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.