The Balkan Gloom

If you've got it, you've earned it.

I'm stealing a term. The Balkan Gloom. This was a term that was passed to me by way of a Peace Corps Bulgaria volunteer via my dear site mate Brenna who had previously traveled through Bulgaria.

"He called it, The Balkan Gloom... do you know what I mean- like-" My other site mate Garrett and I nodded emphatically. Yes, we know what The Balkan Gloom is. It was as if we were cave men who had learned the first adjective ever uttered. It was an ineffable* and all encompassing feeling that had not previously been named, but since it had been named we understood what was happening to us and could fight against it. Like the scene in the movie when the scientist in the HAZMAT suit** holds a vial up to his eye, clenches his gloved hand and says to the others, "We've got it. Now we just have to cure it."

Let me explain. When I first got to Albania, I noticed that everyone walked around with a generalized scowl upon their faces, whereas in America we walk around with an tight-lipped grin. However, their scowl in no way denotes unhappiness, just as our grin in no way denotes that we have just received five dollars from a creepy stranger. Upon entering Albanian society, I wondered what the origin of the scowl was. I now know. The origin is the Gloom.

Imagine a cold, clammy, grandmother's hand massaging the back of your neck. Not your grandmother, just A grandmother. Imagine a one legged man playing an out of tune violin while standing on a stone bridge, at a foggy twilight, as he considers leaping off... on a Tuesday. Imagine an old woman in a headscarf still talking to her dead husband. Imagine a three legged dog... any three legged dog. Imagine the feeling of being grey. This my friends, is the Gloom. If you spend enough time in the Balkans the Gloom becomes you. And the Gloom must be fought mercilessly, just like Dustin Hoffman fought that disease in Outbreak.

One time Garrett and I were traveling through Kosovo to get to the Capital of Albania. Flurries of snow were blowing sidelong and the mini-bus had stopped for it's usual coffee break. Garrett and I watched as an old man stood shivering in the cold... eating a lemon. He wasn't just eating a lemon, he was devouring it like an apple, skin and all. With each bite he looked up, his face locked in the awful rictus that can come only from consuming a lemon like an apple. Snow piled on his shoulders and he finished the last horrible bit of the lemon. The worst part was, there was a crate of oranges directly to his right. We wanted to cry out to the man "NO! YOU DON'T HAVE TO EAT THAT LEMON! THERE ARE PLENTY OF OTHER, MORE DELICIOUS FRUITS INCHES FROM YOU." But we know it would have done no good. The Gloom wants what the gloom wants. His gloom wanted a lemon, peel and all.

At many points, we have all fallen victim to the Gloom. Over the snow deluged winter I once found myself scowling at the movie "Garden State" and thinking the thought, How dare you over and over again, for no reason. I once killed a scorpion in my apartment and left it's corpse out as a warning to others. Another time I read Camus' "The Stranger" just to sigh and say...you are so right before playing my violin while downing a bottle of cognac and then sweeping all of my papers off of my table and hurling the bottle into the roaring fire I had built in my fire place***. But part of having the Gloom, means that you have earned the Gloom. Because you have earned the Gloom it is yours to submit to or defeat****.





*Adj. unable to be effed.
** Like Dustin Hoffman from Outbreak.
***None of that is true.
**** See(**)

Once More into the Bar My Friends.

Marti ran off to find me on Facebook.

I walked down a spiral staircase with a glass of apple flavored vodka and was shocked to realize that the entire place was full of what we call in America... Hipsters. It was an Alice in Wonderland* moment where I opened a door to a place that looked all to familiar but all too different. It was like walking into a friendlier, cheaper, Los Angeles where no one was speaking English**.

So I sat at the bar and tried to look dangerous, and mysterious...ly... polite. Before long I found myself in a circle of Bulgarians watching a down pour of rain. We were talking about the idiosyncrasies of the Balkans, namely that it is a region of the world where somehow the friendliest people on the face of the earth are constantly locked in conflict with one another***. Of course this all stems from the fact that history's chess game had carved and re-carved borders again and again, so that the cultural heritage of any country in The Balkans, looks to a golden age of heros, kings, and large powerful borders which are recognized only by those countries.

Let's take Alexander the Great for example. Alexander the Great is the National hero of Macedonia. In the center of the Capital City of Macedonia there is a statue of Alexander the Great riding a triumphant steed, looking rad. After all it makes sense: his father was Philip of Macedonia- no slouch in the "conquering stuff" game himself. Now, this gets Grecian togas all in a knot.

However, and there is always a "however" in The Balkans. Greece claims that Macedonia at the time of Alexander was Greek. To which Macedonia responds by sticking it's tongue out and making a sweet bronze statue. I have heard Alexander claimed as having Albanian heritage as well. However, Macedonia is far more aligned with slavic countries like Bulgaria and Serbia, in spite of the fact that they have a large Albanian population.

And then there is Mother Theresa. Parents from Albania, born in Macedonia, did really cool stuff in India. So here's the question: to whom does Mother Theresa belong? The world probably, but you can't name an Airport after her if that's the case. The best way to describe it is like looking at one of those "Magic Eye" books, which I could never make look. You look at the big picture, and then you get really really close to it. Then you let your vision go fuzzy, and you slowly move the book away from you. Before you realize it, you've been staring at a page of squiggles for an hour, you're cross eyed, and saying, "I think I see something," while the guy next to you thinks you look like an idiot.

Ultimately the conversation bubbled down to a couple of Bulgarian guys and myself asking the universe in a self-effacing manner... "What can you do?" A very common phrase in the Balkans. The answer is... "Not a whole lot." History is what it is. A very unsatisfying answer filled with great people that did cool stuff

After I had finished my Bulgarian cocktail I was asked what I was drinking.

"Beer."
"What kind?"
"Whatever is Bulgarian."






*But a dude version... Hank in Crazydangerousjungleland.
**Nashville.
***Imagine if Hawaii, Oregon, Minnesota, and Canada shared the same peninsula and harbored thousands of years of historical pent up rage.

I Don't Always Drink, but When I do... I Drink Bulgarian.

Marti, my new new best friend.

I'm drinking Bulgarian beer. I know that I'm drinking Bulgarian beer, because whenever I travel I want to consume as many things from the country as possible, this goes hand and hand with a natural inclination to consume beer. Whilst ordering, I narrow my eyes to slits as if considering with the tastes of a true Connoisseur... "What ever is the most... Bulgarian." Upon being presented a bottle I nod at the selection and thank them, in loud slow English with a slavic accent.

Before I bellied up to the bar however, my new friend Marti, grabbed me by the elbow and asked in a gentle yet assertive voice, "Do you like to drink vodka?" It was much in the same way that I have been asked in the past, "yes" for very different reasons.

Marti was overjoyed that I had heard about this libation, "Vodka" I explained that we had such a thing in America as well, and had consumed it on one or two occasions. He got a cup and a bottle of vodka from the fridge. he ever so delicately unscrewed the cap, seemingly shuddering with an inward giggle.

"This is the best vodka in Bulgaria. It's the most Bulgarian!"

Click. Boom. Marti and I. Just became friends. He then proceeded to pour me a half glass of vodka and his inward giggle jumped out.

"This is how we drink in Bulgaria."
"That's great!" I exclaimed. "We drink like that in America too!"(using cups)

I found myself giggling as well. Me and my new best friend were jumping up and down in the kitchen of the hostel. He handed me my cup of vodka which he had sprinkled with a dash of apple juice. I'm told this is a traditional Bulgarian cocktail*.

"You should stay another day!" Marti said**.
"I want to!"
"You should!"
"I love Sofia!"
"It is great place!"
"But, I can't!"
"Why?"
"I'm getting on a 19 hour bus to Czech Republic tomorrow."

There was a pause in our new found rapture. It was as if I had called my mom and she said that I could not pull a double sleep over with Marti, because I had a doctor's appointment in the Czech Republic.

"But we can make Facebook friends!" Exclaimed Marti.
"Yeah!" I exclaimed back.

We then drank to our mutual friendship



*By Bulgarian I mean Sophomore year of college.

**It should be mentioned at this point I am sober as a judge, just very very very tired and overwhelmed. Imagine locking a cat in a box made of mirrors and turning a strobe light on inside of it. I kind of felt like that.

Yelling... for No Damn Good Reason.

Moving it from one to two, to even three exclamation points

There have been moments here in Albania that I have found myself exclaiming and doing a touch-down dance* for things completely normal things. Allow me to explain:

Over the winter a national state of emergency was declared in Trapoja, my region of Albania. My pipes froze completely leaving me without water for two months. In an attempt to rectify the problem, my neighbor and I made a small fire under the pipe, using only a lighter and a pizza box. When this didn't work he patted me on the shoulder and said, "Wait for Spring."

As it turned out Spring was two months and 9 feet of snow from the initial attempt to un-freeze my pipes. I would hike to my site mate's house with a backpack full of empty water bottles, fill those water bottles, and then hike back to my place, often times falling directly through the snow, much to the amusement of the gypsy family that lives near that hill. I grew a beard and I made soups out of the available vegetation, such as, potatoes, and rice. I stayed in one room all winter, and watched an impressive Manson-esque beard grow on my face. I left my house only for coffee, more rice and potatoes, and to ensure that I still existed**.

When the day came that a fine trickle of water issued from my faucet again, I lept to my feet dancing and yelling, swearing with joy in both English and Albanian, as if I had beaten the season of Winter itself.

We are on a water schedule where I live, which means that water does not always come out when I turn the tap on. Usually we have water for about 3 to 4 hours a day, but the tricky part is that it can be turned on WHENEVER. Empty water\beer bottles have become my life blood. I have a store of between 10-20 empty bottles at all times***, which I fill religiously whenever I have water. Some of these water bottles will be frozen in the summer months to pack my body in ice in order to sleep. And during the summer months they will be filled with warm water... again to sleep with.

We are also subject to frequent power outages, during which time, we strap on our headlamps and pretend to be SWAT team members****

But there is a moment of distinct unimaginable joy that is absolutely unparalleled by anything that I had experienced in the states, when the power or the water or both, come back on.

More often than I would care to mention, I am moved to ecstasy as I hear the gurgle of water slowly tricking down into my apartment.

Many is the time that I have yelled at a light bulb which is slowly fading in and out saying:

"DON'T YOU DO IT! DON'T YOU GO OUT! YOU WILL NOT GO OUT!" only to be left in pitch black with nothing left to do but to put on my slowly fading headlamp and pretend to raid crack houses, until I'm too tuckered out, and have to go to bed... at 7PM.

The limitless power of having electricity and water at exactly the same time is akin to godliness. Do me a favor, waste some water and power for me, just turn on every light and faucet in your house or apartment. Just do it, and feel incredible.






*Obie or Outer-Critics Award nomination dance for people who work in theatre.
**Natural question: Showering? Answer: No, not at all.
***Peace Corps Rookie mistake: not filling up your water bottles when you have water. You never know when you'll have water again.
**** I may be the only one that does that.

19 Hours in Sofia, Bulgaria

Sofia, I will return to you.

Lindita dropped me off at an amazing hostel* near the center of Sofia Bulgaria.

I checked in, to be greeted by Marti. Marti was the kind of guy who seemed to be always surprised to see you and glad that you were there at the exact same time. I found out within the first ten minutes of our conversation that he was a part of the famous puppet theatre of Bulgaria.

There is an odd pheromone that theatre people give off that intrinsically attracts us to one another. On another occasion I found myself stranded in Macedonia (this was a completely separate occasion from the ones previously listed, but I have come to know Macedonia as the country that people get stranded in). After walking with a friend in a thicket of Macedonian villages we stumbled upon, what I can only describe as, a Macedonian hippy retreat. Hippies like cockroaches can survive anywhere, provided there are enough good vibes around, upon which to feed. Having no way back to Albania and no way deeper into Macedonia I talked to the first person that I saw who happened to be a part of a theatre troupe which had just closed a production of The Winter’s Tale.
“Exit pursued by bear.” I said, as if it were a secret password that only theatre people understood, and suddenly I was offered a free ride on the Theatre troupes bus deeper into Macedonia.

Now back to Bulgaria. After Marti showed me around the hostel and gave me my complimentary welcome shot** he handed me a map of Sofia and said,
“Have fun! Don’t get lost.” But what he didn’t realize was, that I already was lost, I was so lost that I was exactly where I wanted to be.

There are few things that I like in life more than to walk around cities in which I don’t speak the language. It is like being a toddler again, everything is new and strange and you find yourself giggling at things which are completely normal to those around you. Though they may contain the exact same things that you have seen a million times before*** because they have been recontextualized in a forigen tongue, they become wacky and neat.

Furthermore, everything becomes a story. I just crossed a street IN SOFIA BULGARIA! I just ate ice cream IN SOFIA BULGARIA! I just squinted at a subway map for twenty minutes trying to find the little dot for “where I am”…in every city I’ve ever been in. That last experience remains relatively the same.

I knew I had only 19 hours with sweet sweet Sofia Bulgaria and I was determined to get everything I could from the experience. So I walked. I walked like I was hunting for a long lost lover, or the man who killed her, or both. I physically tried to limit the amount of times that I blinked, because that was one mili-second of Sofia that I would miss. I walked until my legs felt like long packages of battered day-old salamis bought at a Mexican 99 cents store. There was no way physically they should have held together.

I want tell you everything that I saw, but I can’t. Because the signs were written in the Cyrillic Alphabet. I saw beautiful Orthodox Churches, and incredible street art. I saw bizarre meats hanging in windows and I heard people speaking in languages other than Albanian. I smelled the first subway that I’ve smelled in over two years, which immediately whisked me back to New York, as the smell of diesel and feet usually does.

After being in rural Albania I was in a city for the first time for a year and I was anonymous. And anonymity is amazing when deprived of it, and horrifying when deluged with it. One of those handy double edged swords of modern American life which I was glad to be playing with again.

When I returned to the hostel, people began gathering in the bar downstairs. I found the nearest computer and emailed my mother with the subject line, “Guess where I am now.” And after rhapsodizing about Bulgaria I joined the people in the bar.

That’s when the night got awesome.

*Art Hostel, 10 Euro a night and well worth it.
** A practice which should be adopted most places, not just European hostels, churches, banks, the gym, possibly Costco. Something to think about.
***Buildings, people, other stuff.

On the bus to Bulgaria.

The Dali Lama said something about how every moment is intrinsically meaningful unto itself, that there is no such thing as wasted time.

I kept thinking about the Dali Lama on my bus ride to Bulgaria, because I had already found time to think about everything else, so I decided to go through the alphabet and I was at “D”. In between the bouts of a state of manic lethargy that I’ve come to know as “sane enough to travel,” and the bowel clinching fear of going to a country that I knew literally two things about* the Dali Lama came up frequently.

While thinking about the Dali Lama’s words I realized, how awesome it would be to be the Dali Lama. Homeboy can say anything and it’s printed on a billion “thought of the day calendars.” And he gets to be reincarnated.

While, I had expected to be in Austria at the time I ended up on a bus to Bulgaria, no one path was any better or worse, it was just different. Traveling is traveling; there is no right or wrong way to do it. Despite any fastidiously laid plans, eventually everyone ends up where they need to be. You only lose if you stop, and you only stop if you believe that you ever knew where you were going.

My site mate Garrett (who you will come to meet later) has said, in all of his small town American wisdom: “Man, places are like beers. If I like a place it’s because of the people I’m with when I’m there. If I like a beer, it’s because I had a great time drinking that beer with the people I was with. Boom. Done. Beers and countries.”

Any time he says “Boom. Done.” You know that he has made his point.

As the grey green landscape of Macedonia and Bulgaria rolled past, the windows speckling with rain my new friend (who I will call, Lindita because I didn’t have prior approval to use her in this blog) sat behind me. She showed me a video of her flute students playing heart-breakingly beautiful music in a music hall in Prishtina. She gave me a book of her poetry and music the title of which translated to “Riddle.” All I had was a copy of George Orwell’s "Down and Out in Paris and London.**" She signed her book, saying “Good luck in Bulgaria.”

I already had very good luck.

At one point a large German man sat next to me, cramming me against the window. He talked at me for the better part of an hour about… well everything. His large belly rumbled pushing me closer and closer to the window as he orated in a thick German accent. I had merely asked him if there was a bus to Prague from Bulgaria, and unwittingly made a new Balkan Bus friend. From our one sided conversation I gained the following information:

He is a very famous cardiologist. Who is subsequently on a waiting list in the Netherlands for… wait for it… a new heart***

One of his fingernails was painted red with the Sanskrit word for “Om” painted on it.

He smelled like wet cigarettes and Macedonian coffee.

He was owed hundreds of thousands of Euros from a lawsuit against a Bulgarian branch of an international medical device retailer.

He enjoys Harley Davidson Motor Cycles and according to him has two of them waiting for him in two of his three homes, located around the world.

He enjoys medicine but he hates talking to patients. This is a direct quote, “They always want to talk! I say: You stressed? You want a prescription? I tell you what- you smoke a joint when you go home every night and you won’t be stressed any more.” He then threw up his Christmas ham sized forearms and looked at me like I should be taking notes… In the interest of complete disclosure, I was taking notes.

He then grabbed my leg and turned to me to give me some paternal advice, “I lived in a cave in Greece for a year. I was making silver jewelry for all of the pretty girls. You should do that. I don’t know why you’re in Albania. You could go live in a cave in Greece.”

Yes, I could go and live in a cave in Greece. I suppose, I hadn’t considered that. Given how the first three days of my trip had gone, all options were on the table, and I could only assume that the Dali Lama would approve.

At the end of the bus ride, the German man handed me his card and said- “So here. Take this, you can find me on the internet. Have a good life.”

Lindita then took me to the Bulgarian Bus station and asked if there was a bus to Prague... In Bulgarian... because Lindita speaks Bulgarian too... My Balkan bus buddies are the best****.

The travel agent said they had one bus left and told me the departure and arrival time. I said that I would take the ticket.

I then did some rudimentary finger math. When I ran out of fingers I realized that I had just booked myself a 19 hour bus ride to the Czech Republic.

*They have a great puppet theatre, and their organized crime syndicate is called “The Octopus.” As far as I know these organizations are not related.

** I know that title is supposed to be underlined but I can't figure out how to underline or indent on blogger yet. I'll figure it out.

***I flashed back to a theatre professor explaining “dramatic irony.”
**** One million blog experience points for alliteration! You have advanced to the next level, from "Knight" to "Berserker."

Everybody Quits at Eleven.

Njembedhjete.

(NEE-Umm-Buh-Dee-YET)

This is how you say “eleven” in Albanian, and it almost made me book a plane ticket home. Given the fact that I had already opened my bag in my hotel room, I reconsidered. I was not about to re-pack everything.

Our first day of our Pre-Service Training (PST if you’re into Peace Corps Acronyms…PSA’s) I woke up to the sound of a cock crowing and the Muezzin’s Call to prayer floating in to my hotel room from the Mosque. After months of spending nights on any horizontal surface that would have me*, I finally woke up knowing where I was. I was in Albania.

The day began with a brief run down of Peace Corps rules and meeting our new trainers, many of whom I had worked up an entire dossier on via shameless Facebook stalking, (see post “Fake Albanian” for information as to why I’m not creepy, but in fact, overly prepared).

We then jumped into our first language class. I briefly cursed myself for throwing away my flash cards before getting on the plane, but I didn’t want the other Peace Corps Volunteers to think I was a geek for having flash cards. They would have to come to that realization on their own.

That being said, I was fully prepared to blow minds with my freshly acquired Albanian vocabulary**. And then they actually started speaking Albanian.

Given that I learned to pronounce what few Albanian words I knew from Youtub-ed Albanian music videos, my accent was slightly off***, but I would make up for that by saying things loudly and flailing my arms around. This is how you make friends with people you’re going to live with for two years.

And then we came to the word for eleven. The teacher said it, and then came the sound of bubble wrap being stepped on in another room, which was the sound of a series of small aneurisms that everyone in the entire room was having at the same time. I wanted to slam my hand down on the table and yell:

“THE HUMAN MOUTH CANNOT MAKE SUCH A SOUND! WHAT IS THIS SORCERY?!”

And then came twelve.

Dymbedhjete.
(Doo-Um-Buh-dee-Yet) WAY TOO MANY SYLLABLES!

We all gave it our best shot. At one point you could see everyone in the entire room silently mouthing the word for “eleven” over and over again. I comforted myself by trying to think how often, I really used the word “eleven” in English.

I resolved never to say it in Albanian… ever… in two years. In fact I wouldn’t use any of the teens as they were all incredibly difficult to say. I would only purchase things in multiples of ten. If I were to meet a teenager, I would round their age off to the nearest ten. While my Peace Corps Service was supposed to extend from 2011 to 2013, I would now say that it goes from 2010 to 2020. My time as a Peace Corps Volunteer has really taught me that if something is hard, you can always find a way around doing it. Unless you can’t.

In spite of my distain for the Albanian word for “eleven” I stayed… And learned that there were far more un-pronounceable words in Albanian. After a year and a half I cannot pronounce the difference in the words for, “stamp,” chicken” and “forest.***”

I wake up in a cold sweat some nights after having a nightmare about needing to say, “Excuse me, I need a stamp because I have to mail this chicken to my friend. He lives in the forest. Actually, on second thought, can I get eleven stamps. No. make it twelve chicken stamps for the forest chicken package. Thank you.”

I must say though after spending a year and a half learning to speak Albanian, I have realized that my best teachers have always been my students. Who have laughed at my goofy accent mercilessly for an entire school year, and will likely do so for one school year more.

Even so, I miss my students madly over summer.

Language learning is literally always going on, in English or any other language we are constantly attempting to make ourselves understood. In the end, the plasticity of language and over coming cultural misunderstanding can be summed up most clearly and succinctly by one of America’s greatest thinkers and poets, in his immortal words:

To try and to fail, the two things I hate
Succeed in this rap game, the two things that's great
H to the izz-O, V to the izz-A
What else can I say about dude, I gets bu-sy

-Jay-Z

Please don’t sue me.
But if you read this blog, do you want to be friends?



*My buddy Deven’s couch, my buddy Dave’s couch, my buddy Deven’s floor (if I didn’t quite make it to the couch), my bed in my childhood bedroom, the other bed in my childhood bedroom (to mix things up) my buddy Dave’s parent’s floor, a literal closet in New York, I mean an actual closet, I am not being hyperbolic here and I am fully aware of any and all comments that can be made about my living in a closet. I will gracefully accept any and all zingers posted below in the comment section or sent to my private email.

** Sword, male turkey, island, motorcycle.
***Hilariously atrocious given that all of the Albanian music videos were auto-tuned. I thought that was just the accent.
****Spelled, pule, pyl, and pyll. IT ALL SOUNDS LIKE THE WORD “PULL.”

Why I'm a terrible European.

Soccer is the closest sport to Ballet and I still don't get it

I want to like sports really badly because they combine so many of the things that I'm fond of, yelling for no reason, dressing up to look like you're supposed to be wherever you currently are, and rioting because you were right or because you're mad that you were wrong. I dig all of those things. I dig all of those things a lot.

However, all of the stuff that goes on in the middle of a sporting event is almost completely beyond me. And I say "almost" because I'm attempting to learn to like that stuff too. My reasoning for doing this stems from a goal that my buddy Dave and I made while we we're riding bikes* the night before we left for our respective colleges. We were puzzling over what the point of a college education was. Eventually we came to the decision that our life goal was to, "be interesting at cocktail parties**.

This of course, means being able to discuss a wide range of topics in an erudite manner. For the most part I feel qualified to fake knowledge about a wide range of topics***. If my general knowledge in any particular field fails me, I resort to rolling my eyes in a knowing way, loading my small plate with cheese squares, and finally, pretending that I need another drink.

Yet, I have never been able to fake any knowledge of sports. For me, it's like coming in at the last season of 24 and constantly asking inane questions like: "Who's that guy?" Why's he dressed like that? Why does he look so mean?"

I was on dance team all through out High School. Competitive dance team, but dance team none the less. This never prepared me for the intricacies of discussing sporting events in casual social settings.

I'm in the same city as two other Peace Corps Volunteers Garrett and Brenna. Garrett is a baseball player from a small town in southern Illinois and Brenna was a basketball player through out high school and college in Winston-Salem North Carolina. Any time conversations veer towards athletics, I try to chime in with a charming, "Yeah... They should just move to Canada." Which meets with horrified grimaces and shocked silences. One time we were discussing "point scoring" and I came to the realization that I have never scored a point... in anything besides my SAT's... and my score was less than impressive.

I quickly saved myself by loudly proclaiming, "BUT I WAS THE CAPTAIN OF MY HIGH SCHOOL'S IMPROV TEAM... FOR TWO YEARS!" Which was followed by me crossing my arms and waiting for adulation.

I assumed that living in a European country would ingratiate me into soccer or as they say, "football****" but I have seen two European Cups now and on both occasions found myself jumping up and yelling, for no other reason than everyone else was jumping up and yelling.

I will be living in America this time next year, barring being captured by Somali pirate organ traffickers and being sold to the highest bidder for my retinas*****. And yet, I fear, that I will still jump up and yell, when everyone else jumps up and yells.

That being said- I'm glad Spain won.


*Not "cycling" mind you which involves dressing up like a super hero rejected by Marvel and pedaling a bicycle to some place far away from where you started, only to return again, all for the greater purpose of trying to stave off middle age. Riding bikes involves knocking on your friends door and asking their mom if they can come out and ride bikes. This was our general excuse to ride around in a series of slow circles talking about girls.

**Cocktail parties I've been to at this point in my life: 0.

*** While talking to Republicans: "They call themselves Democrats, but this country is headed for Socialism! I swear I'm just going to move to Canada.

While talking to Democrats: (Derogatory George W. Bush Comment)... (Reference to Fascism)...(Praise for Bono)...(Something about Georgia O'Keefe). I swear I'm just going to move to Canada.

While talking to Canadians: I heard you put gravy on french fries. I'm thinking about moving to Toronto.

****Savages.

***** Mom that was a joke. Somali pirates rarely traffick organs, their lack of access to refrigeration makes organ trafficking less and cost effective.

A Note on Cultural Sensitivity.

I like everyone... Ever.

A great deal of the history of the Balkans is unsettled. I remember, as a child seeing Kosovo on the news*. I remember it as I remember most stories in the news from those times. There were bad things happening in the world, but they weren't where I was. When you realize how many detestable things have happened in the world that you weren't around for, you realize how lucky you are.

I knew little to nothing about the Balkans before living here.

All of that being said, whilst traveling, the best one can do is to assume that all people are doing the best they can and be sensitive to the trials and tribulations of their country's unsettled past. I hope that I am always judged off of who I am and not where I'm from... Like Tupac... and Jay-Z... and Tom Stoppard...

I can only extend the same respect to anyone I meet.

While I have\will have negative and positive experiences any where I go these are not necessarily indicative of the country as a whole**. Every place that I have been to I have run into someone that has said, word for word, the exact same thing:

"There are good people and bad people everywhere"

As a die-hard American optimist I assume that there are good people everywhere, and other people who have just had a really lame day before I met them.

I was talking with a Serbian waiter one night and the first thing he said to me was, "You bombed me." Which, propelled by liberal Californian ideology and latent Catholic guilt, lead me to immediately apologize my face off for something that happened while I was learning long division... with the remainder.

I still felt really bad for bombing him.

I was also talking with a Serbian poet who lived through the bombing of Belgrade, that just wanted to discuss the proper method of serving a shot of espresso***.

We all have to navigate a difficult past and an uncertain future. In this blog I will always do my best to take people at their absolute best. The world is full of amazing people that we simply don't know yet, if you give them a chance they will prove that to you time and time again****.

Before leaving for Albania my uncle Ante, a Croatian immigrant told me:

"Listen, you try and meet everyone half way. If you even try to meet them half way, that will mean the world to them. And they'll take care of you."

This is true. This is so true.


*I was embarrassed to be seen watching children's programming as a child and so turned on CNN whenever an adult walked into the room. To this day I have no idea why I did this, because I can't imagine that my parents bought the fact that I really wanted to be watching "Wall Street Week in Review... God rest Louis Rukeyser's soul. Though I can now confess that I was almost always watching "Eureka's Castle" or "Doug" before said adult walked into the room.

**Unless they're French cyclists.

*** On a cool looking saucer, with a glass of water, a lemon wedge, and a cookie of some sort. Cookies make it classy.

**** Unless they're snooty French cyclists*****.
*****No that's mean. They're fine too.

The Kosovar Flautist

I have to make a new friend who speaks Macedonian.

Here’s why traveling in the Balkans is always fun and interesting*. Everyone speaks different languages… kiiiiiiind of. For the most part, every country that was previously in Yugoslavia (Slovenia, Croatia, Serbia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Monetnegro and Macedonia) speak some version of Serbo-Croatian. Now, Serbo-Croatian is a Slavic language and can be written in either the Cyrillic Alphabet (think whacky Russian letters) or in the Roman Alphabet (think good old fashioned letters, like ma and pa used when they were down on the farm... or the letters that you're reading right now).

While Serbo-Croatian is the lingua franca of every Balkan country but Albania, there are variations from country to country. Interestingly enough, during the fall of Yugoslavia, in order to drive a cultural wedge between Serbia and other Yugoslavian countries Slobodan Milosevic attempted to “cleanse” Serbian of “foreign words.” Despite his judicious efforts to rid his vocabulary of the foreign menace, he was guilty of more than a few gaffes.

As a complete non-sequitur, does anyone remember “freedom fries…” Any way, what was I talking about?

I speak Albanian, which is nothing like Serbo-Croatian, at all. It is written in the Roman Alphabet. I know a couple of words of Serbo-Croatian** but I cannot read the Cyrillic Alphabet. Whenever I see the Cyrillic Alphabet, I pretend that I’ve experienced a mild stroke in the reading center of my brain, which makes me feel less inadequate. My inability to read a single word in the Macedonian bus station meant that I needed to make a friend who spoke and read Serbo-Croatian\Macedonian(as there are greater variations between Macedonian and Serbo-Croatian- but man that's just confusing) in the Cyrillic Alphabet, while also speaking Albanian and\or English, and I had a two hour bus ride to do it.


I chose my mark given her proximity to my seat on the bus, and the fact that I thought she might have been a Macedonian Peace Corps Volunteer***. So I held the English book that I was reading high in the air and read in her general direction as if to say, “Oh you speak English!? I was just reading in English. I didn't plan this at all. Let’s be friends.” We would then commence holding hands and skipping as new best friends are want to do.

My English book held high in the air trick sadly didn’t work, even after attempting to cough at her, loudly and in English. I instead reverted to my plan B: I stared at the back of her head while thinking really hard Turn around! I’m really friendly and interesting. And I am in desperate need of your help. Somehow, this worked.

Side bar: I could never, and have never picked up a woman in a bar. This is not a skill I possess. I've made peace with this fact by deciding that television and "Cosmo" have lied to me. In fact, any time I have attempted such Don Juan-ery, I have ended up giggling and looking at my shoes, before asking what her major was in college. After falling inevitably into the deep black well of a painfully awkward silence I would slink away into the bowels of the bar to buy a shot of the cheapest whiskey they have, and pretend that I stopped existing.

I don’t understand the process:

Anthropologically, I assume that it works by displaying admirable qualities in non-verbal ways that allow one to fit into certain desirable categories, such as; SUPER ATTRACTIVE GUY, or OSTENTATIOUS CAR DUDE, or GUY WITH JOB THAT REQUIRES A SUIT. Since I fall into none of those categories, my plan of attack at “da club” was always to be EXCEEDINGLY POLITE GUY. A role which I fill by ordering a drink thusly:

Eric: Pardon me Miss\Sir (depending on male or female bartender) May I have a beer? Don’t trouble yourself if you’re busy. Eric smiles with disarming candor.

I would then wait patiently as if there were ladies at the other end of the bar whispering to each other, “Check out how polite the guy at the end of the bar is. I’d let him pull out a chair for me. I bet he leaves a huge tip, and doesn’t call after 9.” I would then proceed to not look at them at all, so that they know I'm not objectifying them. Mama raised me right.

Upon receiving my drink I would thank the bartender, leave a nice tip and then keep to myself with a good natured smile all the while thinking, I’m the politest mother fucker in this club!

This system works, never.

This is all a long winded way of saying, though I can’t meet women in bars, I AM A CASANOVA OF THE BALKAN MINI-BUS.

As we got to talking I found out that she was a flute player and a poet from Kosovo, who not only spoke Albanian and English, but also Serbo-Croatian (Macedonian).

Boo-ya!

Though not a word in Albanian or Serbo-Croatian I believe is universally understood****.

When my new best friend and I got off the bus in Skopje Macedonia, she whisked me to a travel agency and asked when the next bus for Vienna would be. The next bus was four days away, and I would not be assaulted by the Cyrillic Alphabet for four whole days. My new friend then ran to catch her bus, leaving me to fend for myself.
In slow, loud, English with a Slavic accent and a judicious amount of pantomiming (the international language) I asked when the next bus was leaving and where it was going.

“In five minutes, to Bulgaria.”

“I’ll take it.”

As I settled into my seat on the Macedonian bus heading to Bulgaria, I just kept thinking to myself something along the lines of: Crap, crap crap… Why am I going to Bulgaria right now? Just then I someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was the Kosovar Flautist.
“You are going to Bulgaria too!?” She asked.
“I guess so!”

The bus rumbled down the road out of Skopje towards Sofia, Bulgaria. I wondered yet again, where I would sleep that night as I stared out the window.



*Difficult and confusing. But in a fun way. Seriously, visit the Balkans.
** “Hi, how are you? Yes. No. I don’t speak Serbo-Croatian? Toilet? Cheers! I’m from America! Thank you. Sorry.”
*** Peace Corps has a presence in Macedonia and Albania and she had very western looking shoes on.
****Originally, from the ancient Greek root “booyarius” meaning to celebrate noisily after an engaging evening of Socratic debate at the vomitorium.

Everyone is Staring

Elbasan, Albania, Home of a University, the national dialect of Albania, hub of Peace Corps training, and the best darn sufflace* this side of the Shkumbin River.

“I don’t want to be famous, I just want to be one of those working actors.” This is one of a million platitudes made by my former and current colleagues duking it out in Hollywood- along with “Manifest it!” and “Do you know where I can get cheap headshots?” I too, do not want to be famous. While I have no problems with the idea of limitless wealth, comfortable world travel, and spending more time than I currently do on speed-boats, I’ve been stared at constantly and peppered with the same questions** for the last year and a half. My personal life is constantly scrutinized and everyone knows where I am at all times. I’m being watched by an old man drinking coffee and Albanian moonshine right now. If this is any indication of the life styles of the rich and famous, I want nothing to do with it. He’s still staring.

The first walk through the city of Elbasan, a new wave of energy broke upon me. Not real energy, but crazed manic energy borne of lack of sleep, and having no clue where you are. We walked in an enormous herd of Americans through the Albanian city. This is when I realized that I do not look Albanian… at all.

I remember thinking, upon getting my invite to the Peace Corps, Well it’s in Europe. I look European! I would then promptly unbutton one more button on my shirt than I was comfortable with revealing more chest hair than is socially acceptable in America and then look blasé at whoever was around as if saying, I just woke up from a nap, and I’m going to drink wine while listening to house music.

False, I in fact, do not look Albanian! As we tromped through those Albanian streets I realized that it would take a lot more than a generous sprig of chest hair and a world-weary grimace to fit in.

Albanian twenty-somethings generally dress in tight brightly colored shirts, smattered with a motley assortment of English phrases, the most popular of which seemed to be, “Boy I love my trouble love.” A phrase as true as it is absolutely non-sensical.

Upon packing to leave for two years I realized that I had amassed a truly heroic collection of blue shirts, in fact all of my shirts were blue, except for the one that was black. Aside from obvious fashion differences, the typical Albanian male and I seemed to share nothing but an appreciation for drawing breath to sustain life and large amounts of coffee. Where is all the chest hair? I thought to myself as I slowly buttoned up my blue shirt… ashamed.

Our herd of Americans set out on our first Albanian adventure during xhiro time***. And then we walked through the castle. I share, along with most Americans, a fascination for anything that is older than 200 years and built out of stone. As we walked under the arch way of the castle in Elbasan I looked around trying to make eye contact with any Albanians in my general vicinity as if to say, DID YOU GUYS KNOW YOU HAVE A CASTLE!? IT’S SO OLD! We don’t have these where I’m from. They returned my gleeful glances with intense staring and smoothing wrinkles out of their bright pink t-shirts.

Just then a guy about my age walked by, his shirt featured a cartoon picture of two tennis shoes and read, “Where is my star shoes at?” As I tried to figure out what this could possibly mean, I realized I was staring… He must have been famous.




*Albanian gyro.
** Where are you from? How old are you? How much money do you make? Are you married? Why aren’t you married? Do you want me to find you a wife? Have you seen Albanian women? Do you want to get married to an Albanian woman? I know an Albanian woman, do you want to marry her?
***Xhiro n (GEE-Row): A long slow walk through a city around sun down. A proper xhiro is a social activity that one dresses up for, and walks slowly with their friends or family up and down the main street of the town. Take the normal American walking pace and move at 1\4th the speed. Once you get to the end of the main street, turn on a dime and walk back the other direction. This may feel awkward at first because as Americans we are trained to walk “to” destinations achieve a goal at said destination and then return home triumphant.

That Night in Prishtina

After being turned away from the first Serbian Border.

Albania>Kosovo>Serbian Border>Kosovo again... for those keeping score at home.

I was dropped off by the Serbian Coke truck driver in the capital of Kosovo, Prishtina. I had been through Prishtina before and I liked it very much. It’s a modern capital city which is a sharp counterpoint to the small community that I love in. We have three streets and a big cow and dog traffic problem.

Prishtina is developing. This is something that I hear about it constantly, "it's developing." So much so that the city center boasts a statue of English block lettering proclaiming the word "Newborn." The war in the 1990s ravaged this place and all of Kosovo, but this country, like these people, have a way of soldiering on and working to heal some incredibly deep wounds.


Kosovo for the most part, is ethnically Albania and this is the main reason for their break with Serbia. They speak the same dialect as is spoken in my town, Bajram Curri Albania. However, being dropped off late at night with no place to stay and no idea how you will get to where you are going tinges the world with a kind of oppression. There is a point while you are traveling, and I believe that this is why we travel, there is a point that you are completely at the mercy of those around you. This is when you realize how good the world is.


I walked to the sleeping bus station, it’s lights still glowing against the warm summer night. Fatigue had burned away ironically, because I had no place to sleep that night. My plan was to sleep in the bus station or in a park, take the first bus wherever it was going in the morning, and piece my way to Austria or Czech Republic from there. As I approached the bus station, several Kosovar Cab drivers approached me and asked where I wanted to go. I kind of laughed when I told them that I had no idea where I was going, so I didn’t need a cab.

Then another cab driver approached me. He offered me a cigarette as a sign of respect, I clucked my tongue and patted my chest, which generally means, “Thanks but, no thanks.”
“What do you need?” He asked.
“I don’t need a ride, but thank you.”
“No, look- I’m not offering you a ride. I’m not a cab driver right now. Where are you from?
“America, but I live in Albania.”
“Are you Albanian originally?”
“No, I just teach there.”
“Well, look you speak Albanian and I appreciate that. How can I help you?
The hairs stood up on the back of my scalp, and I knew that even though my entire plan was in pieces, I would figure something out- because people, all people, operate like this man. No one wants to see anyone without a place to stay.
“I need to get to Vienna or Prague but I can’t pass through to Serbia from Kosovo.”

He nodded, understanding. And then grabbed me roughly by the shoulder. “You go in there to the bus station, and you tell the man that you need to go to Macedonia, first thing in the morning. When you get to Macedonia they will have a bus to Vienna.”
I put my hand to my heart and thanked him.
“Good luck.” He said as he drove away.

I took a room at the cheapest hostel in Prishtina*. I showered and brushed my teeth. I hadn’t eaten anything in over 24 hours but I found a bag of stale chips in a cabinet**. I couldn’t sleep. I watched the sun rise over Prishtina. I walked to the bus station. And got on the first bus to the capital of Macedonia.


*The Professor’s House 11 Euro a night.
**Not my finest moment, but everything was closed and for what it’s worth they were delicious.

Fake Albanian.

A confession about what really happened in my grandmother's car before leaving country.

I spent a lot of time in the car* in Los Angeles. Of course this is like saying, “I ate food to maintain life in Los Angeles,” or “I spent money on for goods and services in Los Angeles.” But I did. I was working with my theatre company in Hollywood, living at my parent’s house and driving my grandmother’s car**. I had two CD’s in the car, Kanye West’s “My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy,” which was perfect for fantasizing about being rich and famous for no particular reason after Peace Corps (After having lived in country for a year and a half, being in America will seem like driving a money car down a street made of gold, to the oil baths where I will relax in a bath of crude oil while wearing a top hat. I can't wait to come home). And Lyle Lovett’s Greatest Hits, which my mom had left in the car. This was perfect for imagining the bittersweet Dawson’s Creek-esque montage of the life that I was leaving. Everyone in my montage was running in slow motion, and for some reason I was in a hospital instead of going to the Peace Corps. And I was played by Justin Long… or Kanye West.

Anyone who has ever undergone a massive upheaval of their entire life knows that everything becomes incredibly meaningful ludicrously quickly. The poor people at the coffee shop that I used to frequent had to deal with me saying things like, “This is the last time I’ll ever ask you if anyone is using the bathroom right now.” I thank both Lyle Lovett and Kanye West for being there for me in those days. They were like a very weirdly cast buddy cop movie.

Sometimes, I would turn the radio off and just talk to myself for a bit. I did this in fake Albanian. Allow me to explain: I had begun learning rudimentary Albanian by making Albanian flash cards and watching Albanian music videos. I puzzled at the fact that words like “sword” and “male turkey” were words that came up after a casual search for Albanian vocabulary, but I soldiered on assuming that it would come in handy. However, Albanian pop music’s pension for auto-tuning gave me no idea as to how the language was pronounced. Much in the same way, that because Latin is a dead language and no one knows how it’s pronounced any more, I began to piece it together… like a jackass.

I would repeat over and over again, rudimentary sentences I had badly constructed, like “Hello, I’m from America. I want an sword.” I would then repeat it casually, as if I asked for swords all the time.

I was so desperate for some instruction in the ways of the Albanians that I put out an ad on craigslist that said, “Are you ALBANIAN!? Do you live in LOS ANGLES!? If so, I want to hear from you.****” I received no response.

For lack of anything better to do I just made up, what I thought Albanian sounded like. Kind of like pretending you speak Italian by “Talking-A Like-A Deez!” or pretending that you speak German by yelling for no apparent reason. I would be alone in my car with the radio off speaking fake Albanian, which was a mix of fake Russian and High School Spanish. Sometimes I would repeat several sentences of fake Albanian over and over again, as if I were actually saying something. Then I would imagine an Albanian person understanding whatever I just said, reaching under the counter and retrieving a sword for me.

People have a lot of ways for dealing with the existential terror of an unpredictable future. Some drink, and some become obsessive compulsive. I research. I research as if I were getting drunk off of it. I subjected all of my friends to months of, fun facts like, “Did you know Albanian is separated into two distinct dialects with the Ghegs in the North and the Tosks in the South?” and “In Albania they shake their heads for yes and nod their heads for no! Isn’t that whacky… and interesting?” To them I apologize for those nine months.

Those things that I couldn’t research, I made up, compulsively. Any and all gaps in my knowledge of any given subject were be filled in with obsessively detailed fiction. After ranting for a good half an hour in fake Albanian, I would think to myself I can’t wait to see what Albanian actually sounds like. Then I would think… God, I hope I can learn to speak Albanian. Then I would think…I wonder if Peace Corps will give me a sword.

The naturally ensuing silence in the car would be oppressive. Then I would turn on Lyle Lovett.

*Car I should mention, in Albanian is a very dirty word. I feel weird typing it, as I have removed the word almost entirely from my English vocabulary while in country. I say “Automobile” or I pronounce it like an English fop…“Caahhh”

** AKA, I was a stud.

*** Tungatjeta, une jam nga Amerika. Une dua ne sapate.
**** Fact.

Landings

A slight redux of Landing in Albania for the first time.

The plane skidded low across the Albanian landscape from Germany, and I could see rolling hills dotted with brightly colored houses. At least, when I was conscious. I thought that it was a great idea to stay up for the 13 hour plane ride from Washington D.C. to Munich Germany. To that end, I remember the one hour flight from Germany to Albania as a series of waking dreams, punctuated by unconsciousness, and then waking up to find a small lake of drool gathering on the tray table in front of me. This would be the beginning of a year and a half spent waking up having no idea where I am.
At one point, after realizing the torrent of drool streaming from my open mouth, and that I was sitting next to a one of the Peace Corps Volunteers in my group I decided to attempt to get to know him. I swung my head to him ladling drool back into my mouth and said something charming akin to:
“SORRYIwasjustazzzleep! Stayed up the whole flight. Di-ju sleep at all?”
I then stared red-eyed at him expecting a response as if I had spoken something like English.
“Um.” He said-
“SO WHAT KINNA MUSIK YOU LIKE!?” I yelled, not realizing my ears hadn’t popped.
“I like…” He began-


And then I was out like a light again. When I realized that it was time to animate my limbs, we were on the ground. A feeling that I would describe as incredibly hilarious terror gripped me as I realized that neither I, nor the plane would be returning to America any time soon. I gazed outside of the window, thinking that there should be more development around an international airport, and there shouldn’t be a cow grazing near the tarmac.

My first impression of Albania was that it looked like Barstow California if it had been conquered by the Ottoman Empire for a brief period. As I looked out the window I briefly questioned if I would be able to breathe the air out there.


When we finally disembarked, I took my last breath of recycled German air and took a lung full of Albania. I emerged from the airplane in a fatigue ridden giggling stupor, with blood shot eyes, and weak limbs. Upon seeing me, one would have thought that we had hot-boxed the airplane. But, I was just… so tired.
And that’s when it hit me, everybody was speaking Albanian.

Border Runner

Restarting, "Peacemonger" a year later.

When I come to, I realize that I’m running across the Serbian Border for the second time in one weekend. One time at night when I had to chase down a Serbian Coca-Cola Truck to hitch a ride back to the capital of Kosovo, and one time during the day, on the border of Bulgaria and Serbia, because I really had to pee.

The tarmac stretched out, long and hot before me. By this point in my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I have a learned many things. One of the most important of which is- I know how to ride on busses for long periods of time. Part and parcel of knowing how to ride on busses for long periods of time, is knowing exactly when you will have to pee, and if an opportunity does not present itself- you make an opportunity. Travel teaches one to live in the moment, and balk at stage fright.

A group of Serbian border guards had come out of the customs booth, where I had just been questioned. Around fifty Bulgarian passengers stood with the border guards. As I looked back, I wondered what it was that had propelled me so quickly towards the shack at the other end of the border which had a duct taped sign that proclaimed, “Tualet.” It was either that I was afraid of being shot by the Serbians or that I really had to pee. This would be something that I had to figure out, after I relieved myself.
I swung around the doorway to the bathroom finding a sign demanding fifty Dinar for entrance. I slapped fifty euro-cents down on the table and for a moment, enjoyed being alone.

***

I thought about the first time I had run across the Serbian Border. I bought a bus ticket from Gjakova Kosovo to Vienna Austria. When I got on the bus, the driver looked at my passport and noticed I had a lot of stamps from Kosovo. His eyes widened considerably.

“Do you have an Albanian passport?” He asked.
“No,” I said, smiling broadly, as if maybe, if I made him like me enough, he could change the international conflict what had just three months earlier, led to the customs station I was passing through to be fire bombed and bull-dozed by Serbian activists. I’ve smiled my way out of worse situations than this, I thought to myself.
He handed me back my passport and said, “I give you a 75% chance that you make it through.” For some reason, I thought of the scene in Star Wars where the lady in the cream colored shawl tells them about the exhaust port that they have to hit with a photon torpedo in order to blow up the Death Star. Everyone claims that it’s impossible, but Luke used to nail wamprats in his T-16 back home, so he has faith. I had faith that I would make it through the Serbian border... And blow up the Death Star.

Night has fallen long before the bus had approached the border crossing. Because it was previously destroyed, this border was heavily fortified. Trucks parked along the sides of the roads were being searched thoroughly by teams of Serbian Border guards with dogs. My passport felt red hot in my hand. Having an American passport with 20+ Kosovo stamps in it at the *Serbian\Kosovar Border Crossing is like having a copy of Penthouse at the Vatican, it’s not going to win you any friends.

As the lights came on in the bus for us to be inspected, I realized that my palms were drenched in sweat. I was very far from the capital city of Kosovo. If I was kicked off the bus I would likely be sleeping in a field on the border of Serbia. As the border guard approached, I handed him my drivers license, as the Kosovar bus driver instructed me to do. The Serbian official looked me up and down. I smiled, these are not the droids you’re looking for.

“Passport.” He said in heavily accented English. I handed him my passport, thinking of the pages and pages of Kosovo stamps decorating the pages. I still had hope that maybe they would look at the one page without any Kosovo stamps on it. After a moment the guard returned with two other guards.

“Eric, American!” One yelled. The jig was up. When I saw the other two border guards with him, I wondered briefly if they thought I was going to give them any trouble**. They brought me over to a booth and questioned me about the Kosovo stamps. I spoke to a man in a box with a computer in front of him. He smoked a cigarette and looked at me as if I had just woke him up from the best dream.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I pleaded, thinking about how many Euro I had in my wallet, and trying to figure out an appropriate number for a bribe.
“No,” he said blankly sucking on his cigarette.
“So, I can’t go through the border at all?” I said, raising a saucy eyebrow.
“No.”
“And there are no busses going back to Prishtina?”I began pleading, my eyebrow returning to it's normal position.
“I don’t know.”
“So, what am I supposed to do?” I asked finally- seeing that he was not interested in my lightly insinuated bribery.
“I don’t know. Goodbye please.” He said, waving me away like an American fly.


I collected my enormous backpack and stood there trying to figure out what to do next. One of the things that you get used to being an American abroad is being judged by the actions of your military and your celebrities. Rather than being, say, an Austrian abroad who would be surely judged off of the quality of Red Bull, and the merits of Flugtag.

I stood, still jittery and wild eyed after getting tossed out on my ear in the middle of the night in the middle of no where. I wondered what my friends back in the states were up to. Then I wondered where I would spend the night.

Then I saw it. Pulling away from the Kosovar customs station like the last chopper out of Vietnam. A Coca-Cola truck. It was like when Han Solo flys in and shoots Darth Vader's tie-fighter out of the sky. But first I had to catch it.

I ran through the dark trenches on the side of the road, dodging teams of border guards searching trucks. Blinded by the floodlights of the customs booth, I tried to keep my eyes on the form of the Coke truck which was slowly pulling away. I will not sleep in a field tonight, I thought. I ran faster than I ever thought I could, and resolved that I would beg the driver more pathetically than I ever assumed was possible. My enormous pack jounced from side to side, threatening to throw me into a ditch or into a group of Serbian police.

When I finally caught up to the Coke truck, I clamped onto the side of it and started yelling in a mix of good English, polite Albanian, and absolutely terrible Serbo-Croatian- “LET ME IN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD I’LL PAY YOU ANYTHING!!!!” The Kosovar border guards were yelling at me for some reason, I assumed that I had dropped something from my bag. Whatever it was, they could have it.

Somehow the point got across, and the driver let me into his truck. I sat clutching my enormous bag, like a big wet dog on my lap. Just then I realized that the Border guards were yelling, because I never checked back into the Kosovo border. People get arrested for that. I just accidently ran right through a border I thought and waited on pins and needles for sirens, none came.

After a few minutes I began chatting with the driver on the way back to the capital of Kosovo. He was twenty-three, a Serbian, a truck driver. His English and my Serbo-Croatian were not enough to get very far. I looked into the back of the truck to notice a small bed.
“Sleep here?” I asked placing a hand on it.
“Da.” He said scowling and nodding.
“Work, hard? Difficult?” I asked.
“Da… Yes.” He said.
“Respect.” I said, knowing that it’s a generally understood and used word through out the Balkans.
“It’s nothing. Thank you.”
“Thank you.” I said.
We didn’t talk much for the rest of the ride. He dropped me off. I tried to thank him in Serbo-Croatian, which didn’t seem to work. And he drove off. I had to find somewhere to sleep that night.

***

And then I finished peeing and had to face the bus load of Bulgarians and Serbians that I had inconvenienced considerably with my thimble sized bladder. I walked out of the bathroom to see that the bus had pulled up, directly outside of the door. Everyone in the bus was staring at me. They were accompanied by several border guards. I sheepishly took my seat on the bus again. Needless to say, I was relieved*** to have some place to call my own for a bit.


I’ve gotten really good at riding on busses in my time in the Peace Corps. The other thing that you have to be good at, is staring out the window for long periods of time, thinking about nothing… and everything.


If given enough time staring out a window at the passing countryside, everything becomes allegorical of your past, present, and future. That cloud hushing by in the upper stratosphere, a metaphor for the reckless abandon of your teenage years. The crumbling building in the distance, a bittersweet reminder of the fact that all things must come to an end. The Serbian gas station, a sobering realization about the connection between consumerism and pizza flavored snack foods. You are, at this point, hallucinating from boredom. But, as they say, life happens in the cracks. Between the slabs of concrete where you see a flower growing, or between the trailers and the start of the film, where you realize that you have forgotten what movie you went to see any way. For me, those cracks are bus rides. This is where my life happens now.


A year and a half has passed. I just traveled out of country for the first time. I rode on a lot of busses. I think I’m ready to talk about what happened this last year and a half.

Between the 10th post "Munich" and this post a 15 months have passed. And a good deal of my experiences have been recorded in Live Theatre Blog, some of which I will redux here. From now on I will consider "Peacemonger" as "Live Theatre Blog; The Blog." Apologies for any confusion. I'm just not the best at blogging.





*Here’s some quick background. Kosovo considers itself a country independent from Serbia which is largely ethnically Albanian. America agreed with them during the collapse of Yugoslavia. In the late 1990s we bombed the Serbian Capital, and supported the development of Kosovo as an independent country. To this day there is a statue of Bill Clinton in the Capital city of Prishtina. AKA Kosovo=America, YAY! Serbia=America, BOO!

**Every time I’m at a border crossing, I busy myself with fantasies of being Jason Bourne. If I ever have any trouble, I have the entire situation worked out in my mind, it goes thusly:

Throw my passport at the guard in front of me.
Throat chop to the one on the right.
Groin kick to the one on the left while removing his baton.
Whirlwind baton attack on the group, knocking them to the floor.
As the one on the right falls, I’ll retrieve his gun from his holster and stand there-
Looking awesome.

***Hehe...