one
It was quite possibly the perfect cup of tea. Flying somewhere over the United Kingdom, I began writing in my journal about the quality of tea served on our airplane. It was a fantastic beverage steeped to perfection, not too hot, certainly not the least bit cold, and rich rusty brown in color. It required no cream or sugar. Just gloriously plain tea hitting your lips with every sip.
I tried not to drink too quickly because I wanted this enjoyable tea-filled experience to last as long as possible. But all good things come to an end sooner or later. Or at least until the flight attendant brings the teapot around for refills.
We landed in London, and seven hours later were waiting to board our third and final airplane. We also awaited our first meal in twenty-two hours, regretting our decision of being too careful with our money to buy sushi at the London airport. Mostly because the British Pound was absolutely slamming the US dollar, but also because it was 7am, to us, and what good American can stomach seaweed and raw fish for breakfast, I ask you?
Ok, we actually did try the yogurt. My traveling companion, Michael, was the one who made the purchase, but he hated it because it was real yogurt. The sour kind. The kind that you might find in a foreign country. Oh wait.
I think the thing that really got to me about this particular yogurt, looking all exotic and foreign in it’s blue and silver plastic container, was the lump factor. I’d say it was about an eight on a scale of one to ten. Is that normal? I never want to know.
He sat there, with a half tired half confused face taking spoonfuls of this irregular looking pudding-esque substance and eating it.
I sat there and hypothesized that you could, in fact, use this yogurt to caulk a leaky window. You know, one of those tall windows in an old Victorian home that just wouldn’t quite shut all the way because it had been so used. Or better yet, the window of a car, or bus, or airplane! I fantasized the newspaper headlines in my minds eye. One might read, “American Saves Plane With Leftover Strawberry Yogurt”. The article would intricately describe the details of how this particular brand had just the right amount of lumpiness to save the entire airplane from a terrible catastrophe. I would be a hero.
Which brings me back to the actual airplane. We were taking off to our final destination when the male flight attendants (stewards?) began to prepare lunch. Dozing in and out of consciousness, I began to imagine the delicious, freshly grilled chicken and heaping piles of creamy potatoes that would soon be on my in-flight tray table, which was currently in it’s upright and locked position. Shuddering at the lingering smell of ‘sour’ in my nose, I decided that this meal was going to be worth the wait. And maybe they’d even have cake. Or those slightly warm, tiny dinner rolls with the gold packages of butter.
I was dreaming of dancing and frolicking in mountains made of dark chocolate when I suddenly came to, very awake. Very wide awake. Very aware of that smell.
I desperately looked to my traveling companions who were also beginning to come to. My heart was racing. Fear and panic set in.
”Holy Lord, what is that smell?” I asked out loud. No, it wasn’t a blaspheme. It was an actual prayer. I was confused. At first, we didn’t know what to think, but after consideration, my companion and I decided it smelled like sweaty feet. Big, nasty, feet that hadn’t seen shoes or a shower in at least twenty years, were taking over our entire Boeing 727. I was afraid to breathe. I could feel my lungs crying out to me for a taste of fresh air.
In a delirious, delusional state of mind, I turned to Michael, who was sitting to my right. I calmly and in all seriousness informed him that as the leader of this team, I had decided there were only two logical explanations for this stench. Either Bigfoot was on our plane and had just removed his moccasins or Eastern Europe smelled like the inside of a pig that had eaten sulfur for dinner. He looked worried and then as some sort of defense mechanism kicked in, we broke into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, masked by tiredness, but underneath lay the feelings of real concern. We still didn’t know what was causing this smell.
And there it was.
Our steward said something to us in Albanian and set a tray of food in front of each of us.
Now, let me interject with this, for a moment. I love my country. I cherish my freedom and am proud to be a US citizen. But there are two things that really annoy me: Americans and tourists. American AND a tourist? That is the formula for both embarrassment and humiliation. A vile combination. And, under absolutely no circumstance, did I want to appear as an American tourist…to the steward, our seatmate or anyone else on the entire plane. (Bigfoot included.) So suppressing my desire to yell out, I started humming to myself. The theme from Jaws.
Our meal was full of hypocrisy. I don’t know how else to say it. We were starving, and our food taunted us from it’s shiny black tray. It was as if the food could sense our physical need for nourishment, and knowingly and on purpose continued to mock us with it’s highly unpleasant odor.
Michael was convinced that the paint was chipping off of the walls and that the plastic overhead bins were beginning to melt from the fumes below. Soon our backpacks and other carry-on items stored above, would be in our laps, probably weeping with disgust and hating us for making them part of our journey.
It was time to face the music…err food. I took a deep breath and began to unwrap the contents of my plate. There was a piece of bread with something inside that I can only describe best as hot cream cheese and chives. It was odd, but didn’t taste half bad. There was a piece of meat in red sauce that has, to this day, not been determined. I was afraid of it and consequently avoided making any and all eye contact.
By the time lunch was over, we had adjusted to the smell. Worry set in, as I began to wonder what I had gotten us into. I had convinced a friend to travel thousands of miles away from home, to a country we had never even heard of, to teach English.
Although we had had some contact with a teacher who had been living there for several years, we had no idea what to expect. All we knew is that we had prepared to teach English classes, and packed American gifts of chocolate and Dr. Pepper to give to the people we hoped would become our new friends.
We had read guidebooks and pondered over language charts…we even attempted to make traditional Turkish coffee, as our guidebook suggested, which is basically like making coffee by stirring in the grounds in with hot water, sort of like instant hot cocoa mix.
My coffee tasted like burnt tires. An acquired taste, no doubt.
All this work, and so far, it had come down to was this: horrible, smelly food. What kind of place were we going to? Would we have to eat bread and water for the coming weeks to survive? What if we didn’t have a bed, but instead slept on a floor of dirt and bugs? What have we done? Wasn’t there a war going on? Would we be in danger?
I leaned back in my and breathed deeply. I knew that for good or bad, this was going to be a memorable experience to a land not many ventured. Before leaving, a friend reminded me that not everyone was called to go to Kosovo. For the moment, I hoped my teammate didn’t hate me, because I knew that no matter what happened, no amount of the sour yogurt could save us now.
We made our final decent into Pristina. This is my account of Kosovo.
two
Our contact’s translator, Luta, met us at the airport.
The view from my room was about what you’d expect in a large Balkan city: lots of red roofs in the midst of a Mediterranean sky. The laced, white curtains danced in perfect time to the calm , effortless breeze flowing through the window. It was almost as if the wind was playing an instrument. There was something familiarly foreign about Kosovo that birthed mystery and wonder at first glance.
Kosovo is an interesting country. No dirt floors, no bread and water. But, literally no water. In fact, the flat we were living in came equipped with all kinds of wireless Internet, which was fantastic and helpful for looking up prices for train tickets, however, for a good portion of the day, one’s house would go for hours without running water, and consequently would keep several spare liters of water in the bathroom, just in case. Occasionally the electricity would go out. This was partially dependent upon when and if our neighbors paid their electric bill. Go figure.
The population in Kosovo, is primarily Albanian and therefore prominently Muslim. If you know anything about Muslim culture, you know they are some of the most hospitable people in the world. They want to sit with you for hours, drinking coffee, and on a very rare and special occasion, invite you to their home, which is a delightful treat you would consider yourself lucky to be given.
three
Most Kosovars immediately recognized that we were American. For some reason, a few confused me for a French girl, but Michael’s blonde hair gave him right away. We spoke much louder, much quicker, and were quite a bit taller than the average male and female.
At the time of our trip, Americans were hugely popular in Kosovo. This was a unique time for the country. They were gaining their Independence from Serbia. American had been helpful in supporting Kosovo’s Independence. Downtown Pristina has a portrait of Bill Clinton painted on the side of one of the buildings. You can also find yourself on Bill Clinton Boulevard.
Once, upon entering a restaurant, we were given a standing ovation. Kind of awkward at first but they wanted us to say something. Anything. I felt like Cinderella at the ball, or the ugly duckling who had been made beautiful. It was like we had entered a land where we were suddenly loved and made the center of attention because we were so different. We were allowed to push tables together to make bigger tables when we brought in our friends to eat, because we were American. We were given free ice cream and fruit.
Another occasion led us to Mexican food, which we were delighted to learn was there. The guacamole and salsa is pretty different, but nonetheless delicious. Our waiter was absolutely fascinated by us because we told him we came all the way from Texas to eat in his café. He waited close by and watched our every move refilling our coke at every chance. He even brought us a free appetizer of Kosovo-Mexican nachos and for desert, flan with a navy blue tapered candle in the middle and the plate decorated with chocolate and caramel sauce. When we asked if we could take a picture with him, he excitedly thrust some of the sombreros that were hanging on the wall, into our hands and gave us his best smile.
However, one of the most humorous encounters was when a group of high school students, at a coffee shop, mistook Michael for Brad Pitt. One of the guys offered Michael his pair of aviator sunglasses, to which he obliged and began posing for the crowd. The girls were going absolutely crazy demanding picture after picture be taken. After about 2 hours of shelling out euros to buy cappuccino, we left. And oh yes, did I mention we signed about a dozen autographs?
Our English classes got off to a– start. We had prepared mostly lessons over American sports, which seemed to interest everyone, however the first day, we discovered that American Baseball was quite possibly the hardest thing to explain. Ever. Especially to a group of people who’s first AND second languages weren’t English.
To make it worse, I absentmindedly misplaced our jump drive that housed our Football and Baseball lessons. Football was easy. Michael drew a picture of a football field on the chalkboard and began explaining the difference between quarterbacks and corner backs, while I was in the back of the room frantically trying to construct a baseball diamond in Microsoft Paint.
Really. Have you ever been in a situation like this? Take someone with about zero artistic ability and give them approximately eight minutes to draw a highly complex picture of the patterns and grounds on which one of the most complicated American sports ever to be thought up or played.
Well, just in case you are ever in a similar situation, it goes a little something like this.
Well let’s see. There are two teams. Each team has, how many players? Wait. Is there any colored chalk we can use? Ok, then. So then there’s this bat. What’s that? Um, ok, a large stick hits a ball. And then the player who hit the ball with the stick has to run around a series of bases. Unless the ball goes outside of the special foul line. What’s a foul? Yeah, let’s just go ahead and leave that part out. So while Player A is running around the bases, a player from the other team could catch the ball causing Player A to be out. And then there has to be three outs to switch infield and outfield. This happens twice an inning, which there are nine of. Oh yeah and there’s this weird position no one understands called the Short Stop and there’s a guy that sits behind home plate who determines if a pitch is good or bad. They all wear special gloves, too.
I hope this helps you out someday.
We ditched the second idea after one session: Youth Culture in America. While everything we learned and found interested us in preparing this particular presentation, we quickly discovered a universal truth that rings true: no matter where you are, all teenagers are the same. If you put 3 random teenagers from Kosovo, Little Elm, Texas and the Yukon Territory in the same room, they would all stand on common ground.
Several nights of the week, we would invite students back to our flat, where we also resided with our American-teacher friend, Lynn. Countless nights we played Uno and a new game called Hit the Deck. Hit the Deck was a new one, even for the Americans, that when a certain card is played everyone in the circle must hit the discard pile with their hands. It was hysterical watching our Albanian friends yell out ‘Hit the Deck’, as was required by the game. We accepted several variations thereof, such as “Hit Deck With Hand” and just a simple scream.
Deck!
Our students were wonderful. They were so gracious and accepting of these two strange Americans. We obliged them every week with serving variations of Mr. Goodbars and Fanta. Sometimes we would even break out the rationed trail mix and peanut butter crackers.
One night we decided to put our football skills into practice, in the courtyard of our flat. Now, our flat stood three stories high. The first floor, was the office and Michael’s room. It also had a small kitchen and gathering area. The second floor is where Lynn lived. It had a large living space and one bedroom. The third floor was where I stayed. I loved sitting on the balcony, up top, and watching people walk down the street. We did, have neighbors. Luta, who was our interpreter, and his family occupied the adjacent building and a Chinese family lived on the top floor.
We gathered in the tiny courtyard and began positioning everyone into a typical football stance and lineup. Comedy in action. One play after another gardens and flowers were trampled. The night ended with Michael getting slammed a little too hard into the metal gate barley avoiding a trip to the hospital. Which is a whole other story in itself.
four
The hospitals in Kosovo are very different, like nothing you would ever experience in the US. Throughout our stay, we made friends with Doctor S, although he was more of an administrator, rather than actually someone who treated patients.
Walking up to the hospital, I eyed a man with a fruit standing selling delicious looking bananas. I then noticed that the pavement was lined with vendors on both sides of the street. Lynn and our translator Luta, explained that if you were to go into the hospital you must bring everything with you. This included hospital gowns, house shoes, food, water, toilet paper, bed sheets—anything you needed must be either bought or brought from home.
I was a little disturbed, too as we continued up the driveway. Pink wastebaskets lined the pavement. They weren’t filled with just random trash, but with hazardous materials like gloves and used needles. It was very strange.
We met Doctor S. on the first floor of the Gynecology Clinic. He wanted to show us the pediatric wing and the newborn babies. We were of course allowed in, past security, because we were American.
The hospital was plainly colored, mostly from the brown and cream family. Black and cream tiles lay uniformly in patterns on the floor, wall to wall, and nurses were scattered about here and there, dressed in their conservative white uniforms. They had a sort of quiet presence. Red and white signs hung from the ceiling with arrows pointing you in the right direction. The elevators, however, were a bit scary. Giant doors guarded the outside of them, but they weren’t like regular elevator doors. They were heavy wooden doors that you might find walking into an old public library or school building. The inside of the elevators weren’t very big and I wondered if a patient’s hospital bed could fit inside.
We were taken to the baby ward, and allowed in to see newborn infants. I had never, in person seen anything like this. There, in the ward, was a mother who had just given birth to her new baby girl. She looked very tired, but was up taking care of her, feeding her and wrapping her blanket tight. No fancy machinery, just a few beds and a crib. She smiled weakly as we stared wide-eyed at the scene. She was so proud of her daughter. She was so beautiful.
A nurse who wore a green uniform now accompanied us, in addition to Doctor S. She worked with the babies, full time. They led us into one of the Nurse’s Station and made room for us to sit, offering us coke and chocolate.
They knew we were coming to visit and had made a special trip to the store for our snacks. This is the Albanian way. Anytime you are invited somewhere, hospitality is extended to the max. They truly wanted us to enjoy our visit and this was their way of showing love.
Graciously accepting the chocolate, we each took a piece. This is customary. We had learned that you must always try even if you do not want, so you won’t offend anyone. That day, in the Prishtina Hospital, we learned another very important lesson about the culture. If you say you like something, you will receive an excess of it.
The chocolate was, in essence, weird. It looked beautiful in shiny gold wrappers, but I’m not quite sure if it was just old or bad. In an effort of politeness, Michael thanked Doctor S. and told him that he liked the chocolate. The Nurse promptly handed the box to Michael again insisting that he take more. About four of five pieces of chocolate were shoved into his hands and he looked to me in desperation as to what to do with this disgusting treat.
Like a good sport, he ate the rest of the chocolate. Better him than me, I thought. Right?
As it turned out, one of our friends from the University, who had been attending our classes, had a sister who worked in the Eye Clinic. We decided to return later that night to visit Aferdita.
Now this is what I love most about Kosovo. You just never know what you are going to end up doing. Before we left the states, we learned that the Kosovar way was very different. Unlike America, it was is no way fast paced and often people ran late to appointments because they were spending time with someone previously. They are a very relational people by nature, which is a quality in life I didn’t know I had been missing out on.
Go with the flow for a moment.
We were going to visit Aferdita, and who knew this would be one of my most favorite nights in Kosovo. And it was spent at the eye clinic. At 10 o’clock at night.
Of course we were allowed in past Security. They were excited we were visiting again, and showed us up to the eye clinic floor. There, we meet our friend from class, Kimete, her brother Shukri, and their younger sister Bahti. Together we found Aferdita in the Nurse’s Lounge. We stood around for awhile making small talk. I was interested in meeting Aferdita because my own father was an eye doctor and through a translator we bonded over eye charts.
She showed me around the work up rooms, and we turned on different lights to read different charts. We had our picture taken with the machines the doctors used and the late-night silliness began to set it. Michael and Shukri disappeared for a while while we continued our tour of patient rooms and hospital desks, having fun and laughing together like we’d known each other for ages.
We returned to the Nurse’s Lounge to find that Michael and Shukri had returned with gifts of Coke, Fanta and sunflower seeds. Then and there we decided to throw a party. Laughing, eating and picture taking, we danced through the night until the wee hours of the morning, making up songs and playing with the plastic flowers that posed as the centerpiece of the coffee table.
And there we were. At the eye clinic. Having the time of our lives with people who didn’t speak the same language. Could it be that there are some things universally understood? Can true friendship exist with no bounds or barriers?
About 2am we decided to head back to the flat, tiptoeing through the halls of the Hospital, as not to disturb the patients and other staff who were sleeping. When we got to the elevator door, Aferdita hugged me and whispered into my ear in very broken English, “I am glad you came. It is good you are here.”
There were so many more words that weren’t audibly spoken in the hug she gave me. I smiled back and blinked back a tear that came from her touching words. I had just made my first Albanian friend.
When I got up to my room that night and emptied my bag, I found five unwrapped gold chocolates that Michael had snuck into my bag earlier that day when we were visiting the Hospital. I laughed.
five
There’s a huge store in Prishtina that we often referred to as the Wal-Mart of Kosovo. It was called Ben-af, and had a grocery store, restaurant, electronics department and a basement full of collectible house wares. We would stop there on our journey to and from Kaqanik to have coffee or eat a meal.
One particular week, we took Kimete, our friend from class, with us on the trip. She often came with us to serve as a translator and had, at that point, become one of our very good friends. A few other Americans were visiting, so we had a fairly large group.
We arrived in Kaqanik about ten o’clock in the morning and unpacked the goods as children began arriving. We got out the play-do and made many shapes of things we saw: trees, flowers, birds, Michael’s face. It was great. We later tied two jump-ropes together to make a longer one and taught the children how to play a jump rope game called chase. It was a beautiful day. The horizon was filled with beautiful shades of blue and green that you don’t see in the US. They were special to Kosovo.
A rooster joined our games…a few cows walked by. This was normal. We could hear in the distance, cowbells from a farmer moving his cattle.
Shortly after lunch-time we packed up and headed back to Ben-af for goulash and Fanta. Goulash is sort of a soup type dish with noodles and meat. It’s delicious and is a typical Kosovar food.
We decided to go to Kimete’s village, Drenas, which was a little further than Kaqanik. We had only been to a few cities in Kosovo, but never to a village like this, and it was one of the neatest experiences.
We stopped outside the village at a natural spring. This spring was unusual because the water was slightly carbonated. I have never tasted anything like it before and we filled our bottles to the brim. We didn’t stay long but it’s a good thing we stayed as long as we did. Upon arrival, another local had pulled up in his donkey-pulled cart. While he was filling his container, the donkey decided he had had enough and began to walk up the hill and leave. We helped our friend, this local, to chase down his bored donkey and return to the well.
Next we went to a war memorial that had been established in the middle of a huge field that flew, high the proud red and black flag of Kosovo. Kimete’s brother and sister, Shucri and Bahti, joined us at the memorial. We left the car behind and began on a long hike to Kimete’s house. We hiked up and down through valleys and hills. It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever send. It was like walking around in a postcard. Part of the area, was a nickel mine and had been roughed up a little by miners, but for the most part, it was ours, for that moment.
The hike was long, we were not prepared for nor dressed for this adventure but embraced it nonetheless. We called this area “The Valley of the Bones” for reasons I cannot recall. It seemed fitting at the time because by the time we were halfway to Kimete’s house we were surrounded by only landscape and it seemed as though we could die out there and no one would find us. Ha.
When we got to Kimete’s house, it was wonderful. Her family had a small farm and a huge garden that we got to walk through. They had just planted onions, peas and a variety of herbs.
We were taken up to the guest room, which was separate from the rest of the house. This is common in Muslim families. The room that we were taken too was beautifully decorated with gold on the walls and long white couches. We knew it was a big deal that Kimete invited us to her home, and learned later that she never had invited her closer friends from Kosovo. It laid the floor for a really special evening.
True to the Albanian way, upon our arrival, Kimete’s family began serving us snacks and food. We had brought some coffee and fruit with us to give to her parents as a gift.
Our first ‘course’ as I called it was soda and vanilla flavored cookies. They were delicious. There was also a type of trail mix, you could say. It was good and we sat and talked. Bahti turned on the CD Player and began listening to her favorite Kelly Clarkson CD, while we congregated on the balcony and talked with each other about the day, and the idea of getting corn out of our faces.
After about an hour, Kimete’s oldest brother and sister joined us for our second course, which was bowls and bowls of fruit. We were also given more soda and blueberry juice. It was wonderful and sweet.
At this point we had changed CD’s to listen to some traditional music. Bahti, Shucri and Kimete also showed us traditional dance and taught us a sort of line dance that you do in a circle. We spent several hours perfecting our footwork, getting it right with the beat.
For our last and final course, Kimete’s parents came and sat with us. They had brought special beef that they made. The process of making it required them drying the meat for days and treating it in special temperatures, slow cooking it. It tasted kind of like a mix between roast beef and beef jerky and was absolutely delicious. It was so touching because like most Kosovars, the Morena’s didn’t have a lot of money. This is a delicacy. A special food they had given to us to make us feel loved and welcomed.
We also had Turkish coffee with our meat. It did not taste like burnt tires.
Our dancing had ended and so we sat and talked with Kimete’s family, though translations. They asked us where we were from, how many siblings we had and what other countries we had visited before. They smiled at us and truly made us welcome.
The very last thing that was served was hot tea in traditional glassware, with sugar and lemons. This was not the first time with the tea, and had previously learned that if you were done with you tea, you place the spoon upside down on top of your cup, but if you want more then you place in facing upwards.
After the last dish was cleared, we decided it was time to head back to Prishtina. It was very late. Our goodbye to the Morenas, lasted about twenty minutes. We thanked them over and over for the hospitable treatment and kindness they had shown to us and left on a sort-of ‘high’ of joy and happiness. In America hospitality like this was reserved only for close family and was never as genuine as this. We were loved.
By the time we got the car and headed back to the city, it was well after midnight. We were excited and awake and spoke and laughed about all the random events that had occurred that day. I was beginning to understand that this randomness was just the Kosovo way.
six
A time of celebration and family rolls around once a year in December: New Years. Family members who do not live nearby, travel many miles to be with their loved ones for at least three nights. Kimete and Shukri left their flat in the city to return home.
