Honest Abe is sitting there in his marble chiseled enormity, glowering into your soul. Ben and I stood gaping at Abe for a moment, while we made silently terrified promises to always tell the truth while in Albania.
We took some pictures and went to go shopping for host families.
*I'm full of, if nothing else, idle threats.
*This statue commemorates the brave actions of those who have gone before us, to learn to play the washtub base with their toes. May they long be remembered.
We took the bus from Georgetown to Monument Park. Ben is a computer programmer from Oshkosh Wisconsin. He’s one of those guys that you trust immediately, because he starts out sentences with the phrase, “Back in Oshkosh…” You know… those guys. We chatted about pretty much everything, hometowns, Albania, Peace Corps, computers, monuments, families, Albania, friends, Washington, Oshkosh, Los Angeles, and then back to Albania… it always went back to Albania.
A bunch of young children got on the bus. They had accents and sweaters that said, “The British School of America.” When we didn’t know where to get off the bus, a gentleman from India, who worked for the IMF pointed us in the right direction. It may have been the fact that I was leaving the country that day, but it felt as if the world was coming to me, rather than the other way around.
As you walk to monument park, there are a series of smaller monuments, before you reach the big boys. There are monuments commemorating all manner of events which have either passed through my cultural grip, or I never learned about in 11th grade history. There is seemingly a monument for everyone**. Ben and I continued talking:
Eric: I wonder what our next monument will be.
Ben: Back in Oshkosh, we don’t have many monuments.
Eric: Yeah…
Ben: I guess we’ve had a lot of wars.
Eric: We need the wars to get the monuments.
Ben: Yeah, America doesn’t have a problem with going to wars, we have a problem with building monuments.
Eric: That makes sense. Monuments are cool.
We saw the Washington Monument. No matter how many times I see it or how many pictures I’ve seen of iconic American events taking place near it, it’s difficult to not be staggered by it’s grandeur. The flags were at half mast. Neither Ben nor I could figure out why that was.
We walked past the reflecting pool, which was drained and being worked on. We wondered briefly what they found upon draining it. We mounted the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, melting into groups of tourists and field trips and looked at Old Abe for a bit. It’s hard not to be a little more high-minded when Honest Abe is sitting there in his marble chiseled enormity, glowering into your soul. Ben and I stood gaping at Abe for a moment, while we made silently terrified promises to always tell the truth while in Albania.
We took some pictures and went to go shopping for host families.
*I'm full of, if nothing else, idle threats.
*This statue commemorates the brave actions of those who have gone before us, to learn to play the washtub base with their toes. May they long be remembered.
6- More Staging
After a brief, and somewhat painless “getting to know you” game we began orientation. We discussed a wide range of topics from core expectations, and safety, to squat toilets, health, language classes… then back to squat toilets*.
Eventually, they gave groups of us, large sheets of paper and had us draw our fears**. It’s odd that an exercise, which could be performed by three-year-olds, was enough to make me realize that most people had the same reparations that I did about the Peace Corps, Namely:
-Would I be safe?
-Would I be healthy?
-Would everyone hate me for being American?
-Have I made one of the dumbest decisions of my life?
Regardless of knowing the ins and outs of everyone sitting around me, it was nice to realize that at least they were freaked out about the same stuff as I was. Particularly given my ability to arbitrarily freak out. See the last post for an example. After many months of knowing that I was leaving for Albania, I developed an almost entirely fictional idea of the country that I was going to spend the next two years in. I knew enough generalities to fill up a poorly written Wikipedia page, but after months of waiting, the time had finally come. I was actually leaving for Albania. Like on a plane, and stuff…
That night, a lot of us went out for Indian food, because if you’re in the Capitol of America, and you’re about to leave the country for twenty-seven months, it just makes sense to fill up on Indian food. We went out and we played out own “getting to know you” game.
We drank.
My new friends Ben, Melia, and Lisa ended up in a bar in Georgetown, listening to a Jazz Trio feeling splendidly American, and what's more, entirely anonymous. After a day of staging, all of these folks seemed oddly familiar. As we made it back to the hotel, Ben and I had this conversation:
Eric: Man, it would have been cool to see the monuments. You know, to America-out for a bit before leaving.
Ben: We have some time before we get on the plane.
Eric: Yeah, but I don’t plan on being up that early.
Ben: I’m going to get you up at 9.
Eric: If you do that I’ll punch your face until you die.
Ben: I’m going to get you up at 9. We’re going to see some monuments.
Eric: Well, than I’m going to punch you in the face.
We all ended up playing Uno in the hallway between our rooms until three in the morning.
*We touched on this topic a lot. Wouldn’t you?
**Though I didn’t say anything, I just kept thinking “Show me on the doll where the Peace Corps touched you.” This accounted for a lot of undo giggling on my behalf. To those people I apologize.
Eventually, they gave groups of us, large sheets of paper and had us draw our fears**. It’s odd that an exercise, which could be performed by three-year-olds, was enough to make me realize that most people had the same reparations that I did about the Peace Corps, Namely:
-Would I be safe?
-Would I be healthy?
-Would everyone hate me for being American?
-Have I made one of the dumbest decisions of my life?
Regardless of knowing the ins and outs of everyone sitting around me, it was nice to realize that at least they were freaked out about the same stuff as I was. Particularly given my ability to arbitrarily freak out. See the last post for an example. After many months of knowing that I was leaving for Albania, I developed an almost entirely fictional idea of the country that I was going to spend the next two years in. I knew enough generalities to fill up a poorly written Wikipedia page, but after months of waiting, the time had finally come. I was actually leaving for Albania. Like on a plane, and stuff…
That night, a lot of us went out for Indian food, because if you’re in the Capitol of America, and you’re about to leave the country for twenty-seven months, it just makes sense to fill up on Indian food. We went out and we played out own “getting to know you” game.
We drank.
My new friends Ben, Melia, and Lisa ended up in a bar in Georgetown, listening to a Jazz Trio feeling splendidly American, and what's more, entirely anonymous. After a day of staging, all of these folks seemed oddly familiar. As we made it back to the hotel, Ben and I had this conversation:
Eric: Man, it would have been cool to see the monuments. You know, to America-out for a bit before leaving.
Ben: We have some time before we get on the plane.
Eric: Yeah, but I don’t plan on being up that early.
Ben: I’m going to get you up at 9.
Eric: If you do that I’ll punch your face until you die.
Ben: I’m going to get you up at 9. We’re going to see some monuments.
Eric: Well, than I’m going to punch you in the face.
We all ended up playing Uno in the hallway between our rooms until three in the morning.
*We touched on this topic a lot. Wouldn’t you?
**Though I didn’t say anything, I just kept thinking “Show me on the doll where the Peace Corps touched you.” This accounted for a lot of undo giggling on my behalf. To those people I apologize.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
5- Staging
Remember that first day of High School, where you walked around attempting to maintain an aloof air of detachment while secretly hoping that someone would come out of nowhere like a scud missile and declare you their new best friend? Remember being so painfully aware of your own idiosyncrasies that you find your self debating the validity of the advice, “just be yourself”? Remember meeting your best buds and mortal enemies for the next two years? Yeah, the first day of staging was just like that.
I spent the first half of the day thinking the following:
-Why am I so red and sweaty?
-Is my bag weird looking?
-My vest makes me look like a gay cowboy, but my shirt was wrinkled, and it covers up the sweat stains.
-That guy is looking at me. He hates me.
-Is there going to be free food?
-I hope that I filled out my forms correctly.
-Why do I need to list so many emergency contact numbers?
-Do I need life insurance… they know that this is the PEACE corps right?
-I DON’T SPEAK ALBANIAN!
-That lady is looking at me. She hates me.
-Seriously, why am I so red and sweaty?
-I think I need to pee, but I don’t want to because I might meet someone new at the urinal and then I won’t get a quality first impression… Or a quality pee.
-All of these people have real degrees, as well as international experience… I should lie to all of them about both of those things.
-I really want to take this vest off, but I believe that I have sweat through my shirt.
-I shouldn’t have gotten a haircut. I look like Harry Potter.
-I look like a sweaty gay cowboy version of Harry Potter. Crap.
-Why is that dog looking at me? That dog hates me.
Needless to say, I was just a tad nervous to meet the 41 people that would be joining me in Albania for the next two and a half years. I was fortunate to arrive at staging a night early, where I met some other volunteers, but the day of staging was one of the more terrifying days of my life.
The first part of the day was registration, a sadistic process of filling out and turning in complicated forms*. If you neglected a single section or didn’t date a signature, you were mercilessly sent to the back of the line. The line was long too. I was sent to the back of the line four times, and was amongst the last to register. In my defense, one of those times was because that I had the wrong form. Still, every single time that I went to the back of the line, I doused my shirt with another coat of nervous sweat, as if everyone were looking at me, thinking he can’t even fill out the forms… and he looks like a gay cowboy version of Harry Potter.
When I finally turned in the forms, the girl behind the desk said, “You’re officially a Peace Corps Trainee, you can make yourself a name tag,” while gesturing triumphantly to a sharpie and pad of sticky name tags. I have never been more proud to slap a nametag on. I picked up the sharpie and I wrote with pride.
I took a seat and we began.
*Incredibly simple forms, I just kept messing them up.
I spent the first half of the day thinking the following:
-Why am I so red and sweaty?
-Is my bag weird looking?
-My vest makes me look like a gay cowboy, but my shirt was wrinkled, and it covers up the sweat stains.
-That guy is looking at me. He hates me.
-Is there going to be free food?
-I hope that I filled out my forms correctly.
-Why do I need to list so many emergency contact numbers?
-Do I need life insurance… they know that this is the PEACE corps right?
-I DON’T SPEAK ALBANIAN!
-That lady is looking at me. She hates me.
-Seriously, why am I so red and sweaty?
-I think I need to pee, but I don’t want to because I might meet someone new at the urinal and then I won’t get a quality first impression… Or a quality pee.
-All of these people have real degrees, as well as international experience… I should lie to all of them about both of those things.
-I really want to take this vest off, but I believe that I have sweat through my shirt.
-I shouldn’t have gotten a haircut. I look like Harry Potter.
-I look like a sweaty gay cowboy version of Harry Potter. Crap.
-Why is that dog looking at me? That dog hates me.
Needless to say, I was just a tad nervous to meet the 41 people that would be joining me in Albania for the next two and a half years. I was fortunate to arrive at staging a night early, where I met some other volunteers, but the day of staging was one of the more terrifying days of my life.
The first part of the day was registration, a sadistic process of filling out and turning in complicated forms*. If you neglected a single section or didn’t date a signature, you were mercilessly sent to the back of the line. The line was long too. I was sent to the back of the line four times, and was amongst the last to register. In my defense, one of those times was because that I had the wrong form. Still, every single time that I went to the back of the line, I doused my shirt with another coat of nervous sweat, as if everyone were looking at me, thinking he can’t even fill out the forms… and he looks like a gay cowboy version of Harry Potter.
When I finally turned in the forms, the girl behind the desk said, “You’re officially a Peace Corps Trainee, you can make yourself a name tag,” while gesturing triumphantly to a sharpie and pad of sticky name tags. I have never been more proud to slap a nametag on. I picked up the sharpie and I wrote with pride.
I took a seat and we began.
*Incredibly simple forms, I just kept messing them up.
4- Flying Out
I got on the plane to D.C. a hollow shell of my former self. My tumultuous morning has sucked the soul from me like an eight year old sucking the filling from a Twinkie. After the Orwellian rebirthing ritual of the TSA security check* I shot put my carryon into the overhead compartment and collapsed like a ragdoll into the seat. The woman sitting next to me smiled broadly. I couldn’t help but wish death upon her for being well rested.
I wanted to turn to her and say, “I don’t exist. I’m a nonentity. If you speak to me, I will not respond, because I am effectively the walking dead.” I smiled weakly back at her and readied myself for takeoff. I twisted the little air conditioning nipple, which, due to its placement, shot a stream of ice-cold air, directly into my left ear. I shut my eyes for a moment and plunged into a deep dark well of delicious slumber. I was nothingness. I was the human equivalent of this symbol (-0) I passed from a void of unconsciousness to hyper consciousness. I became everything and nothing at the same time, I spoke with Indra and realized the truth of truth itself. And I drooled. I drooled a lot.
“Welcome to Dallas ladies and gentlemen!” The voice of the pilot tore me kicking and screaming from my unconscious womb. I was missing my right arm. It was so severely asleep that I assumed amputation was my only option. My left ear was frozen from the arctic blast of the air conditioning nipple, and it felt as if all of the moisture has been sucked out of my body, never to return again. I made it to Dallas.
If you’ve never been to the airport in Dallas, allow me to paint you a word picture: You know that secret level in Super Mario Brothers 3, where, if you get the magic flute, you can get to the world where everything is cartoonishly enormous? Yeah, it’s like that.
I felt like I shrunk three feet in every direction, and would have to shout to be heard in this land of giants. I walked up to a large food stand, where a large woman, was dipping a large hotdog stuffed in a pretzel into a large vat of butter. I asked her to fill up my water bottle, feeling all of six inches tall. She filled it quickly and went back to dunking the meat-pretzel in butter. I don’t know why I’m surprised to say it, but everything really is bigger in Texas. Way way way bigger. And fried.
I went to a yogurt stand, ordered a medium , and was handed a Jacuzzi sized cup of fro-yo. I sat in the terminal, scaling my mountain of yogurt, and waiting for my next flight. That’s when it happened. I realized that I had really left. I was gone. I had no plans to return to California for twenty-seven months.
I felt the safety cord snap off my old life.
I had all of my possessions in another state. All I needed to do was get on the next plane, but I could just as easily go anywhere else. Freedom is never clearer to you than when you have a suitcase full of everything for a moment in a Dallas airport, with a bucket of frozen yogurt. I was endless for a few lovely moments. I sat, ate yogurt and marveled at how little I knew, about anything. Then I got on the next plane.
*I opted out of the radiation box, because I’m not going to give the goods away for free, not even to Uncle Sam.
I wanted to turn to her and say, “I don’t exist. I’m a nonentity. If you speak to me, I will not respond, because I am effectively the walking dead.” I smiled weakly back at her and readied myself for takeoff. I twisted the little air conditioning nipple, which, due to its placement, shot a stream of ice-cold air, directly into my left ear. I shut my eyes for a moment and plunged into a deep dark well of delicious slumber. I was nothingness. I was the human equivalent of this symbol (-0) I passed from a void of unconsciousness to hyper consciousness. I became everything and nothing at the same time, I spoke with Indra and realized the truth of truth itself. And I drooled. I drooled a lot.
“Welcome to Dallas ladies and gentlemen!” The voice of the pilot tore me kicking and screaming from my unconscious womb. I was missing my right arm. It was so severely asleep that I assumed amputation was my only option. My left ear was frozen from the arctic blast of the air conditioning nipple, and it felt as if all of the moisture has been sucked out of my body, never to return again. I made it to Dallas.
If you’ve never been to the airport in Dallas, allow me to paint you a word picture: You know that secret level in Super Mario Brothers 3, where, if you get the magic flute, you can get to the world where everything is cartoonishly enormous? Yeah, it’s like that.
I felt like I shrunk three feet in every direction, and would have to shout to be heard in this land of giants. I walked up to a large food stand, where a large woman, was dipping a large hotdog stuffed in a pretzel into a large vat of butter. I asked her to fill up my water bottle, feeling all of six inches tall. She filled it quickly and went back to dunking the meat-pretzel in butter. I don’t know why I’m surprised to say it, but everything really is bigger in Texas. Way way way bigger. And fried.
I went to a yogurt stand, ordered a medium , and was handed a Jacuzzi sized cup of fro-yo. I sat in the terminal, scaling my mountain of yogurt, and waiting for my next flight. That’s when it happened. I realized that I had really left. I was gone. I had no plans to return to California for twenty-seven months.
I felt the safety cord snap off my old life.
I had all of my possessions in another state. All I needed to do was get on the next plane, but I could just as easily go anywhere else. Freedom is never clearer to you than when you have a suitcase full of everything for a moment in a Dallas airport, with a bucket of frozen yogurt. I was endless for a few lovely moments. I sat, ate yogurt and marveled at how little I knew, about anything. Then I got on the next plane.
*I opted out of the radiation box, because I’m not going to give the goods away for free, not even to Uncle Sam.
3- Waking Up Is Hard To Do
Have you ever woken up really early and your first thought is: “MRAAAAAAAAAAGGHHHHLLLAAAAAFFFX!!!!!” Followed by thrashing around in your room looking for the light like a gorilla on Quaaludes, only to find the light, turn it on, and then regret that choice? Yeah, that was my morning. The place where abstract thought occurs in my brain was reduced to monosyllabic wants and needs.
Eric. Bath. Brush. Teeth. Pants. First underwear, then pants. Eric hate underwear. Shoes. Wrong foot. That’s better. Peace Corps. Today? Crap. Sleep… On… Plane…
I turned on some Lil’ Wayne to kick start my day,* and, to my own amazement, completed all manner of hygienic functions. I may have nodded off briefly while flossing. My entire family was up along with me to see me off. I don’t think that there is any greater display of affection than being up before dawn.
My two fifty pound bags waited for me by the door. They were stuffed to the breaking point. It seemed that if I looked at them cockeyed they would explode, launching all my worldly possessions to the four winds. My dad went to pick up one of the bags. The handle promptly broke, as if to say, “You’re not going anywhere!” We attempted to MacGyver it back together with safety pins and good intentions. After staring at it wearily for a few moments, I picked it up via bear hug, and waddled to the car. We threw the bags in the car as best as possible and drove off to the airport.
The sun was beginning to rise as we drove through El Segundo. We sat in the car exchanging morning pleasantries and quippy comments about Albania, as the Beach Boys played, barely audible, on the radio. There was construction going on at LAX, I wondered if it would be finished when I came home again. My whole family gathered around me as I checked in my bags at the airport, taking their last opportunities to give me a hand with my bags. Then we hugged. Like, really hugged. The kind that don’t come along a lot. Then I was on my own. Off I went.
There wasn’t much I could do besides put in my earphones, and turn on Jay-Z’s Blueprint 3…
Fear not when
Fear not why
Fear not much while we’re alive…
Yup Hova… That’s about right.
* There has been a somewhat shocking relationship between the amount of gangster rap I consume, and the closer I get to leaving for the Peace Corps. I can only assume that this has to do with a need to justify my thug.
Eric. Bath. Brush. Teeth. Pants. First underwear, then pants. Eric hate underwear. Shoes. Wrong foot. That’s better. Peace Corps. Today? Crap. Sleep… On… Plane…
I turned on some Lil’ Wayne to kick start my day,* and, to my own amazement, completed all manner of hygienic functions. I may have nodded off briefly while flossing. My entire family was up along with me to see me off. I don’t think that there is any greater display of affection than being up before dawn.
My two fifty pound bags waited for me by the door. They were stuffed to the breaking point. It seemed that if I looked at them cockeyed they would explode, launching all my worldly possessions to the four winds. My dad went to pick up one of the bags. The handle promptly broke, as if to say, “You’re not going anywhere!” We attempted to MacGyver it back together with safety pins and good intentions. After staring at it wearily for a few moments, I picked it up via bear hug, and waddled to the car. We threw the bags in the car as best as possible and drove off to the airport.
The sun was beginning to rise as we drove through El Segundo. We sat in the car exchanging morning pleasantries and quippy comments about Albania, as the Beach Boys played, barely audible, on the radio. There was construction going on at LAX, I wondered if it would be finished when I came home again. My whole family gathered around me as I checked in my bags at the airport, taking their last opportunities to give me a hand with my bags. Then we hugged. Like, really hugged. The kind that don’t come along a lot. Then I was on my own. Off I went.
There wasn’t much I could do besides put in my earphones, and turn on Jay-Z’s Blueprint 3…
Fear not when
Fear not why
Fear not much while we’re alive…
Yup Hova… That’s about right.
* There has been a somewhat shocking relationship between the amount of gangster rap I consume, and the closer I get to leaving for the Peace Corps. I can only assume that this has to do with a need to justify my thug.
2 - Pre-Departure
My last week in the California was a blur, literally and figuratively. It’s hard to fathom how many people that you’ll have to say goodbye to upon leaving for two years, and harder still to fathom how many drinks will be bought for you upon leaving for the Peace Corps. During daylight hours in my last Los Angeles week, I was a pale hollow shell of myself, as late nights seeing friends pounded my biology to oblivion. It was as if they would rather have me dead in Los Angeles, than alive in Albania. I love my friends.
While giving my bags a final weigh* I stepped on the scale to see that I had lost five pounds. Unsure where the mystery weight dissolved from** I decided to feel a small twinge of pride for my last week as a Californian. If nothing else, I brought myself ever closer to death, saying goodbye to my friends.
Seemingly, out of nowhere, after waiting for six months, I was leaving. Doing theatre doesn’t make you good at saying goodbye to people; I tend to think that I’ll run into everyone again at the next show or audition. When the guy who plays Hamlet wakes up and bows every night, there is little that seems permanent. However, unless there is an Albanian production of The Last Five Years, I doubt that will be the case.
My last night in California was spent with my family, watching Battle: LA. We have a tradition of eating terribly and seeing violent films to celebrate things. The Mothers Day that "Gladiator" came out was one of best. I was vaguely sentimental while watching Aaron Eckhart’s chiseled chin grimace, as he fires some, much needed ass-whuppin at an alien ship, in order to save the good people of Los Angeles from certain destruction. I remember thinking, I should have joined the Marine Corps, they get to fight aliens, I just get to fight… intolerance… or something… I haven’t been to orientation yet, check back later.
My flight was early the next day, and sleep was a less attractive option than staying awake and doing supremely American\Californian things. I may or may have not done the following:
1. Eaten an incredibly large burrito whilst watching Iron Chef.
2. Sped down the 405 rapping along with Kanye’s new album***. Because, I am living in the 21st century, and summarily, attempting to do something mean to it.
3. Rocked a round of that dance game for the Wii.
4. Walked around the beach, snapping mental pictures of the Pacific.
5. Can of Whipped Cream + Mouth + Southpark = best way to end a night.
It was around 3 in the morning when I finally decided to get some sleep. I knew that it was going to be a rough morning. I was to fly to D.C. and then after staging, on to Munich, then Tirana, then Elbesan, where I would be spending the next ten weeks, learning to be a Peace Corps Volunteer.
*A process that is far more daunting than it seems. It involves standing on the scale in order to weigh yourself, holding the bag in question, having a friend (my mom) read the scale, and then subtracting your weight from the weight of you holding the bag.
**Muscle mass, a large chunk of my liver, probably part of my soul.
*** Mom, it’s still in the car, right under your Lyle Lovett CD in the changer, I left that for you.
While giving my bags a final weigh* I stepped on the scale to see that I had lost five pounds. Unsure where the mystery weight dissolved from** I decided to feel a small twinge of pride for my last week as a Californian. If nothing else, I brought myself ever closer to death, saying goodbye to my friends.
Seemingly, out of nowhere, after waiting for six months, I was leaving. Doing theatre doesn’t make you good at saying goodbye to people; I tend to think that I’ll run into everyone again at the next show or audition. When the guy who plays Hamlet wakes up and bows every night, there is little that seems permanent. However, unless there is an Albanian production of The Last Five Years, I doubt that will be the case.
My last night in California was spent with my family, watching Battle: LA. We have a tradition of eating terribly and seeing violent films to celebrate things. The Mothers Day that "Gladiator" came out was one of best. I was vaguely sentimental while watching Aaron Eckhart’s chiseled chin grimace, as he fires some, much needed ass-whuppin at an alien ship, in order to save the good people of Los Angeles from certain destruction. I remember thinking, I should have joined the Marine Corps, they get to fight aliens, I just get to fight… intolerance… or something… I haven’t been to orientation yet, check back later.
My flight was early the next day, and sleep was a less attractive option than staying awake and doing supremely American\Californian things. I may or may have not done the following:
1. Eaten an incredibly large burrito whilst watching Iron Chef.
2. Sped down the 405 rapping along with Kanye’s new album***. Because, I am living in the 21st century, and summarily, attempting to do something mean to it.
3. Rocked a round of that dance game for the Wii.
4. Walked around the beach, snapping mental pictures of the Pacific.
5. Can of Whipped Cream + Mouth + Southpark = best way to end a night.
It was around 3 in the morning when I finally decided to get some sleep. I knew that it was going to be a rough morning. I was to fly to D.C. and then after staging, on to Munich, then Tirana, then Elbesan, where I would be spending the next ten weeks, learning to be a Peace Corps Volunteer.
*A process that is far more daunting than it seems. It involves standing on the scale in order to weigh yourself, holding the bag in question, having a friend (my mom) read the scale, and then subtracting your weight from the weight of you holding the bag.
**Muscle mass, a large chunk of my liver, probably part of my soul.
*** Mom, it’s still in the car, right under your Lyle Lovett CD in the changer, I left that for you.
1- Jacket Talk
Peace: (Noun) a state of mutual harmony between people or groups, especially in personal relations.
Monger: (Noun) a dealer in or trader of a commodity.
I was talking with my jacket in the room I grew up in. I threw the jacket around myself, naked from the waist down, except for my socks. I retired my old pea coat, for my new heavier black coat, with a removable lining, which my mother had bought for me at Costco. After spending years in the pea coat, it seemed wrong to hop into my new jacket unceremoniously. Particularly since this jacket was going to be seeing me through my service in Peace Corps Albania. Needless to say, this jacket and I were going to have some adventures, so I felt we should get to know one another. Which is why I was talking to my new jacket, with no pants on.
“Alright, new jacket, here’s the deal: In three months I’m heading to Albania. You’re going to keep me warm and dry, and I’m going to try to not lose you or spill anything on you. Deal?” I didn’t expect an answer from the jacket. Because it’s a jacket. However, I felt that the jacket and I had reached an understanding. I began zipping and unzipping the coat, while wind milling my arms, and jumping up and down, kicking the tires on my new traveling garb. I stretched out in all directions like a starfish as I marveled how common this jacket would become to me. Knowing very little about what my life in the Peace Corps would be like, I’d taken to doing what I’ve always done. I made stuff up.
I imagined blizzards in the mountains of Albania attempting to tear the jacket from my back, and armies of European pickpockets thwarted by my jacket’s zipper pockets. I imagined curling my entire frame into the jacket like a twentysomething turtle, during freezing nights in Soviet apartment complexes. I imagined throwing my coat around a bent old woman, who would then use gypsy magic to give me super powers. In the absence of fact and the presence of the unknown my imagination often wanders to super powers. I got down on to the floor and started rolling from side to side, in case I ever found myself in a similar situation in Albania. Eventually I stopped, arms splayed out to the sides, in between the beds that my brother and I slept in as children. I zipped the coat all the way up and tucked my nose into the collar. Self-imposed existential crises are one of my favorite hobbies.
I thought back briefly to the absurd process of becoming a Peace Corps Volunteer. It took me a year and a half of going to interviews, filling out bizarre forms*, developing a teaching resume, false starts, enraged emails, and hopeless wallowing in self pity, until finally, after writing a somewhat terse** letter to the Peace Corps Director, I received my Peace Corps Invite package.
As soon as I saw it at my door, I forgave everything that Peace Corps ever did or said, like an unfaithful lover who had come back to me. “I didn’t mean any of those nasty things I said about you Peace Corps. I never wanted to blow you off for Grad School for a second.” And without a second thought, I agreed to spend 27 months teaching English as a second language in Albania.
Which brought me to laying pantless on my floor in my new coat. Up until then, the biggest concerns in my life involved teaching a course called “Imagination Theatre” to children***, freelancing for a local news website, and finding time to make plays with my theatre company. I’ve spent most of my life studying, and working in the, less than real world, of the theatre. Confronted with actuality of biting off a small bit of the real world, is daunting and the only thing I could say with any certainty was that I would be warm in my new jacket.
After a couple minutes of lying on my floor I spoke again, this time leaving my jacket out of the conversation.
“Holy crap. Is this what I’m really doing?”
Yup.
Welcome to PEACEMONGER!
*Actual questions: Do you have a problem with the following? High Elevation? Extreme dryness? Extreme Dampness? Can you ride a bicycle over uneven terrain? How do you cope with being alone?
All of this is enough to make me think that I will be living alone on a mountain, that is simultaneously too damp, and too dry, with terrain so uneven I feel like I’m in a paint mixer every time I ride my bicycle. Welcome to the hardest job you’ll ever love. Sign me up.
** I put on my best professional letter tone. I even busted out a, Dear Sir; with the semi-colon, so that he knew that I meant business.
*** As a part of my youth actor training program, we engaged in psycho-emotional exercises like, Animal Freeze Tag, Zip, Zap, Zop, and of course everyone’s favorite Giants, and Flying Robots. I miss those kids already.
Monger: (Noun) a dealer in or trader of a commodity.
I was talking with my jacket in the room I grew up in. I threw the jacket around myself, naked from the waist down, except for my socks. I retired my old pea coat, for my new heavier black coat, with a removable lining, which my mother had bought for me at Costco. After spending years in the pea coat, it seemed wrong to hop into my new jacket unceremoniously. Particularly since this jacket was going to be seeing me through my service in Peace Corps Albania. Needless to say, this jacket and I were going to have some adventures, so I felt we should get to know one another. Which is why I was talking to my new jacket, with no pants on.
“Alright, new jacket, here’s the deal: In three months I’m heading to Albania. You’re going to keep me warm and dry, and I’m going to try to not lose you or spill anything on you. Deal?” I didn’t expect an answer from the jacket. Because it’s a jacket. However, I felt that the jacket and I had reached an understanding. I began zipping and unzipping the coat, while wind milling my arms, and jumping up and down, kicking the tires on my new traveling garb. I stretched out in all directions like a starfish as I marveled how common this jacket would become to me. Knowing very little about what my life in the Peace Corps would be like, I’d taken to doing what I’ve always done. I made stuff up.
I imagined blizzards in the mountains of Albania attempting to tear the jacket from my back, and armies of European pickpockets thwarted by my jacket’s zipper pockets. I imagined curling my entire frame into the jacket like a twentysomething turtle, during freezing nights in Soviet apartment complexes. I imagined throwing my coat around a bent old woman, who would then use gypsy magic to give me super powers. In the absence of fact and the presence of the unknown my imagination often wanders to super powers. I got down on to the floor and started rolling from side to side, in case I ever found myself in a similar situation in Albania. Eventually I stopped, arms splayed out to the sides, in between the beds that my brother and I slept in as children. I zipped the coat all the way up and tucked my nose into the collar. Self-imposed existential crises are one of my favorite hobbies.
I thought back briefly to the absurd process of becoming a Peace Corps Volunteer. It took me a year and a half of going to interviews, filling out bizarre forms*, developing a teaching resume, false starts, enraged emails, and hopeless wallowing in self pity, until finally, after writing a somewhat terse** letter to the Peace Corps Director, I received my Peace Corps Invite package.
As soon as I saw it at my door, I forgave everything that Peace Corps ever did or said, like an unfaithful lover who had come back to me. “I didn’t mean any of those nasty things I said about you Peace Corps. I never wanted to blow you off for Grad School for a second.” And without a second thought, I agreed to spend 27 months teaching English as a second language in Albania.
Which brought me to laying pantless on my floor in my new coat. Up until then, the biggest concerns in my life involved teaching a course called “Imagination Theatre” to children***, freelancing for a local news website, and finding time to make plays with my theatre company. I’ve spent most of my life studying, and working in the, less than real world, of the theatre. Confronted with actuality of biting off a small bit of the real world, is daunting and the only thing I could say with any certainty was that I would be warm in my new jacket.
After a couple minutes of lying on my floor I spoke again, this time leaving my jacket out of the conversation.
“Holy crap. Is this what I’m really doing?”
Yup.
Welcome to PEACEMONGER!
*Actual questions: Do you have a problem with the following? High Elevation? Extreme dryness? Extreme Dampness? Can you ride a bicycle over uneven terrain? How do you cope with being alone?
All of this is enough to make me think that I will be living alone on a mountain, that is simultaneously too damp, and too dry, with terrain so uneven I feel like I’m in a paint mixer every time I ride my bicycle. Welcome to the hardest job you’ll ever love. Sign me up.
** I put on my best professional letter tone. I even busted out a, Dear Sir; with the semi-colon, so that he knew that I meant business.
*** As a part of my youth actor training program, we engaged in psycho-emotional exercises like, Animal Freeze Tag, Zip, Zap, Zop, and of course everyone’s favorite Giants, and Flying Robots. I miss those kids already.
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