6 Cups Before 2pm

by Davidi

I made a terrible mistake on my first out-of-town trip. I was greeted by the Chief Prosecutor, who immediately offered me a coffee. I declined, stating that I had just had coffee at breakfast.  His face looked stricken, a combination of sadness and incredulity, as if I had just told him that his dog had been hit by a truck.  The interpreter scowled at me, then looked down. The meeting hadn't even started, and I had already blown it.

When you meet an Albanian professional at their office, you will be offered coffee, and you always accept.  Oh, at times you can substitute tea or even bottled water, but you must take something or they have failed in their duty of hospitality.  Not everyone has espresso immediately at hand, so many people you meet with will offer to take you down the street to a cafe for coffee.  Just like coffee in the office, you must accept this offer for a 45 minute side-trip.  (Don't schedule your meetings close together, you can't hurry the coffee sessions.)

When I made my next out-of-town trip, I had six meetings with judges, prosecutors, and police officials. You guessed it, by 2pm, I had consumed at least 6 cups of strong espresso. My hands were shaking!  (no such thing as decaf in Albania). But I was glad I had accepted. Coffee is a conversation lubricant here. While an official may be guarded in what they say at the office, that same official will become very candid over coffee.  That's important when you are asking about corruption.

While I must accept coffee offered me by officials I am visiting, I've learned to be careful when Albanian Embassy employees offer me coffee.  At first I thought they were offering to pour me a cup and bring it to my desk. How silly of me.  Albanians only drink coffee at a cafe, and there is no such thing as a "to go" cup in all of Albania! When I accept an offer of coffee at work, I have implicitly granted the Albanian employee a 30 minute break down the street, or at least in the cafeteria.

If you come to see us, and you don't like coffee, don't despair.  Merely explain that you are from a culture from the Southern United States that drinks iced tea.  Then don't be surprised when it comes in a can.  And pour those ice cubes into the ashtray before you fill your glass -- they are made with local tap water.

Lake Ohrid, Macedonia

Tile Roof

Preparing For A Musical Performance

Xhina and Davidi. . . Ready For A Traditional Macedonian Wedding 

Around The Corner From The Cave Where A Man Has Been Living For Over A Year . . . He Even Has A Refrigerator!

We'd Send You Our Home Address, But We Don't Have One

by Davidi

When I came to Albania for my pre-move trip in April, I stopped into a café to ask where a certain street was located.  The waiter said he didn’t know, but that he would bring the manager to speak with me. The manager, who spoke English very well, looked at the piece of paper where I had written the street name and shook his head.  “I don’t know where it might be,” he said.  I left the café and immediately  looked up at the street sign on the corner.  I was standing on the street I was looking for.  The Café was on that street!

Former Dictator Hoxha's House . . . the only address he needed

Albanians don’t know their own addresses.  (When Gina recently went into a dress shop asking for an address nearby, she asked them for their own shop’s address.  No one knew).  I guess this shouldn’t be shocking in light of the fact that streets were named only five years ago.  For centuries, places have been referred to by local landmarks.  Even today, when you ask for directions, no one mentions street names.  For example, the Embassy provided me with a list of churches in Tirana.  Here are some of the addresses:

“Near Restaurant Stela”

“Across from Iranian Embassy”

“A Villa behind the public television station”

They even use landmarks that changed years ago.  I’m not sure how foreigners will know where “the old train station baggage room” is, but that’s what suffices for an address in Tirana.

Perhaps the strangest directions I have gotten are to the Ambassador's residence:  "turn left where the bear is caged up." (I swear I am not making this up). 

 So,  we have an apartment, and it is in a real building, but there is no address.    Several Albanians have told us to merely refer to our address as “behind the glass front building.”  Apparently, the glass front building is long gone.  If you come to Albania, you'll find us there.

Xhina addition:    We recently met a woman who told us about her first Albanian party.  She had her street name and number printed on invitations...hardly anyone showed up.  For the next party, she had learned the Albanian way. She printed her invitations with her actual address:  "House behind the Italian Embassy" -- she had a great turnout for the party.

Korça...The Home of Delicious Meatballs

Albania, The 51st State

by Davidi

My Albanian barber has two flags in front of his mirror. Both are American.   America is his favorite country, he says. He also says he has never been there.  

Albania may be the most pro-American country in the world.  It may be more pro-American than, well . . .America.  There are American flags everywhere. Gina and I see them in windows and printed on shoes and t-shirts.  The prosecutors I visit usually have a display with three flags on their desks:  Albanian, European Union and American.  (And a recent survey said that 80% of Albanians see the U.S. as very influential here, while 7% see the E.U. as influential). 

Our apartment is near "Woodrow Wilson Square."  His statue stands in the middle. We are only blocks away from "George W. Bush Street," but a little farther from Clinton Square.  On the streets, I frequently pass the "Amerika Bar," the "American Fashions" Store," the American Jewelry" store, and a sign pointing the way to the "American hospital."  ("American University" is on the other side of town). None of these places have any connection to the US, as far as I can tell.  They just want to be associated with American ideas and styles.

Albanians love to tell us about their relatives in the United States. Old men who speak no English will hold up fingers for the number of grandchildren they have in the US, then proudly say "Boston" or "Chicago." One said he had relatives in "Indianapolis, Ohio." We just said we were from close by.

A man at church last weekend asked where I worked.   When I told him Ambasad Amerikan, he gave me a military salute.  He said, "America has helped us at crucial times in our history, and we remember."  He's right.  When a European peace conference was ready to sign a treaty dividing up all Albanian lands between its neighbors, Woodrow Wilson made them give Albanians their own country.  When the Serbs were "eliminating" ethnic Albanians, Clinton got NATO to make them stop. When Kosovo, which is 90% ethnic Albanian, wanted its independence, George Bush recognized them first. They like Obama, too. He got Albania into NATO.  

For Independence Day (American Independence Day, that is), 300 Albanian police officers closed an entire city block in the middle of town. US Embassy employees and their families, as well as 600 high ranking Albanian guests, enjoyed food, music, speeches and fireworks that exploded way too low to the ground. Gina helped me greet and chat with the prosecutors who came.  I brought American flag pins and handed them out.  I told each prosecutor "today, you are American, too." One of them responded, "What about tomorrow?"

Albania is striving for membership in the European Union. We think they might prefer to be the 51st state. 

29 beat 44, but only by combining with 35

by Davidi

Albania purchased a multi-million dollar computer voting system for this year's national elections. They didn't use it. Seems the computer voting system only has room to list 45 political parties. There were 66 parties on the ballot.

Like many Europeans, Albanians vote for parties, rather than people.  (The parties tell you in advance who they have picked to represent your area if they win, but only the party is on the ballot.).  It's pretty easy to register a political party in Albania, so, if you don't like the ones you see, you can you can always start your own.  Some rich folks have decided that starting their own party is their best chance to win a seat in parliament, so they have.

Take a look at the candidate on the campaign postcard below.  He's from a minor party, number 56.  It's not surprising  that he chose to be pictured holding an Albanian flag.  But wait!  How many flags do you see in the photo?  What's our flag doing hiding back  there?  Looks like he is giving the message that the US is behind him, or perhaps that he will lead Albania towards being more like the US.   Either way, party 56 didn't win.  Party 29 beat incumbent party 44, but only by joining forces with party 35.

The election was hotly contested and the campaigning was non-stop. There were signs, banners over the streets, cars with loudspeakers, parades and rallies.  We could see fireworks from the rallies from our balcony.  (The Embassy told us not to go near any rallies, for fear of looking like the US was taking sides in the election). 

We will be reminded of the election for a long time.  That's because the parties sent out legions of guys with spray paint to stencil party logos on every piece of exposed concrete they could find.  The real legacy is better:  Albania, the newest democracy in Europe, had the most free and fair election they have ever had. 

"Sheer Ecstasy In A Fruit . . ."

On The Highway To Korça

While on one of David's work trips, we pulled off the highway to buy just-off-the-tree figs.

Figs may be green or dark brown

David's colleague Xhoana picking out perfectly ripe figs for our road trip.

Davidi eating figs from the bag. . . unable to wait.

After reading about Mimi Sheraton's experience eating figs in her article "10 Epiphanies" in the June 2013 Smithsonian Magazine, we had to share, as her encounter with an Adriatic fig provided words for our new found love:  

Until early one September morning long ago, the only figs I knew -- and liked a lot -- were dried:  golden-brown, sticky and chewy with a burnished sweetness spiked with the intriguing crackle of tiny pinpoint seeds. But on the fateful morning in the Marche town of Senigallia beside the Adriatic, I tasted a small, plump jade green fig plucked from a tree in a garden.  Sparkling with dew, the sun-warmed, suede-like skin yielded to a night-chilled, honeyed center -- sheer ecstasy in a fruit that bore little resemblance to the dried version.  I have had many delectable fresh green figs since but none that compared with the original, whether eaten out-of-hand, or split open on a plate and dabbed with a swirl of crème frâiche or a rivulet of heavy sweet cream.

Where Did Everybody Go?!

by Davidi

Tirana is usually like a bee-hive.  Traffic is snarled and sidewalks are often crowded.  It takes awhile to get used to what people at the Embassy refer to as the “standard Balkan noise level,” which extends well into the night.   But things are now eerily quiet.  Many stores and cafes are closed. The streets and sidewalks are empty.  I can even cross the street without running or praying (I usually do both).   Why did everybody leave?  It’s August.

August is the traditional vacation month in Albania.   Tirana is for work and school.  School is out, it’s too hot to work, and Tirana is not a place to go on holiday.   The Adriatic Sea is only 45 minutes away, and the entire city is there.  I’m told that every grain of sand on the beach is covered with a towel or cooler.

But, alas,  I’m the new guy, so I stay at work, where I could roll a bowling ball down the hallway and not risk injuring anyone.   I can’t get anything done because there are no prosecutors or judges to contact.  You see, for some, August is mandatory vacation month. By statute, Albanian prosecutors are required to be on vacation in August.  So are judges.   This works well, as most of the criminals also take the month off.

The white sign on the gate of the restaurant above appeared on August 1st stating,
"To vacation, reopen on 1st September.  :) "

On my way to work, I walk past an older woman who sits on the same square of the sidewalk each day and asks people for money.  She hasn’t been there for three days now.  My coworker has bet me that she’s at the beach.

Don't Deliver Lunch Tomorrow, Babe

Skodër

Rozafa Castle, Skodër

On the ride to Skodër, David's colleague shared the Albanian legend about the medieval Rozafa Castle:

This legend was first written down by famous local writer Marin Barleti in 1504. The story goes that the three brothers who were constructing the castle arrived to work each day finding the previous day's work demolished. A wise man was consulted and told them that only a human sacrifice could stop the devil from destroying their work, and the brothers agreed to offer the first of their wives who would come up the hill to bring food. Unfortunately, the two older brothers broke their promises and told their wives to stay at home ("Don't deliver lunch tomorrow, Babe.") – and it was the youngest brother's beautiful wife Rozafa who showed up the next day with lunch. She valiantly agreed to be walled into the castle on one condition – a hole should be left so that her right arm could caress her newborn son, her right breast could feed him, and her right foot could rock his cradle. Rozafa is said to still be in a wall of the castle today which remains standing. 

Not sure about the takeaway from this story, but I sure won't be taking lunch to David any time soon!

Wait! Don't Call Until I Plug The Phone In On The Back Porch

by Davidi

Having successfully memorized a few Albanian phrases, I confidently strode into the Albanian Attorney General's office with my colleagues. I shook his hand firmly, and started to introduce myself. I got out three words, "Une yam David," before all the lights went off.   My mind went blank.  I couldn't think of another Albanian word.  

Power interruptions are common in Tirana.  Our apartment has a backup generator, as do all Embassy residences and international businesses.  We've stopped being surprised by power outages, knowing that the reassuring hum of the generator will soon bring us light.  Most Albanians do not have a generator, and some neighbors have quietly hooked their houses up to an American home's generator without anyone noticing.  

The problem isn't a lack of electricity. Albania is currently exporting excess hydro-power to other countries.  It is the wiring. 

Albania's wiring is strung by anyone anywhere they wish. Poles may have 50 lines tangled like hair In a shower drain. Lines droop so low to the sidewalk that you must duck to miss them.  Old lines are not removed.  They are just cut, with the ends left to hang down, sometimes at eye level, over the sidewalk.  Even on downtown streets, there are often no poles, so the lines are casually draped over tree limbs.  Sometimes exposed wires stick up out of the sidewalk, attached to nothing.  Walking to work is a little like that old board game "Operation." Touch anything metal and you may light up.

At our apartment, the wireless internet router is outside.  The phone plugs in on the back porch, apparently because the wire won't reach any farther.  This makes it less likely we will be making calls during heat waves (now!) and blizzards. Maybe an email is your best bet.

"Hey! Where Did My Tree Go?!"

Durrës

In David's work, he collaborates with prosecutors, police officers, and judges in seven different regions throughout Albania.  While Albania is about the same size as Kentucky or Maryland, it could take well over 15 hours to get from the northern tip to the southern tip of the country due to challenging road conditions and mountainous terrain.  Our first trip within Albania was about 45 minutes west of Tirana to the port city of Durrës, which dates back to 627 BCE.

Map from:  http://www.lonelyplanet.com/maps/europe/albania/ 

While David was in meetings, I had espresso and gelato with a man who was a driver for government officials during communist times. He indicated that, as a driver during that era, he had much more freedom than other Albanian citizens. In the 1960s, individually-owned vehicles were outlawed by communist dictator Hoxha. By the end of communism in 1991, there were only about 3000 vehicles in a country of 3 million people. The driver I met advised that he was allowed the privilege of driving himself when off duty, as well as his family, including for vacation. 

Non-drivers in Albania had very different vacations. He said that, during communist times, the government gave everyone a 1-week paid vacation.  If you lived in Tirana, for example, you would get on the train -- standing room only with some people hanging onto the outside --  and go to Durrës for your week off.  What is now a 45-minute car ride took around 2 hours via a slow train. Many Albanians still head to the beach in Durrës for vacation.  Now, most people have their own cars; the boardwalk in  Durrës has children's rides; and, generally, people are free.

In addition to the beach and boardwalk, people are also drawn to to visit the ancient amphitheater (think: miniature version of the Coliseum in Rome) in Durrës.  For many centuries, the citizens of Durrës searched for a Roman amphitheater rumored to have been built in their city around the 1st or 2nd century A.D. Finally, according to the guide at the amphitheater, around 1966, a Durresi citizen dug a hole to plant a tree.  He placed the tree in the hole and quickly exclaimed, "Hey! Where did my tree go?!"  The tree fell straight through.  

Archaeologists gradually began to uncover the legendary amphitheater.  It originally held around 18,000 spectators for performances and gladiators' contests through the 5th century.  In the 6th century, a chapel with mosaics (see below) was added.  And, the floor of the amphitheater was eventually used as a cemetery (not yet excavated) -- a fitting alternative considering the blood baths on the site.  

The guide also advised that, while Durrës has been destroyed by earthquakes 3 times, the amphitheater has not been destroyed because, knowing  Durrës was an active seismic area, the forward-thinking Roman architects placed bricks and stones in alternating layers to maximize structural stability.  Centuries later, when the site of the amphitheater was unknown, homes were built over it.  Once discovered, the communist government moved the residents to new land and began uncovering the theater.  As you can see from the photos, houses still remain.  The City of Durrës continues to uncover the amphitheater, bit by bit, and will eventually buy the surrounding homes from the remaining residents.