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...