Enchanted Chaos

To be honest, I don’t even remember the first embrace or the first words with Moza. I could write something, but I’m sure I’d only be recreating it in my mind the way I imagine it must have been. I was in an overwhelmed state of shock that leaves a pleasant void in one’s memory; pleasant because it quickly becomes filled by imaginings grander than anything that happened in reality. The first thing I can really say I remember upon returning is waiting disoriented and awkward for Moza outside the bathroom with 10-year old Jurgeni, who later admitted that he had really come all the way to Tirana to meet me at the airport in hopes I had brought the remote control car I promised him. Soon Moza returned, and we got on the bus to the city center.

As it was an excellent distraction from the cold, inapproachability of Russia, I had planned my return over and over again in my head during the past semester. The scenes had ranged from a glorious homecoming in a land I was destined for to a reality check in the face of my long months of daydreaming. Nevertheless, as I anticipated in all my imaginings – good or bad - the day gradually took on a whirlwind-like quality. Luckily, this is exactly what I had been craving. It was an element of detachment and excitement amid chaos that had been missing from my life.

That very afternoon, my former place of work was hosting its holiday party. I’m not sure if this was fate or Moza’s lobbying to have it on the day of my return, but it was a good sign that my rosier daydreams were winning out in reality. Though, as was standard practice during my two years in Albania, there was a conflicting engagement – it also happened to be the birthday of a dear friend of mine, and I needed to meet him in the center of Tirana. The significance of the meeting being that it required a nearly impossible schedule. During the course of the next four hours I needed to make a 20-minute bus ride and a 30-minute walk to get from the airport to meet my friend in Tirana, drink a coffee with my friend, walk another 30 minutes across Tirana to get a furgon to Lushnja, make the hour and a half trip to Lushnja, find another furgon to the café outside of town, and make the 20-minute trip there.

Without a doubt there is an enchanted quality to the way that Albanians float about so calmly and confidently amid what seems like chaos and disorder to outsiders. Life seems simultaneously to race along, demanding that people manage to be in ten places at once, and to maintain the stereotypical slower pace of Mediterranean life that permits time for endless coffees with every friend you run into on the street. Although I am much better at living such a life with ease and grace, even after two years I did not master the art, and when I realized the logistics of my situation upon arrival, I felt a slight pressure in my chest. I needed to quickly reorient myself to the coinciding of fast and slow.

Luckily, despite any intention on my part, such feats of time and space somehow always come together in Albania. After dragging poor Moza and her son half way across the city with me, only to miss my friend who had a birthday, and have a coffee with a different friend, in the midst of which I forgot my bag in the cab I decided would get us across town quicker, but didn’t because of traffic – after all that – we were finally tucked snugly amid fellow passengers and my bags in a furgon headed for Lushnje.

The Long Awaited Return

I remember the moment I started thinking about leaving Albania. It was the Christmas of 2010. I was laying in bed when suddenly unexpected and unexplainable tears began to roll down my face. It was as if someone just told me for the first time that my life in Albania had an expiration date. Twenty-seven months had taken on various meanings through-out my service. At first it felt like holding my breath through the long West Virginia tunnels on summer trips between Ohio and South Carolina as a child – seemingly endless with a dubious purpose (my dad always promised this ritual ensured our save passage through the tunnel). Then, it felt like a slow march up to the Gjirokaster old town – slow, exhausting, but certain in the beauty of its outcome. And, eventually, it started to feel like a countdown to something unknown – like descending into a remote village after one of our many unpredictable hikes around Albania. However, until that moment, laying on my friend's divan in Korça, the end of 27 months never felt real. The next five months after that moment were some of the best of my life.

The anticipation of returning to Albania had been building ever since I left. I had what natives of my new adopted country call «чемоданное настроение (suitcase state of mind maybe?)» from the moment I bought my ticket in September. After a seemingly endless eight weeks at Middlebury College's summer Russian program, and another tediously long tenure of four months in Vladimir, Russia teaching English, I was finally returning to Albania. Despite the fact that I could sum up the preceding seven months in three words – longing for Albania – and for all the lavish exultations about the wonders of Albania I had subjected my colleagues to over the past four months, there was a private sense of doubt behind my words. Would it be the same when I returned? Or had nostalgia in Albania's absence simply been playing tricks on me?

Almost as soon as I exited my plane in Istanbul, my ears began searching for the sounds of Shqip. I knew it was premature. I was still walking off a plane full of Russians, and then I would walk through an airport full of people from all over the world, the unnoticable minority of whom would be Albanian. In anticipation, my ears held onto any sound that could be vaguely misinterpreted as Albanian. The many words that Albanian takes from Turkish made this easy to do. Eventually, I settled for taking a little satisfaction from hearing those words – tamam and hajde being the most common – immersed in an unfamiliar tongue.

Finally, as I boarded my plane to Tirana, I heard the sounds of Shqip. Sounds that only a few years ago were so foreign now comforted me and gave me a sense of belonging. I tried to catch every bit of conversation – a fascinating exercise among a group of likely immigrants from all over Albania. I felt like a famished guest sitting before the buffet with the dialectical richness of the Albanian language surrounding me. I could pick and choose the conversations to listen to like items on the buffet, but I couldn't quite enjoy or focus on just one because I was overwhelmed by choice and hunger.

A man approached who obviously had the seat next to me, and I jumped at the chance to ask, «A jeni ketu? (Are you sitting here)?» while pointing to his seat. If he had been American, I wouldn't have taken the time to ask. I would have quietly moved out of the way for him to sit down. But, this was the Albanian way, you take any opportunity to start a conversation. To my dismay, this did not spark the, «Oh, where are you from?» conversation I had hoped for.

Alas, the better my Albanian gets, the less common such conversations become. I eventually realized that Albanians don't instantly assume you are foreign because of a slight accent or small grammatical mistakes. With the significant differences between Albanian dialects, the poor knowledge of standard Albanian among some Albanians, and the number of Albanians born abroad whose Albanian is peppered with the influence of Greek, Italian, English, etc., Albanians are on some level used to hearing different versions of spoken Albanian. I sat through the rest of the plan ride listening intently, nervously waiting for the right time to say something, much the way I had during the first months of my service when I was not yet confident in my Albanian. It was strange to be back in such a situation: you think of a sentence, but gain the courage to speak only in time for the appropriate moment to have passed.

Meanwhile, all through-out the plane people were standing around talking, joking, arguing – activities Albanians have perfected. It is cliché, but I thought to myself, «Only on a plane full of Albanians would everyone clearly ignore the «fasten your seat belt» sign and crowd the isles to chat with their friends.» There was a sense of warmth that inevitably came from the fact that it was all so familiar, but also partially from my conviction that my soul belongs among people as animated and lively as Albanians.

The leg of the flight that covers little Albania is almost unnoticeable – an intimation of the unfortunate reality that Albanian remains relatively unnoticed in the world. Hence, the plane always flies low enough within Albanian territory to see the thin clouds hovering over the jagged mountain tops that seem to belong somewhere much further from civilization. The romantic feeling of these mountains is intensified by the fact I have climbed some of them. They aren't anonymous mountains. They are mountains that defined some of my greatest memories. More than once my fate was determined by their curves, cliffs, and caverns. As the plane approaches Tirana and makes its final turn to land, you get a panoramic view from the sun-reflected sea just north of Durres all the way to the snow capped mountains speckled with old villages, castles, mosques, and churches. It is an unforgettable, but now familiar view on a sunny day like the one I arrived on.

When we landed, my stomach was in knots. Later, Moza would point out that I was biting my fingernails, a nervous habit I had never noticed myself doing before. My projections would meet reality momentarily, and that private dread that my Albania had existed only in my imagination was swirling through my head.

Waiting to deboard and go through customs seemed to take years, but then suddenly, I was walking out from behind the glass doors that separate the waiting area from baggage claim. There, a mass of people waited like paparrazi, hoping that the next person to walk through those doors would be their loved one – one of the many Albanian immigrants living abroad. Although 99.9% of those people were disappointed that I was the person coming through those doors, two important people were estatic that it was me – Moza and Jurgeni.

Starting Over

It has taken me quite a while to start writing again. The past six months have felt like I was traveling in some kind of machine that speeds up time, from which I could only struggle to watch as everything was passing by. I returned to America in May for a short few weeks with my family before heading to Middlebury College in Vermont to take an intensive Russian program. Then, I left Middlebury a few days early to fly to Russia, where I am continuing to study Russian and I have started to work as an English teacher.

I never quite imagined how difficult it would be to leave Albania. I was sad before I even left, and I heard all the stories about other Peace Corps volunteers who struggle to readjust. However, I did not realize how much I had changed over the past two years, and how much of that change I could thank Albania for. I did not realize that the struggle would be more than just readjustment – indeed the readjustment, though difficult at times, is the least painful part. The difficult part is the loss. To be completely honest, there are times when I felt like someone has died. All the things that made up Albania for me – my friends, my lifestyle, my work – were suddenly gone. Finally, I realized how attached I became, and although it sometimes this attachment causes my sadness and nostalgia, I am thankful for my attachment. It reminds me that I am human and I care about people and places. It means that my life in Albania was meaningful.

With that, I hope to start writing about my experience here in Russia. I am much busier with concrete, structured work here, but I will try to find the time to write something once in a while.

Momenti i fundit

The dreaded moment has finally arrived. I am sitting at the airport in Tirana, my departure for American imminent. It is so sad and so difficult to leave a place where people have done nothing but love you for two years. I cannot exactly explain the flood of feelings I am having. Hence, I will leave you with a short and simple poem I wrote for a dear friend of mine here as a going away gift. For my American readers, just as I cannot seem to translate my Albanian feelings into something comprehensible to Americans right now, I strangely cannot come up with a proper English translation of my Albanian words. With more reflection and time, I am sure I will better express myself.

Erdha në pranverë

Por s’u çela menjëherë

E huaj isha

Po shkas kisha

Thjesht po bridhja botën

Por mori më shumë rënd’si me kohën

Sa herë që u gabova

Aq më shumë u ambientova

Çdo ditë ndjesitë m’u rritën

Dhe u habita që shoqet më pritën

Më pas u shndërrua qëllimi

Kryesorja për mua u bë njerëzimi

Ti Shqipëri zemrën ma ke pushtuar

Se vetëm ti më ke kuptuar

Sa shpejt që ikën ditët

M’i kapërcyen të gjitha pritjet

Tani sa më vjen trishtim

Që do iki nga një vend që më sjell kaq gëzim

Shërbimi im mbaroi

Por lidhja me Shqiptarët kudo do më shoqërojë

Ika në pranverë

Por Shqipëria do më prekë përherë

Albanian byrek

Byrek is a big part of Albanian culinary culture. These tasty pastries stuffed with spinach, beans, cheese, yogurt, or meat are made in the individual variety, sold along the street, and they are also made in big pans to be served “family style” at home. Byrek, as many other parts of Albanian food, culture, and language, has its origins in Turkish culture, and variants of byrek can be found all over the Balkans, the Middle East, and Northern Africa. When I was in Bulgaria last summer, I was able to try their бюрек.

Albanian byrek is delicious, and, when like me, you have an entire pan of it sitting around your house, quite dangerous for your health. A fellow volunteer stated, “byrek is the gateway food.” Byrek is so delicious because it is loaded with oil, salt, and other goodies depending on what you stuff it with. So, if you start your day with a fresh, crispy, warm byrek off the street, you are likely heading into a day of unhealthy eating – there just isn’t any coming back. Sometimes, it is worth the sacrifice : )

Since this is such an important part of the Albanian diet, and one of my favorite things here, I decided I had to learn to make it myself. Below is the recipe I have put together after quite a few instructed sessions with one of my dear friends here. Of course, people make it different ways, and Albanians don’t typically use measurements when making it. They just know what seems right. So, I tried my best to measure after my friend dumped out the quantity she thought was appropriate.

Recipe

6 cups spinach

1 medium onion or 6 green onions

3 tbs. oil (sunflower or olive)

1 tsp. salt

3 cups flour

1 tsp. salt

1 egg

warm ater (as needed)

cornstarch (as needed)

1 tbs. oil (sunflower or olive)

Cut up spinach in thin strips. Dice onion(s). Add oil to frying pan and cook onions until slightly brown. Add spinach and salt. Cook for a few minutes until spinach is wilted. Set aside.

Place flour and salt into center of a round pan. Crack egg in the center. Gradually start to mix with hands, adding water as necessary. Knead mixture into a soft dough (about 15 minutes).

Once dough is soft, roll into a thick log. Break of 12 small pieces and roll into balls.

To begin making the sheets of phyllo dough, place a small circle of cornstarch on counter and place one ball of dough on top of it. Also, sprinkle a bit of cornstarch on top of the ball.

Then take a long, thin rolling pin and begin to slowly roll out the ball, switching angles to keep it in a circular shape (though they don’t need to be perfect). Make sure to apply pressure to the rolling pin at the edge of the ball of dough, not at the end of the rolling pin.

Once the dough gets about as big as your hand, take one finger and flip the edge of the dough around the rolling pin.

Roll the piece up until it is almost entirely around the rolling pin. Gently roll the pin back and forth softly pushing the sides of the dough out to enlarge the piece.

Then quickly roll up the entire piece, and then slowly unroll, applying pressure to again enlarge and thin out the piece of dough. Continue doing this until piece is as large as round pan.

Sprinkle bottom of pan with oil, and then gently unroll the piece into the pan. Continue to do this, sprinkling a little bit of oil between each piece of phyllo dough.

When you have three pieces of phyllo dough layered, add half of the spinach and onion mix over the dough. Then, begin to roll out and layer the phyllo dough again. When you have laid another three, add the other half of the spinach mixture.

Roll out and layer the final three pieces of dough. You can cut the byrek before putting it in the oven, or after it is baked. Place in oven, and bake. Unfortunately, I cannot give you a temperature or a time because my oven does not have a temperature. I put it in and watch for it to be done.

Ju bëftë mirë! (Literally: May it do you well; Meaning: Bon Appetite)