I’ve been enjoying a quiet week mostly at home. It’s nice to not have to do anything or go anywhere and the weather has been fairly sunny although slightly cold. I’ve spent most of the days getting caught up with my reading and doing some writing.
Yesterday I baked and made macaroni salad for our New Year’s festivities later tonight. People are getting the party started early and have been setting off firecrackers and fireworks since this morning. It doesn’t seem to make much sense since the sun is out, but the party atmosphere is already starting. I can still hear the turkeys outside making noise – but their time is extremely, extremely limited. Later this evening they’ll be another impressive civilian display of fireworks. I was talking to a friend yesterday and telling him that both “children and inner children alike enjoy seeing things get blown up.” I’m 26 and I still do, and the amount and size of the fireworks here is incredible. I don’t think most of them would be legal in the US but that’s what makes celebrating New Years abroad so much fun!
Service is winding down very quickly. In less than two months, we’ll have our final conference. I’m one of the conference's planners and we are discussing potential locations now. Then we’ll put the schedule together and pull teeth to get people to present. It’s been great to get conference planning / schedule planning / and session development experience. But it’s often very stressful to make sure everything lines up logistically and it’s difficult to get everyone to pull their weight. Luckily, we’ve got some new American staff at Peace Corps that should make the organizing a lot easier. The Albanian training manager is an absolute godsend. At the conference, I’ll be able to secure my COS (close of service) date… which I’m hoping is sometime in early May. This means that once the New Year starts, I’ll have about five months left. And picking up on the typical New Years vibe, there’s a lot to reflect on in the past year and for the future.
More so than any other time in my life, I can say that I have come in contact with some of the best people. Just the best people. Intelligent people, motivated people, caring people, considerate people. And the other side of the coin: here, during my time in Albania, I've come in contact with some of the worst people. Self-involved, competitive, insensitive and downright malicious people. Not to mention the intricacies of having to work with some of these people in a somewhat professional manner. My time with other volunteers has been either the most refreshing and invigorating battery charger, or it's been the most absolutely draining teeth-gnashing. I've learned about myself as an introvert, which is really what I am, even though I can't tell that to anyone without people laughing. I've learned to embrace the quiet and the time with myself, but I've also learned how to deal with people, to interact and to put myself out there a lot better than I ever did during the course of my undergrad years.
The best we can hope for is that we continue to learn about ourselves and that we're able to continue moving in some kind of forward motion, no matter what speed. I’ve learned a lot about myself this past year, both good and bad. There is a lot to be commended for but a lot to improve on. With the imposing end of service, PCVs are faced with a lot of difficult uncertainty. We wonder what the transition to the US will be like; what will happen to our relationships and friendships when they’re transported to a different continent; and what the next step in our lives will be. I don’t know what will happen in 2011 but I’m not worried. Anything can happen and that’s part of what makes life so exciting.
For those of us towards the end of our service, a quote from Buddha to keep you focused: “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” Enjoy the time you have left here with the people that are valuable to you. This is a time that won't come again and it should be enjoyed and appreciated as such.
Happy New Year, everybody.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Memory
I’ve been reading more and more about science lately. While in no way mathematically or scientifically gifted, it’s become an area of greater interest. Science is a way to see the world, and to a larger extent all the things that we take for granted in it, with a new set of eyes. It also fosters new appreciations for the infinite complexities of the universe and everything in it. My two favorite topics are memory and the brain.
“Have you ever been driving, heard a song on the radio, then immediately been taken to a certain place, a specific time in your life, or a particular person? Music is second only to smell for its ability to stimulate our memory in a very powerful way. Music therapists who work with older adults with dementia have countless stories of how music stimulates their clients to reminisce about their life.” – Psychology Today.
I think we all could come up with several examples to illustrate the memory/music phenomenon. When I read the above passage, I could immediately think of several instances where music jarred a memory. So much of music is tied to very specific experiences: the time when I was in a rented car driving through Germany with my family and an impossible 1970s Spanish-language song made me think of you; or that one particular evening where we listened to The Fugees; or walking around a snow-covered Gdansk listening to the Pan’s Labyrinth soundtrack. While time travel has yet to be proven scientifically possible, shuffle mode on any MP3 player opens a window into specific memories of the past, sometimes so vivid it’s like you’re reliving them. How does this happen? Is it because the linkage of music to a specific memory somehow separates the memory and makes it more concrete?
Of course, music isn’t the only memory prompt. What can be said of scent? You’re walking down a street and come in contact with a smell that’s so familiar but still takes you a second to place it. The smell of food, the smell of perfume that a friend wears… your brain has formed these connections and associations. Just a few days ago, I was hand washing some sweaters when the smell of the soap became familiar, and I couldn’t help but laugh. The body wash I grabbed to use as soap smelled exactly like the shampoo we use at home for our dogs. The smell combined with the fuzzy, wool sweater I was washing had my mind playing serious tricks on me.
As we continue to learn more about the connections and functions inside of the brain , someday we may be able to see “all of the connections among more than 100 billion neurons and unravel the millions of miles of wires in the brain.” All the advances in technology and computers, but the most sophisticated one is housed in the human body. How about that?
“Have you ever been driving, heard a song on the radio, then immediately been taken to a certain place, a specific time in your life, or a particular person? Music is second only to smell for its ability to stimulate our memory in a very powerful way. Music therapists who work with older adults with dementia have countless stories of how music stimulates their clients to reminisce about their life.” – Psychology Today.
I think we all could come up with several examples to illustrate the memory/music phenomenon. When I read the above passage, I could immediately think of several instances where music jarred a memory. So much of music is tied to very specific experiences: the time when I was in a rented car driving through Germany with my family and an impossible 1970s Spanish-language song made me think of you; or that one particular evening where we listened to The Fugees; or walking around a snow-covered Gdansk listening to the Pan’s Labyrinth soundtrack. While time travel has yet to be proven scientifically possible, shuffle mode on any MP3 player opens a window into specific memories of the past, sometimes so vivid it’s like you’re reliving them. How does this happen? Is it because the linkage of music to a specific memory somehow separates the memory and makes it more concrete?
Of course, music isn’t the only memory prompt. What can be said of scent? You’re walking down a street and come in contact with a smell that’s so familiar but still takes you a second to place it. The smell of food, the smell of perfume that a friend wears… your brain has formed these connections and associations. Just a few days ago, I was hand washing some sweaters when the smell of the soap became familiar, and I couldn’t help but laugh. The body wash I grabbed to use as soap smelled exactly like the shampoo we use at home for our dogs. The smell combined with the fuzzy, wool sweater I was washing had my mind playing serious tricks on me.
As we continue to learn more about the connections and functions inside of the brain , someday we may be able to see “all of the connections among more than 100 billion neurons and unravel the millions of miles of wires in the brain.” All the advances in technology and computers, but the most sophisticated one is housed in the human body. How about that?
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Holidays
It hasn’t felt much like the holidays. After the most snow we’ve had in 20 years here, it was a week of upper 50s temperatures. I won’t lie, it’s nice to have a relatively warm indoors after an incredible cold streak. On any given day, it’s at least 10 degrees cooler inside than out because of the concrete construction and lack of central heating. But there’s something strange about lightning, thunder and seemingly tropical temperatures in late December.
As in most American families, baking is a holiday tradition. Not just for your family, but for others. My mom goes crazy at this time of year as our kitchen explodes with cakes and cookies. Seemingly everyone gets a “goodie plate”: the mailman, the postal workers at the post office, neighbors on all sides, etc. To bring that tradition with me to Albania, I made a huge amount of cake and cookies for teachers and students last year. This year, I spent three hours making a big chocolate cake, homemade buttercream frosting and “modified” cookie press cookies. I say “modified” because only after I made the dough did I realize that the cookie gun my host mom didn’t even know she had didn’t work. To add some extra flair, I used the food dye that my mom sent in a care package which really ooed and ahhed my colleagues.
Despite the warm weather, I’ve had a great set of holiday-related events. It started on Wednesday when I brought my baked goods into school and set up the plates in the teachers’ room. There’s something uniquely enjoyable in watching people talk and laugh while eating something you’ve prepared for them. To me, cooking and baking have always been about the joy of making something for someone and sharing it together. I’m glad that I could do something nice for my colleagues, people that I might not always understand but always appreciate and, for the most part, respect. They’ve added value and meaning into my time here.
Built into the Albanian languages are a number of wishes or hopes that speakers share with each other. When you enter someone’s house, they say “mire se erdha,” which means “nice that you came.” The response is: “mire se u gjeta,” or “nice to find you here.” In regards to cooking, there are also some wishes. If someone makes something good, you tell them: “te lumshin duart,” or “bless your hands.” They may also say “kerko nje burre te mire,” which means, “may you find a good husband.” Not surprisingly, the importance of family to Albanians is evident in their blessings. When I brought the cake in for my colleagues, I heard a new one: “ne dasem,” which means “may you be married soon.” In my host mom’s office, someone said I should have “no trouble finding a husband with the way that I cook,” and someone said, “or the fact that they could get a visa from me [because of my American citizenship].” It’s a long-running joke that all Albanians want from Americans are visas and residency.
The next day was the last one before the break. Some of my students were in my host mom’s office making copies and they invited me to a dance they were having that evening. I said I would think about it but didn’t have any intention of going. Later in the evening, one of my best students called me and asked if I would go. I was hardly in the position to say no, and since there are so few opportunities to do anything at night, I decided to get out of my comfort zone and go for a little. I’m so glad I did because I had a great time! All the students were dressed to the nines. The event was held at a beachside restaurant where they had snacks and drinks before the dance started. Once we went into the restaurant and the party started, I sat with the geography teacher and her sister. We got dinner on the house – and it was amazing: a huge bucket of mussels and assorted fruit of the sea; 3 sea bass with carrots and potatoes; and risotto with fruit of the sea. There have been many times in Albania where each time another plate comes out, I think and hope it’s the last one. By the time the actual last one rolls around I am filled with relief. A great evening overall, even though they barely let me leave at 10:30 because it was too early.
The next day was the teachers’ party at a local restaurant. The weather was sunny and in the low 60s, so I got to wear a skirt for Christmas. I think that’s the first time this Pennsylvanian has ever done that. My host sister did my hair and makeup, and when I got to school, the teachers made me take off my jacket and turn in a circle to show what I was wearing. I’ll write a separate entry about workplace fashion shows because it deserves its own separate entry. I had yet another amazing meal (shrimp in red sauce) followed by lots and lots of Albanian circle dancing. A nice bonding time with colleagues, no matter how poorly I might dance.
Now to the big question: what do you do on Christmas in a Muslim country when most of your friends are away? My host sister and I went to City Park, a huge shopping mall that’s a year old. Miracle of miracles, it has a huge indoor ice skating rink as well as a nice grocery store; a great German version of CVS (Rossman); and air hockey and foosball tables. What more could I really ask for? Oh, and there’s also a fast food restaurant that is trying so hard to be McDonald’s (Kolonat). Yes, maybe this is cliché or too American but… on the other side of the world, sometimes you want to feel at home.
“Thank you for the best Christmas ever,” my host sister told me. No, thank you.
As in most American families, baking is a holiday tradition. Not just for your family, but for others. My mom goes crazy at this time of year as our kitchen explodes with cakes and cookies. Seemingly everyone gets a “goodie plate”: the mailman, the postal workers at the post office, neighbors on all sides, etc. To bring that tradition with me to Albania, I made a huge amount of cake and cookies for teachers and students last year. This year, I spent three hours making a big chocolate cake, homemade buttercream frosting and “modified” cookie press cookies. I say “modified” because only after I made the dough did I realize that the cookie gun my host mom didn’t even know she had didn’t work. To add some extra flair, I used the food dye that my mom sent in a care package which really ooed and ahhed my colleagues.
Despite the warm weather, I’ve had a great set of holiday-related events. It started on Wednesday when I brought my baked goods into school and set up the plates in the teachers’ room. There’s something uniquely enjoyable in watching people talk and laugh while eating something you’ve prepared for them. To me, cooking and baking have always been about the joy of making something for someone and sharing it together. I’m glad that I could do something nice for my colleagues, people that I might not always understand but always appreciate and, for the most part, respect. They’ve added value and meaning into my time here.
Built into the Albanian languages are a number of wishes or hopes that speakers share with each other. When you enter someone’s house, they say “mire se erdha,” which means “nice that you came.” The response is: “mire se u gjeta,” or “nice to find you here.” In regards to cooking, there are also some wishes. If someone makes something good, you tell them: “te lumshin duart,” or “bless your hands.” They may also say “kerko nje burre te mire,” which means, “may you find a good husband.” Not surprisingly, the importance of family to Albanians is evident in their blessings. When I brought the cake in for my colleagues, I heard a new one: “ne dasem,” which means “may you be married soon.” In my host mom’s office, someone said I should have “no trouble finding a husband with the way that I cook,” and someone said, “or the fact that they could get a visa from me [because of my American citizenship].” It’s a long-running joke that all Albanians want from Americans are visas and residency.
The next day was the last one before the break. Some of my students were in my host mom’s office making copies and they invited me to a dance they were having that evening. I said I would think about it but didn’t have any intention of going. Later in the evening, one of my best students called me and asked if I would go. I was hardly in the position to say no, and since there are so few opportunities to do anything at night, I decided to get out of my comfort zone and go for a little. I’m so glad I did because I had a great time! All the students were dressed to the nines. The event was held at a beachside restaurant where they had snacks and drinks before the dance started. Once we went into the restaurant and the party started, I sat with the geography teacher and her sister. We got dinner on the house – and it was amazing: a huge bucket of mussels and assorted fruit of the sea; 3 sea bass with carrots and potatoes; and risotto with fruit of the sea. There have been many times in Albania where each time another plate comes out, I think and hope it’s the last one. By the time the actual last one rolls around I am filled with relief. A great evening overall, even though they barely let me leave at 10:30 because it was too early.
The next day was the teachers’ party at a local restaurant. The weather was sunny and in the low 60s, so I got to wear a skirt for Christmas. I think that’s the first time this Pennsylvanian has ever done that. My host sister did my hair and makeup, and when I got to school, the teachers made me take off my jacket and turn in a circle to show what I was wearing. I’ll write a separate entry about workplace fashion shows because it deserves its own separate entry. I had yet another amazing meal (shrimp in red sauce) followed by lots and lots of Albanian circle dancing. A nice bonding time with colleagues, no matter how poorly I might dance.
Now to the big question: what do you do on Christmas in a Muslim country when most of your friends are away? My host sister and I went to City Park, a huge shopping mall that’s a year old. Miracle of miracles, it has a huge indoor ice skating rink as well as a nice grocery store; a great German version of CVS (Rossman); and air hockey and foosball tables. What more could I really ask for? Oh, and there’s also a fast food restaurant that is trying so hard to be McDonald’s (Kolonat). Yes, maybe this is cliché or too American but… on the other side of the world, sometimes you want to feel at home.
“Thank you for the best Christmas ever,” my host sister told me. No, thank you.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Murphy’s Law: The Week
Murphy’s law states that "anything that can go wrong, will go wrong,” and it appropriately sums up my difficult, albeit humorous in hindsight, week.
Monday
I’ve begun working with a new English teacher at my school. We had a brief meeting on Monday to finalize the lesson plan for a lesson we were teaching the following day. When she asked me rules about zero, first and second conditional and I couldn’t recite them from rote memory, she asked me what I had studied in school. “Oh,” she said, “so you haven’t studied English teaching.” The funny thing is, neither did she. And most native speakers wouldn’t be able to tell you the rules she was wandering about off the top of their heads. Later in the session, she would ask me if I could read Albanian. Keep in mind, the entire time we are discussing a lesson plan for an English class… in Albanian.
Tuesday
We are teaching first and second lessons, so I need to leave around 8:00 to get to school, get the room ready, and get the computer and projector up and running. The lesson is about endangered animals (I know, completely essential for first-year English students) and I’ve created a PowerPoint with lots of engaging visual aids as well as a video showing people who work to prevent animal extinction. Sounds good in theory, right?
Well, we don’t leave the house until 8:15. I couldn’t have left earlier anyway because the projector is in my host mom’s office and she had the keys. When I get to school and open the room, I find out that the one electrical socket in the entire room isn’t working. Luckily, I remembered that we have a long cable on a spool that we could use to supply the power, running it from the neighboring small office to the larger classroom. I speak to the teacher responsible for the cable and he brushes me off. “Ku e di une?” is his response, which literally translates into, “Where do I know it?,” or “How should I know?” On top of everything, the power cord to the projector is starting to break and the wires are visible. I know it’s only a matter of time until it breaks. The bell rings, the students come in, and there is still no power supply. It isn’t until the other English teacher runs to her office and connects an extension cord to an extension cord that we can start the lesson.
It doesn’t go well. But I’ll save my description of a normal Albanian classroom for another day. To round things out, one of the extension cords explodes towards the end of class. No power.
Mercifully, I’m given a break during 2nd lesson, which I use to run and pick up some byrek. When I come back, the teacher responsible for the long power cable returns and then goes into the neighboring room and gets it for me. It had been in there the entire time and it would have taken him a minute at most to get it for me before first period. Frustrating much? This same teacher was also reluctant to give me a key to the room where I taught four times a week last year, meaning that for a while I would have to find him every day at school and ask for the key. I finally got one towards the end of last year, but because of the power situation, I now need a key for the outside door and the inner office door to run the cable. I only have one key, so now I am still forced to find him every time I need in.
Thursday
That’s not where it ends. I’ve been invited to see the students do a two-hour special presentation about Italy during the 5th and 6th lessons. I don’t have any classes that day nor any other reason to be at school, but I want to go and support them. Some of the students are previous and also new English students and I want to make the effort. As I’m getting ready, my host mom calls me and says that the Italian teacher wanted to remind me to come. “Of course I’m coming, I’m leaving now,” I say.
I trudge through the freezing cold to get to our unheated school. After I take my outside boots off, the Italian teacher comes down and asks me where my laptop is. “I didn’t know you wanted it, so I don’t have it.” “Oh,” she sighs. Boots back on, and back to the house to get my laptop. On the way there, my aunt sees me and asks why I’m going back to the house since I just left, and I explain the situation. Once I’m back at school, the Italian teacher is in the middle of “prova teknike,” or technical tests to make sure everything will work. Again, we need in the office to get the power. This time it’s worse, though: the teacher with the keys isn’t there, and when I look for my key that I’ve had for all this time, it seems to have fallen off my key chain. Perfect timing! I am beyond bewildered at this point but I’m told not to worry: a student returns with a pair of pliers and rips the nails out that hold the bracketed lock in place. Success, we have power! We set up the computer and the projector. Two minutes into the testing, the wire on the projector finally breaks and explodes in a tiny shower of sparks. It’s not looking good at this point, until one of my students asks for a “knife and some tape,” and proceeds to splice the wires back together. I’m astounded when, after five minutes’ work, we put the cord into the projector and it turns on. “I just did this yesterday,” he told me.
Friday
I wake up at 7:45 because I have a tutoring session with the Italian teacher during the first lesson. It’s less than 40 degrees in my room and the power is out. These are things I know before I even get out of bed since I see my thermometer and don’t hear the humming of the fridge. Last night, I slept in two pairs of pants, an undershirt, a t-shirt, a flannel, long-sleeved shirt, a turtle neck and a fleece hoodie… inside of a mummy bag with two heavy blankets over it. Those first moments getting out of bed are so difficult because you know this is the only moment you’re going to be warm the entire day. Seeing your breath is also unpleasant.
I get up and quickly dress. I open my curtain to see an unexpected sight: snow. We don’t usually have snow in Golem because the temperatures are moderated by the Adriatic. Usually, we just have rain. But today the snow made me think of home. Apparently earlier, my host dad was excited and woke everyone up. My host mom was adamant that he not wake me up, because, “Sofie has seen snow in Germany and America and wherever else.” I put on a few layers and head to school.
When I get there, I see a huge snowball fight with about fifty or so students. They’re outside, running around as the flakes are falling. Teachers are making snowballs. Everyone is coming down with snow craziness, that feeling that comes with snow that makes everyone feel like they’re 5 years old. No bell sounds for the first period and it becomes apparent that I’ve come to school for nothing. We wait on a decision about whether classes will be canceled, but that comes a half hour later because both the director and vice director are drinking coffee. The director says that if the students come in, they’ll have class. If not, classes will be canceled. The bell that would have started the second lesson sounds. The students file in, but one is still outside wearing nothing but an undershirt. The rest of them that file in are covered in snow and completely soaked without any hope of warming up. I decide that without power (it would remain out for eight more hours), the best I could do was head home and try to enjoy the strange weather from the comfort of my sleeping bag. Nothing surprises me much anymore.
Monday
I’ve begun working with a new English teacher at my school. We had a brief meeting on Monday to finalize the lesson plan for a lesson we were teaching the following day. When she asked me rules about zero, first and second conditional and I couldn’t recite them from rote memory, she asked me what I had studied in school. “Oh,” she said, “so you haven’t studied English teaching.” The funny thing is, neither did she. And most native speakers wouldn’t be able to tell you the rules she was wandering about off the top of their heads. Later in the session, she would ask me if I could read Albanian. Keep in mind, the entire time we are discussing a lesson plan for an English class… in Albanian.
Tuesday
We are teaching first and second lessons, so I need to leave around 8:00 to get to school, get the room ready, and get the computer and projector up and running. The lesson is about endangered animals (I know, completely essential for first-year English students) and I’ve created a PowerPoint with lots of engaging visual aids as well as a video showing people who work to prevent animal extinction. Sounds good in theory, right?
Well, we don’t leave the house until 8:15. I couldn’t have left earlier anyway because the projector is in my host mom’s office and she had the keys. When I get to school and open the room, I find out that the one electrical socket in the entire room isn’t working. Luckily, I remembered that we have a long cable on a spool that we could use to supply the power, running it from the neighboring small office to the larger classroom. I speak to the teacher responsible for the cable and he brushes me off. “Ku e di une?” is his response, which literally translates into, “Where do I know it?,” or “How should I know?” On top of everything, the power cord to the projector is starting to break and the wires are visible. I know it’s only a matter of time until it breaks. The bell rings, the students come in, and there is still no power supply. It isn’t until the other English teacher runs to her office and connects an extension cord to an extension cord that we can start the lesson.
It doesn’t go well. But I’ll save my description of a normal Albanian classroom for another day. To round things out, one of the extension cords explodes towards the end of class. No power.
Mercifully, I’m given a break during 2nd lesson, which I use to run and pick up some byrek. When I come back, the teacher responsible for the long power cable returns and then goes into the neighboring room and gets it for me. It had been in there the entire time and it would have taken him a minute at most to get it for me before first period. Frustrating much? This same teacher was also reluctant to give me a key to the room where I taught four times a week last year, meaning that for a while I would have to find him every day at school and ask for the key. I finally got one towards the end of last year, but because of the power situation, I now need a key for the outside door and the inner office door to run the cable. I only have one key, so now I am still forced to find him every time I need in.
Thursday
That’s not where it ends. I’ve been invited to see the students do a two-hour special presentation about Italy during the 5th and 6th lessons. I don’t have any classes that day nor any other reason to be at school, but I want to go and support them. Some of the students are previous and also new English students and I want to make the effort. As I’m getting ready, my host mom calls me and says that the Italian teacher wanted to remind me to come. “Of course I’m coming, I’m leaving now,” I say.
I trudge through the freezing cold to get to our unheated school. After I take my outside boots off, the Italian teacher comes down and asks me where my laptop is. “I didn’t know you wanted it, so I don’t have it.” “Oh,” she sighs. Boots back on, and back to the house to get my laptop. On the way there, my aunt sees me and asks why I’m going back to the house since I just left, and I explain the situation. Once I’m back at school, the Italian teacher is in the middle of “prova teknike,” or technical tests to make sure everything will work. Again, we need in the office to get the power. This time it’s worse, though: the teacher with the keys isn’t there, and when I look for my key that I’ve had for all this time, it seems to have fallen off my key chain. Perfect timing! I am beyond bewildered at this point but I’m told not to worry: a student returns with a pair of pliers and rips the nails out that hold the bracketed lock in place. Success, we have power! We set up the computer and the projector. Two minutes into the testing, the wire on the projector finally breaks and explodes in a tiny shower of sparks. It’s not looking good at this point, until one of my students asks for a “knife and some tape,” and proceeds to splice the wires back together. I’m astounded when, after five minutes’ work, we put the cord into the projector and it turns on. “I just did this yesterday,” he told me.
Friday
I wake up at 7:45 because I have a tutoring session with the Italian teacher during the first lesson. It’s less than 40 degrees in my room and the power is out. These are things I know before I even get out of bed since I see my thermometer and don’t hear the humming of the fridge. Last night, I slept in two pairs of pants, an undershirt, a t-shirt, a flannel, long-sleeved shirt, a turtle neck and a fleece hoodie… inside of a mummy bag with two heavy blankets over it. Those first moments getting out of bed are so difficult because you know this is the only moment you’re going to be warm the entire day. Seeing your breath is also unpleasant.
I get up and quickly dress. I open my curtain to see an unexpected sight: snow. We don’t usually have snow in Golem because the temperatures are moderated by the Adriatic. Usually, we just have rain. But today the snow made me think of home. Apparently earlier, my host dad was excited and woke everyone up. My host mom was adamant that he not wake me up, because, “Sofie has seen snow in Germany and America and wherever else.” I put on a few layers and head to school.
When I get there, I see a huge snowball fight with about fifty or so students. They’re outside, running around as the flakes are falling. Teachers are making snowballs. Everyone is coming down with snow craziness, that feeling that comes with snow that makes everyone feel like they’re 5 years old. No bell sounds for the first period and it becomes apparent that I’ve come to school for nothing. We wait on a decision about whether classes will be canceled, but that comes a half hour later because both the director and vice director are drinking coffee. The director says that if the students come in, they’ll have class. If not, classes will be canceled. The bell that would have started the second lesson sounds. The students file in, but one is still outside wearing nothing but an undershirt. The rest of them that file in are covered in snow and completely soaked without any hope of warming up. I decide that without power (it would remain out for eight more hours), the best I could do was head home and try to enjoy the strange weather from the comfort of my sleeping bag. Nothing surprises me much anymore.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Tirana, te dua
What can we say about Tirana, Albania’s capital city? As trainees, we tour the city at the beginning of summer heat. After months in the villages, the sudden burst of people and the traffic jams seem foreign. After navigating the city so long, things that initially seemed so odd now make sense. Buses that don’t have clearly marked routes? No central station for trains, buses and furgons, meaning different locations for every form of transportation and every direction? A Peace Corps office that is in no way close to anything else? No problem!
Whenever there is Peace Corps business in Tirana that keeps you there overnight, you’re usually placed in one of two hostels (both of which are on the other side of town from the Peace Corps office, naturally). To first get to the place, I had to ask a cop and several people on the street and then constantly verify locations. The hostel was conveniently located off a back street, under an underpass, and in a residential building without any marking whatsoever. Luckily the owner will come to find you if you give him a ring while you’re on your way. These kinds of things become normal in a city that is just now getting road signs and street numbers.
Tirana can be a good morale booster in a way. People are quick to help you get where you’re going and to compliment your Albanian skills. An early conversation when I was first in the city on my own went something like this:
Me: Excuse me, is this Rruga Kavajes?
The officer walks down from his perch several feet above me.
Officer: Hello.
Me: Is this Rruga Kavajes? Where is the south bus station?
After a while, the officer realizes that I couldn’t possibly be a native speaker, given the fact that I’m responding in Albanian at a fraction of the speed he is speaking.
Officer: You’re not Albanian are you… are you Italian? (Albanians always think we’re Italians, even when we’re speaking English)
Me: No, I’m an American.
Officer: But you are speaking Albanian (This has happened so many times, where people will tell me, in Albanian, that we are speaking Albanian, always with an amount of surprise).
Me: Yes, I’ve studied it for 5 months. I’m living here as a PCV.
Officer: That’s great, I have a lot of respect “shume respekt” for you.”
The officer then gives me an elaborate explanation and tells me that yes, it’s Rruga Kavajes, and that I should just keep going straight. “It’s not even five minutes,” he told me. This reminds me of a conversation I had with my host sister about Albanian minutes versus American minutes. To figure out the difference, multiply Albanian minutes by five and you get the American minutes. This rang true because the walk to the station was really about a half hour. The difference in time is also something you get used to after living here for a while.
Tirana also becomes more navigable. It’s hard when you’re used to American grid systems with some sense of organization. The In Your Pocket guide for Tirana sums up getting around in Tirana the best:
“Unfortunately for guidebook writers and other foreigners, Albanian addresses often do not include street numbers. Instead, a close landmark (like a building, school, ministry, statue, etc) is mentioned for reference, prefaced by pranë (‘near’), or përballë (‘in front of).
Even if the landmark is long gone, Albanians will still refer to that using ‘ish’ (former). The medieval logic behind this is that the locals know where it is and you can ask them, so why bother painting an ugly number on a building when you can sit down and have a nice cup of coffee instead?"
Whenever there is Peace Corps business in Tirana that keeps you there overnight, you’re usually placed in one of two hostels (both of which are on the other side of town from the Peace Corps office, naturally). To first get to the place, I had to ask a cop and several people on the street and then constantly verify locations. The hostel was conveniently located off a back street, under an underpass, and in a residential building without any marking whatsoever. Luckily the owner will come to find you if you give him a ring while you’re on your way. These kinds of things become normal in a city that is just now getting road signs and street numbers.
Tirana can be a good morale booster in a way. People are quick to help you get where you’re going and to compliment your Albanian skills. An early conversation when I was first in the city on my own went something like this:
Me: Excuse me, is this Rruga Kavajes?
The officer walks down from his perch several feet above me.
Officer: Hello.
Me: Is this Rruga Kavajes? Where is the south bus station?
After a while, the officer realizes that I couldn’t possibly be a native speaker, given the fact that I’m responding in Albanian at a fraction of the speed he is speaking.
Officer: You’re not Albanian are you… are you Italian? (Albanians always think we’re Italians, even when we’re speaking English)
Me: No, I’m an American.
Officer: But you are speaking Albanian (This has happened so many times, where people will tell me, in Albanian, that we are speaking Albanian, always with an amount of surprise).
Me: Yes, I’ve studied it for 5 months. I’m living here as a PCV.
Officer: That’s great, I have a lot of respect “shume respekt” for you.”
The officer then gives me an elaborate explanation and tells me that yes, it’s Rruga Kavajes, and that I should just keep going straight. “It’s not even five minutes,” he told me. This reminds me of a conversation I had with my host sister about Albanian minutes versus American minutes. To figure out the difference, multiply Albanian minutes by five and you get the American minutes. This rang true because the walk to the station was really about a half hour. The difference in time is also something you get used to after living here for a while.
Tirana also becomes more navigable. It’s hard when you’re used to American grid systems with some sense of organization. The In Your Pocket guide for Tirana sums up getting around in Tirana the best:
“Unfortunately for guidebook writers and other foreigners, Albanian addresses often do not include street numbers. Instead, a close landmark (like a building, school, ministry, statue, etc) is mentioned for reference, prefaced by pranë (‘near’), or përballë (‘in front of).
Even if the landmark is long gone, Albanians will still refer to that using ‘ish’ (former). The medieval logic behind this is that the locals know where it is and you can ask them, so why bother painting an ugly number on a building when you can sit down and have a nice cup of coffee instead?"
Turkish knock offs
Despite what the ride at Chocolate World would have you believe, it’s not really a “Hershey’s Chocolate World.” In fact, I’ve never seen a Hershey’s bar outside of the US. Cadbury, Mars and Milka are readily available here, and most people would argue that they’re better than Hershey’s anyway. But growing up with them as an American, it’s a little hard to believe.
While we can get Snickers bars, or Twix, or M&Ms here, they cost almost as much as they do in the US. Thankfully, we are blessed with the friend of all PCVs: THE TURKISH IMPOSTER bars.
Made with vegetable oil instead of cocoa butter, this waxy, extensive line of knockoffs cost .10 - .20, instead of .50. Who would have thought that you get what you pay for? The other highlight is the borderline copyright infringements that make up the outside wrappers. Everything about these chocolate bars screams: “If you just squint and pretend a little…it’s like you’re eating something of much higher quality.”
And now, I present to you my top 3 Turkish knockoffs:
1. Albeni, the knockoff Twix. Wider than a normal Twix, this picture shows you how hard Albeni is trying to be a real Twix. Keep tryin’, buddy.
2. The role of Snickers is now being played by Winergy. In a market largely dominated by hazelnut, the European equivalent to peanuts, Winergy stands alone in all its waxy peanut goodness. It gets extra points with me because it’s label makes it look like Snickers, but it’s overly tarlike goo layer gives its disguise away.
3. Biscolata Starz. Ask me several months ago what my favorite cookie/chocolate combination was, and I would have told you Biscolata Starz, without a doubt. What’s not to like? It’s a piece of chocolate with a milk layer and it’s sitting on top of a cookie. Plus, they are dirt cheap. It was the chosen snack of students and teachers alike for a long time, but they’ve lost their effect on me because I’ve had too many. When I went to Egypt, I was slightly but not really surprised to find out they’re a knock-off of some Milka cookies.
While we can get Snickers bars, or Twix, or M&Ms here, they cost almost as much as they do in the US. Thankfully, we are blessed with the friend of all PCVs: THE TURKISH IMPOSTER bars.
Made with vegetable oil instead of cocoa butter, this waxy, extensive line of knockoffs cost .10 - .20, instead of .50. Who would have thought that you get what you pay for? The other highlight is the borderline copyright infringements that make up the outside wrappers. Everything about these chocolate bars screams: “If you just squint and pretend a little…it’s like you’re eating something of much higher quality.”
And now, I present to you my top 3 Turkish knockoffs:
1. Albeni, the knockoff Twix. Wider than a normal Twix, this picture shows you how hard Albeni is trying to be a real Twix. Keep tryin’, buddy.
2. The role of Snickers is now being played by Winergy. In a market largely dominated by hazelnut, the European equivalent to peanuts, Winergy stands alone in all its waxy peanut goodness. It gets extra points with me because it’s label makes it look like Snickers, but it’s overly tarlike goo layer gives its disguise away.
3. Biscolata Starz. Ask me several months ago what my favorite cookie/chocolate combination was, and I would have told you Biscolata Starz, without a doubt. What’s not to like? It’s a piece of chocolate with a milk layer and it’s sitting on top of a cookie. Plus, they are dirt cheap. It was the chosen snack of students and teachers alike for a long time, but they’ve lost their effect on me because I’ve had too many. When I went to Egypt, I was slightly but not really surprised to find out they’re a knock-off of some Milka cookies.
Irrational rationing
A friend of mine and I talk a lot about the greatest generation because both of us have members of it that have played large roles in our lives. We talk about “typical” things they do: their obsession with turning out the lights and turning down the heat, or being able to afford to eat better but not doing it because they want to save money, etc. The kind of deprivation and hardship they faced early on in their lives has permanently influenced them.
We can’t ever really understand what people who lived through the Depression and World War II went through. My grandma would tell me stories about the men who would try to find temporary work on the railroads, and how my great-grandmother would make them sandwiches because they didn’t have anything else to eat. There were many times when there wasn’t a lot of food. Then, when most of them were in their teens, the war came. Somewhere our family has a WWII ration book from the time when rationing was introduced to continue the war effort. Think about it: civilian rationing. In an age of globalization and ever-expanding markets, the mere idea of rationing materials seems strange. And with obesity rates skyrocketing in the US, I don’t think most Americans are experiencing what it’s like to go to bed hungry.
Which brings me to my point: it’s almost a common thing to see PCVs rationing their food. Or rather, their “American” food. Most of us don’t receive many regular packages, so the things we get, we save. Why? I don’t know really. I’ve been hoarding confectioner’s and brown sugar since I came here. I’ve barely baked as a result. I was afraid to use a lot of cumin and ginger because I wasn’t sure where I would find it again. This saving mentality becomes easier to understand when put in a situation where items are not readily available. Of course we aren’t starving or undergoing our own personal Great Depressions, but the lack of stable supply encourages us to hold onto our food items instead of using them. It’s starting to get ridiculous now: I have 6 months left and two pounds of confectioner’s sugar that I’ve carefully gathered throughout my time here. I’m going to take it to a level that many Greatest Generation members wouldn’t: I’m actually going to use it. All.
We can’t ever really understand what people who lived through the Depression and World War II went through. My grandma would tell me stories about the men who would try to find temporary work on the railroads, and how my great-grandmother would make them sandwiches because they didn’t have anything else to eat. There were many times when there wasn’t a lot of food. Then, when most of them were in their teens, the war came. Somewhere our family has a WWII ration book from the time when rationing was introduced to continue the war effort. Think about it: civilian rationing. In an age of globalization and ever-expanding markets, the mere idea of rationing materials seems strange. And with obesity rates skyrocketing in the US, I don’t think most Americans are experiencing what it’s like to go to bed hungry.
Which brings me to my point: it’s almost a common thing to see PCVs rationing their food. Or rather, their “American” food. Most of us don’t receive many regular packages, so the things we get, we save. Why? I don’t know really. I’ve been hoarding confectioner’s and brown sugar since I came here. I’ve barely baked as a result. I was afraid to use a lot of cumin and ginger because I wasn’t sure where I would find it again. This saving mentality becomes easier to understand when put in a situation where items are not readily available. Of course we aren’t starving or undergoing our own personal Great Depressions, but the lack of stable supply encourages us to hold onto our food items instead of using them. It’s starting to get ridiculous now: I have 6 months left and two pounds of confectioner’s sugar that I’ve carefully gathered throughout my time here. I’m going to take it to a level that many Greatest Generation members wouldn’t: I’m actually going to use it. All.
Fun with Ebay
My 15 year-old host brother Alkys and I don’t have a ton of things to talk about. After careful observation, I see that he’s most passionate about Dragon Ball Z, his handheld PSP and the internet. He likes science shows, too. That’s about all I’ve been able to gather after my time here. Unfortunately, his entire vocabulary is something foreign to me. Whenever he talks, I can barely follow along with what he’s saying. That happens sometimes when you are learning a language in a country, coming into contact with different speakers. Some people, like my host mom, you can understand perfectly. Others, like my brother, make it seem like you know no Albanian at all.
The things we’ve bonded about are pretty random. One day, he was asking me about something that, surprise, I couldn’t understand. I finally figured out that he was talking about Ebay. The Albanian pronunciation sounds completely different from the English. Anyhow, it’s lead to some interesting conversations. Alkys wanted me to bid on some throwing stars (too much Dragon Ball, perhaps?), which in turn lead to a discussion about why I couldn’t have them shipped here. We had a general discussion about how many sellers don’t ship to Albania and the lack of credit cards here. However, I spared him a political analysis on Meg Whitman.
The things we’ve bonded about are pretty random. One day, he was asking me about something that, surprise, I couldn’t understand. I finally figured out that he was talking about Ebay. The Albanian pronunciation sounds completely different from the English. Anyhow, it’s lead to some interesting conversations. Alkys wanted me to bid on some throwing stars (too much Dragon Ball, perhaps?), which in turn lead to a discussion about why I couldn’t have them shipped here. We had a general discussion about how many sellers don’t ship to Albania and the lack of credit cards here. However, I spared him a political analysis on Meg Whitman.
There’s always room in the furgon!
Here’s a description of a typical furgon ride, which started in Erseka and ended in Elbasan: I get in and sit behind the driver as we’re waiting to leave. I’m the only one sitting in the furgon. Most Albanians have claimed their seats and are sitting at cafes, waiting for the driver to get in the furgon, turn the engine on, and honk the horn, signaling to everyone that it’s time to go. Two minutes later, the driver comes over and tells me that the seat I’m in is taken. I move to the second row, door side. Once people start coming into the furgon, the driver asks me if I wouldn’t mind moving back a row. I do, to the final row in the back, door side. We circle around Erseka picking up the rest of the people, and I’m asked to move yet again. I end up sitting in the very back, center seat. I slide over to let an old woman take the seat I had been sitting in for about two minutes, and the man sitting next to me opens his hand to randomly offer me four, uncracked walnuts.
An hour later, we arrive in Korca. No one gets out, but three more people get in. This is the main idea behind furgons, something I both love and hate about Albania: there is always room in the furgon. When it’s pouring down rain and you’re stranded on the side of the road, there’s always a seat in the furgon. When it’s a thousand degrees and someone sits next to a window and closes it, there’s still room in the furgon for at least one more passenger. In Korca, our 11 person furgon becomes filled with 14 people. Children sitting on their parents’ laps and people squeezing into the furgon, sitting on plastic step stools. We stop to get gas. The driver lights up a cigarette right next to the gas tank while the engine is running. Maybe we have too many rules, regulations and precautions in the US?
And then the “pilaf stop.” It’s a 15-20 minute coffee/rice break in the middle of the journey, and often takes place close to the town of Librazhd at restaurants of varying scales. As a result, you never quite know what to expect when you make a trip to the bathroom. It could be a normal toilet, or it could be a turk, or better yet, a turk with a hose of constantly flowing water connected to it. That’s part of the adventure.
Somewhere after the pilaf stop, the older lady sitting next to me becomes distressed about her cell phone. Speaking a mile a minute, she tells me to find Hussein’s number and call it. I read off a list of names store in her phone’s memory, and Hussein is unfortunately not on the list. I explain this several times to no avail. “I just got this phone today, my son’s wife gave it to me…” Somewhere much, much later into this conversation she realizes that I’m not Albanian, at which point the conversation switches.
“Where are you from?” she asks.
“I’m an American.”
“Ua! (expression of surprise),” she responds. Then, like many people do, she turns to the man next to her, tells him she’s going to ask me what part of Albania I like best, and when she turns around to ask me, I’m already chuckling. Yes, I did hear and understand what you just said, even though people frequently don’t think we’re capable of either thing. I answer diplomatically, in a way that would make my host mom laugh: “I like Erseka in the winter and Golem in the summer.” The woman accepts this answer, smiles, and pinches my leg.
An hour later, we arrive in Korca. No one gets out, but three more people get in. This is the main idea behind furgons, something I both love and hate about Albania: there is always room in the furgon. When it’s pouring down rain and you’re stranded on the side of the road, there’s always a seat in the furgon. When it’s a thousand degrees and someone sits next to a window and closes it, there’s still room in the furgon for at least one more passenger. In Korca, our 11 person furgon becomes filled with 14 people. Children sitting on their parents’ laps and people squeezing into the furgon, sitting on plastic step stools. We stop to get gas. The driver lights up a cigarette right next to the gas tank while the engine is running. Maybe we have too many rules, regulations and precautions in the US?
And then the “pilaf stop.” It’s a 15-20 minute coffee/rice break in the middle of the journey, and often takes place close to the town of Librazhd at restaurants of varying scales. As a result, you never quite know what to expect when you make a trip to the bathroom. It could be a normal toilet, or it could be a turk, or better yet, a turk with a hose of constantly flowing water connected to it. That’s part of the adventure.
Somewhere after the pilaf stop, the older lady sitting next to me becomes distressed about her cell phone. Speaking a mile a minute, she tells me to find Hussein’s number and call it. I read off a list of names store in her phone’s memory, and Hussein is unfortunately not on the list. I explain this several times to no avail. “I just got this phone today, my son’s wife gave it to me…” Somewhere much, much later into this conversation she realizes that I’m not Albanian, at which point the conversation switches.
“Where are you from?” she asks.
“I’m an American.”
“Ua! (expression of surprise),” she responds. Then, like many people do, she turns to the man next to her, tells him she’s going to ask me what part of Albania I like best, and when she turns around to ask me, I’m already chuckling. Yes, I did hear and understand what you just said, even though people frequently don’t think we’re capable of either thing. I answer diplomatically, in a way that would make my host mom laugh: “I like Erseka in the winter and Golem in the summer.” The woman accepts this answer, smiles, and pinches my leg.
Visa Liberalization
I’ve spent most of November on the road thanks to a program that pairs old Peace Corps Volunteers with new ones – so after 1 ½ years here, I’ve been matched with two volunteers from the new group who have been here seven months. It’s been interesting visiting them in their sites and seeing what their lives are like and hopefully I’ve been able to add some helpful insight in dealing with their issues.
I visited a volunteer Himare, a small coastal town in southern Albania. Southern Albania is very different from the northern Adriatic coast that I call home. Going south, you pass through Vlore, go through a national forest, and come out to see the Ionian Sea with huge mountains that run right into the sea. Himare has a Greek minority. Greek is spoken on the streets. Students speak Greek amongst themselves. I’m not quite sure if this area was always Greek or if it was created by Albanians returning from work abroad, but there is a lot of ethnic tension. Many people there speak Greek as a first language. In the north where I live, many people speak Italian but there isn’t any sort of Italian community. The challenges of teaching large, multi-leveled classes are multiplied when students’ first language might not even be Albanian. It’s a unique challenge to volunteers in border towns along the south and southeastern part of the country.
While I was visiting, the EU approved short-term, visa-free travel for Albanians (Eastern Approaches analysis here). Visa-free travel has been a topic of discussion in the news since I’ve been here, with channels covering and discussing it even when there wasn’t anything new to add to the conversation. On November 9th, a day after the visa liberalization, the EU moved to launch membership negotiations with Albania. There were concerts and celebrations. The Albanian government spent countless money putting up signs and advertisements throughout Tirana about Albania becoming part of the EU.
Certainly, this is something to look forward to. But I, along with many other Albanians, am skeptical. Firstly, of the 13 million illegal immigrants in the US today, half of them are estimated to have entered the US legally. Given the huge brain drain facing Albanian society, how will this affect the EU countries receiving Albanian immigrants, and how will it affect Albanian society? The travel is visa-free only for a period of 3 months, but how often will Albanians, who have a history of illegal immigration to Greece and Italy, actually return? The EU has already said that visa-free travel through the Schengen Zone is a privilege than can be revoked. It would be terrible to have to lose it since it’s taken so long to get it in the first place. Secondly, one can’t help but feel that this just one big political distraction from the other problems facing Albania. The Socialists are still complaining about last June’s elections. Albania still has a long way to go in meeting EU benchmarks for parliamentary organization and rule of law, amongst other things. And the latest flooding in the northern regions of the country have been devastating. How important is visa-free travel when ranked with all this other issues? While I think it’s critical for Albanians to go abroad and experience other parts of the world, and while they deserve the freedom to do so, the weight that visa-free travel has been given in current discourse is disproportionate to the real issues facing the country.
I visited a volunteer Himare, a small coastal town in southern Albania. Southern Albania is very different from the northern Adriatic coast that I call home. Going south, you pass through Vlore, go through a national forest, and come out to see the Ionian Sea with huge mountains that run right into the sea. Himare has a Greek minority. Greek is spoken on the streets. Students speak Greek amongst themselves. I’m not quite sure if this area was always Greek or if it was created by Albanians returning from work abroad, but there is a lot of ethnic tension. Many people there speak Greek as a first language. In the north where I live, many people speak Italian but there isn’t any sort of Italian community. The challenges of teaching large, multi-leveled classes are multiplied when students’ first language might not even be Albanian. It’s a unique challenge to volunteers in border towns along the south and southeastern part of the country.
While I was visiting, the EU approved short-term, visa-free travel for Albanians (Eastern Approaches analysis here). Visa-free travel has been a topic of discussion in the news since I’ve been here, with channels covering and discussing it even when there wasn’t anything new to add to the conversation. On November 9th, a day after the visa liberalization, the EU moved to launch membership negotiations with Albania. There were concerts and celebrations. The Albanian government spent countless money putting up signs and advertisements throughout Tirana about Albania becoming part of the EU.
Certainly, this is something to look forward to. But I, along with many other Albanians, am skeptical. Firstly, of the 13 million illegal immigrants in the US today, half of them are estimated to have entered the US legally. Given the huge brain drain facing Albanian society, how will this affect the EU countries receiving Albanian immigrants, and how will it affect Albanian society? The travel is visa-free only for a period of 3 months, but how often will Albanians, who have a history of illegal immigration to Greece and Italy, actually return? The EU has already said that visa-free travel through the Schengen Zone is a privilege than can be revoked. It would be terrible to have to lose it since it’s taken so long to get it in the first place. Secondly, one can’t help but feel that this just one big political distraction from the other problems facing Albania. The Socialists are still complaining about last June’s elections. Albania still has a long way to go in meeting EU benchmarks for parliamentary organization and rule of law, amongst other things. And the latest flooding in the northern regions of the country have been devastating. How important is visa-free travel when ranked with all this other issues? While I think it’s critical for Albanians to go abroad and experience other parts of the world, and while they deserve the freedom to do so, the weight that visa-free travel has been given in current discourse is disproportionate to the real issues facing the country.
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