I hope life isn't a big joke, because I don't get it. _Jack Handey

Day 3

Sunday greeted us with torturously hot weather. It was as if hell came to Albania overnight. But today, my luggage was to arrive at the Tirana International Airport and we had to venture out. After a hearty meal of double meat, we ran down the 8 flights of stairs of Boiken’s Mom’s apartment and grabbed a cab. As we navigated our way to the airport through unbelievably congested streets, I observed the amount of development that had been taking place in the area. Huts next to 15 story office buildings. Stray dogs, however, have no indication of social and economic class differences so they can be seen on the steps of both.

The Tirana International Airport is massive compared to what it was when I was here a few years ago. Then, there was a bar, a coffee shop, and really no terminal. The plane just pulled up outside the bar and you kind of hopped in. Now, an angled glass structure exists in its place and represents that of a country on the rise. One of hope and dreams that being realized through economic and social growth. And then I saw the iconic Mother Theresa in the middle of a roundabout. Maybe not so representative of a people divided between 79% Muslim and less than 20% Christian. Not to mention, most of the “Christians” regard themselves as non-denominational.

The Cab Driver pulls up outside, gives us a gesture, and we get out headed towards Lost and Found. Boiken has to wait outside due to the luggage not being in his name, so I walk through a small security checkpoint and get to small office. There is absolutely no one there. I could have unhooked the computers, taken someone's Fiat as the keys lay on the table, and go right out the front door. As I am standing in this vacant room, a scent of cigarette smoke catches my olfactory sense. I notice two men smoking outside a small door to my right. They look at me, I look at them. No response. I guess they are not the employees I need. A few minutes pass and as I am about to walk back through security and begin asking questions like a lost tourist, the two gentlemen smoking enter and walk into the Lost and Found.  Okay… “lskdjflskdjflsdkjflsdf” (Albanian). “I had my bag flown here from Bulgaria yesterday,” I say. “Of course, let me take you.” I grab my bag and get the hell outta there.

Boiken is waiting outside and calls the cab who hangs up (like Clair mentioned) and we wait. He pulls up and takes us back home.

After I shower, shave, and brush my filthy teeth that have only tasted toothpaste applied by my finger over the past few days, we head out to meet some friends. Gea, my new best friend, is an architect. And not only do we have this in common, but we also get bored very quickly rehashing the problems of civil society in the Balkans. Abri also meets us and we grab some coffee and talk politics. Then we see Boiken’s brother and grab some more coffee, and talk a little more politics. We then head over to get some more coffee and talk politics. Onto the local Bohemian coffee shop “Radio” I decide I’ve had enough coffee and about all the political talk I can handle sober, so I order a Mojito.

*As we meet these people, Boiken finds it hilarious to recount the past evenings events making me sound like a crazed American throwing chairs at the Bride and Groom.

It is at “Radio” I finally converse with Clair over broken airwaves and fading internet. It’s so nice to hear her voice. A familiarity and my rock. I feel so good after having our “What?”, “What?” conversation, that I order another Mojito.

Boiken in all this has another agenda in Tirana. His 32 year old cousin passed away a week ago from cancer. He has yet to visit or call his uncle and expresses he will leave me in the hands of and his political accomplice and my architect. So we head to the center of town after splitting with Boiken and play billiards. This goes on for a while as I learn the nuances of Albanian pool and even begin winning.

As we become famished from the day’s events, Boiken arrives and we head to dinner. Fish (with heads and crunchy, crunchy eyes), some paste that can only be described as solidified gasoline, fried calamari (always a favorite), and a sort of fish pate. Not too bad. We head back to “Radio”, which I have to say, plays some damn good music. Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye, it was almost hilarious how much of the music originated from my hometown. More Mojitos. I began wondering if the day would ever end.

There’s a lawyer with his girlfriend who meet up with Abri, Boiken, Gea, and myself, and amongst politics they begin telling horrible jokes. And I mean offensively horrible. This leads into another discussion of why jokes like this are horrible. Are you kidding me? I was not the favorite in this conversation as I believe that jokes like this don’t always have a harmless way of acknowledging terrible historic events based on color, race, religion, etc. I think a lot is dependent on the person telling them and how they are told.

A few Mojitos later and we wrap up the night. We walk back to Boiken’s Mom’s for one more evening's slumber in Tirana. I remember this place from my initial visit, and although much seems the same; the poverty, the coffee shops, the congestion, the unstable political climate. I feel there is a more detached community in this new infrastructure. People are no longer building these homes and centers, but corporations are. I remember feeling so at home in my first visit to this city, so accepted. Now I feel like a tourist and I think Boiken, born and raised here, feels the same. Both of us are ready to head back to Kosova.

Boiken

Boiken's Mom

The apartment and bag my Momma sent

Outside my window (Boiken's neighborhood)

The Tirana International Airport

Mother Theresa

Gea and Abri staring at fish heads....

Questioned Identity

Day 2

Saturday engulfed me in a world many know not exist. It Is that of the Balkan Beach Dweller. These people, particularly from Kosova (where there is no beach) hop in their cars at absurd hours on Saturday morning, drive to the border heading towards Albania’s sunny coastal shores and wait…and wait…and wait.

Boiken and I were picked up promptly at 5am by a driver for Albin, the leader of Vetevendosje. Quickly, we grab our things and head for Albin. Once he’s in the car, it’s an all-out sprint. Apparently, to get an even acceptable spot in line to cross the border, you need to leave somewhere around 4am. This was a problem as Albin was scheduled to speak at noon and we were an hour behind the Balkan Beach Dwellers. The line could only be described as pure madness. People honking, trying to pass in the wrong lane only to be thwarted by oncoming trucks and buses forcing them to reverse back to their place in line. We sit for a while and Boiken and I get out and kind of walk down the line as people listen to our English (one of the rare countries Americans are actually liked). We saw a large group of people arguing. Apparently, one Balkan Beach Dweller trying to get around another, stalled his car and was unable to move for the oncoming traffic. This goes on for about 15 minutes until they physically push the car out of the way.

Once the lane was clear we hear Albin yelling for us to return. And then it got interesting. As soon as I sat down, before the door had slammed shut, the car was in motion. We flew by the masses passing them in the wrong lane as people honked and yelled what I can only imaging were obscenities. And then a truck appeared coming straight at us, horn blaring. Our driver laid on his horn and forced his car into a tiny hole between two cars more than 400 meters from where we started. I was amazed! In Detroit, people might be killed for such things. And just as people began to get angry and yell in the surrounding cars where we asserted our place, they would look at Albin and realize who he was (a fact I was not exactly aware of at this point). They would smile and say, “Vetevendosje!” Once the truck passed, we went at it again. This time I got a real feeling of how long the line was. We made it what must have been 2 miles from where we had begun. There were a few more incidents of honking and forcing our tiny Opel sedan into a spot the size of a matchbook, but in the end, we made it quickly and efficiently to the border.

Now this is what amazed me…no border control. There was not one person asking for IDs, not a single customs guard, I didn’t even reach for my passport. Nothing. We cruised through and left Kosova behind with a line of Balkan Beach Dwellers. If they only knew…

We were dropped off at Boiken’s Mom’s house where we were greeted with hugs and food. Lots of food. Meat and more meat. At this point in my life, I feel it necessary to experience the customs of a region of the world I am visiting. This coming from a once vegetarian, my stomach doesn’t always agree with my logic. And of course it didn’t this time either.

After a long trip to the WC, I took a nap. 3 hours at least until the wedding, no luggage or dress clothes to change into, and the only male in the home to borrow from was Boiken who outweighs me by 75 pounds. So when I awoke, Boiken’s Mom was ironing numerous shirt options for me to wear to this wedding on the beach. I put on the first, which I thought was somewhat attractive, but both Boiken and his Mom laughed and made me change. The second and final option was a gigantic, short sleeved, white shirt. At first I was reluctant to let anyone see me in such a garbage bag of a top, but then I thought, “Who cares! No one here knows me!” After Boiken gave me a pair of his father’s size 12 (American size) shoes, we were off again. This time with Andi, a lawyer whom I’d met on my last trip to Albania. A very nice guy who likes to refer to me through a thick accent as, “the gay American.” I’m not sure if the giant shirt and shoes I was wearing making me look like clown at an Albanian child’s party helped or hurt this perception.

The wedding was beautiful. On the beach in Durres, with violins playing in the sand as the sun set over the sea. And as I had once thought I would be a loner at this party; a mysterious guest, I saw Elsi, and Arbri, and everyone else I worked with at Mjaft in 2006. Everyone. “Oh, so you did the video!” “Great to see you, Matti!” (a funny name to Albanians as it is short for Muhammad, and due to my white skin and obvious lack of middle eastern blood, it gets a lot of laughs).

So I drank. And then drank a little more. This was an Albanian/Bulgarian wedding, so naturally they had both versions of homemade moonshine or Raki. Wine bottles at the table and wait staff that refused to see a glass empty also aided in my intoxication. I remember arguing with a couple of girls about the respect and consideration they were fighting for from the Bosnians and Serbs, and the lack of respect the Albanians themselves were giving to the Roma population (gypsy’s) in Albania.  How can you ask for respect if you continue this cycle of inhumane treatment? I don’t understand. It was later that Boiken told me I also grabbed a chair and (what I can only hope) jokingly gestured at the dancers to back away. No recollection, but Boiken sees this as my physical objection to the situation.

Also, a girl apparently was giving me the eye and Andi let me know this by saying, “this girl, she thinks you sex.” I had to explain that I was virtually married and had two children (Fred and Frankie). He followed up with, “So you are a gay American!”

Homeward bound. Sandwiched in between two other girls yelling about something, we headed back to Tirana. I stripped off my giant shirt and shoes, hopped into bed and slept. I don’t know what it is about these public events, but I always feel a space next to me is missing. I want to share them intimately with someone…my best friend…my Clair. I have fun, but being away makes me appreciate home some much more. With all our problems, insecurities, and hopelessness in the States, it is still my home. And with all the girls (and boys) all over the globe, there is only one for me. 

Country Struggles

Day 0 / Day 1

It was instantly a stressful morning, but everything went so quickly. Packed my bags, talked to the neighbors about a bus from Bulgaria to Macedonia, exchanged money and then off to the airport. I checked my bag and then met with my Bulgarian entourage. Pictures, hugs, smiles, more hugs, kisses, waves…and then I felt myself becoming Mateo. I could feel my ties breaking with Detroit, if only for a month. The thick fog of problems I had created for myself in Michigan began to clear as I transformed into a traveller; a nomad; an adventurer. 

One last kiss and hug for my Momma, and we walked to security. A voice from behind me said, “Nice shoes!” and pointed at her yellow and red laced Chuck Taylor’s. This is when I learned I would be travelling with two lady escorts.  Anita about 12, and Lana, 10. I, also wearing Chuck’s had my new friend. We bantered back and forth about reading, about music (as I got my first taste of Justin Beaber), art, Bulgaria, and Detroit. As we eventually left the ground, all the memories of travels and excitement of my past came flooding back. I remembered flying with Clair and began wishing she were beside me…

The plane was fairly standard. Poor food, terrible movies, rude children, but I survived. Quick transition in Amsterdam then on the ground in Bulgaria. It was at this point things began to get hectic. As we waited for our luggage in the Bulgarian airport, two men approached me and asked for my id. My Bulgarian escort politely explained that I was American and was no threat. They looked me up and down for about 2 minutes and decided I was ok. I guess it was the beard that threw them off.

So we waited. Then we waited. And waited. Nothing. Our luggage had transformed into a myth. As a woman at lost and found explained, there was no record of our plane; they don’t know  where it is or where it is going. Huh? 

Because this took an unprecedented amount of time to sort out, I was becoming concerned I would miss my bus to Macedonia. I expressed this to Mitko and we exited the airport where we were met by 30 or so ecstatic Bulgarian family members. Pictures, hugs, smiles, more hugs, kisses…Then Mitko grabbed me and with a serious look upon his face he said, “we will get you to the bus. Give me your money.” Quickly he exchanged my money with a large gentlemen standing next to me (to be honest, the whole transaction seemed a bit sketchy), and then pointed to a short, stocky man I can only describe as the Bulgarian Danny Devito. He pointed in the direction of the garage and we quickly…very quickly began heading towards the airport. Although his legs were short, he moved like puma. His feet were a blur as if he were a character in a Warner Brothers cartoon. 

We hopped in the car and his driving was an extension of his walking. We were silent, but inside I was screaming, “oh my god, we are going to die!” He sped in and out of lanes, cut off trucks and cab drivers, and I think there may have been a child casualty. We blazed pass grazing cattle, sheep in the road, stray horses wondering around the perimeter of the airport and in seconds, we were at the bus stop. He jumped out of the car, ran into the numerous companies offering tickets, and found the one to Macedonia. I bought the ticket and he pointed and spoke, “Yours.”

The bus was a catastrophe. I was told the ride would be approximately 2-3 hours. Not so…6.5 hours. And because no one spoke English, this fact was hidden from me until the final stop. In the meantime, we got to the border of Macedonia and began the lengthy process of customs, Bulgarian Border Control, and then Macedonian Border Control. We were all pulled off the bus and had to empty our bags. After about 45 minutes, we began filing back onto the bus where then our passports were taken. No problems. At the second Border Control, they were taken again, but this time there were issues. Two people were asked to exit the bus. One, an Arabic man, the other, a girl sitting next to me. This girl was probably in her early 20s, with very revealing clothing. Her tanned chest almost completely visible and her teal thong exposed. I began fearing the worst for them both, thinking of the inappropriate things this Border Control could do to them without repercussion. We were given back our passports and the two passengers escorted off, were loaded into a separate van. And just like that, both vehicles were on the move in separate directions.

This “2-3” hour bus ride was not only annoying to me, but Boiken, my Albanian, had been waiting Skopje, Macedonia expecting my arrival around 6pm. We pulled in at 10 and there I saw, a plump, balding, Albanian, cigarette in hand with his arms open wide. I had made it. 

 

*I should probably keep this to myself, but in the last leg of the bus ride, I began dosing off. Due to the winding roads up and over mountainous terrain, one particular cut of the steering wheel, sent me spread horizontally into the aisle where I hit my head on the arm of the seat across from me. I smiled (a universal gesture I thought) and tried to laugh it off as three or four surrounding passengers gazed at me in the most menacing way. 

The drive to Kosova was another 2.5 hours. Boiken had a friend in the Movement drive since he (as long as I’ve known him) does not drive. On this ride, I learned of the efforts of Vetevendosje (Self-Determination) and the struggles of Kosova, Serbia, and the Albanian people, some of which I already knew. Genocide, loss of identity, power stuggles, political corruption, land wars, and the like. And I’m going to help! Or something…

Boiken explains we are going to be in Kosova for about 2 hours. At 4am we were to be picked up by the leader of Vetevendosje and drive to Tirana, Albania for a wedding. At this point, I had been asleep for approximately 12 minutes in the past 2 days. We stopped at a gas station briefly, purchased a few beers (legal to drink in the car) and drove on to a humble home in Prishtina, Kosova. Later, we grabbed a bite to eat, and slept. A little. But I had arrived and I was safe. Almost expectedly lost my bags, almost deported, almost crushed in a car wreck, almost time to go home?

Stubbornocity

Preface

There are two distinct conditions of my current being. As Matthew I am a (young looking) 31 year old, struggling artist (I say artist to encompass graphic design, architecture, web design, and freelance film). As Matthew, I am passionate about my life in Detroit and most notably, Clair. She is my muse and until yesterday, my live-in girlfriend. As Matthew I have two cats and work 3 jobs to sustain a semi comfortable existence with Clair, Frankie and Fred.

 The second condition, Mateo, is a free spirit. An adventurer. A strong, independent traveller with no ties in any city. Tall (not really), dark (haha), handsome, (absolutely not)…mysterious and confident. As Mateo, I swallow the world whole one small Eastern European country at a time. To blend with my environment on my travels, as Mateo, I grow a pitiful beard, wear little, if any deodorant, and practice Canadianisms, just in case my blending technique is questioned. As Mateo, I am fearless and forever searching for life in its purest form; the way our ancestors experienced it.

Today, I am Matthew…

Day -2

As I watched Clair trail through the line to Security at the airport, swarms of emotions overtook me. The hardest thing to do with someone you love is say goodbye…even if it is only for a short period of time (7 weeks; 49 days; 1176 hours; 70560 minutes; eternity). But I needed to continue. Cleaning, packing, moving for the ever quickly looming adventure ahead…

Stubbornocity

*Stubbornocity: A quality or state of being stubborn with the intent to act on emotion and complete lack of reason

Day -1

As I reach the end of the first 1/3 of my life (okay, I may not live till 90…93 to be exact), I find my stubbornocity swelling more and more inside me. I continually shove off knowledge and suggestions from others in an attempt to prove to myself that I am capable of making sound decisions based on my upbringing, my education, and my ideals.

This morning was the first morning without Clair in 3 years. No kiss, no warm touch on the arm to feed the cats, no call, no text. As she resides in Lebanon for the next 7 weeks (7 weeks; 49 days; 1176 hours; 70560 minutes; eternity), I try to forgive her. So I began to gather my ambition off my pillow case, and muster up the strength to begin moving…everything. The bed, pillows, cats, everything. First objective; the bed. I pull up the truck I was so generously allowed to borrow and begin the first load. As I think to myself “maybe I should call Mike to come help,” my stubbornocity steps in and says, “no, you’ll be fine on your own, son! Be a man!” So I grab the bed, box spring first, then mattress, and load it in the truck. I take a quick assessment for any weight issues and conclude that a rope may come in handy at this point. I look at my watch; 6:45am. Ok, so the hardware store opens at 7, right? Nope, 9:00am! I can’t wait that long and after all, the truck is already loaded. I, or my stubbornocity, decide to chance it. I assessed the weight and it didn’t seem that bad.

I drive over the bumpy Michigan Avenue intersection and begin my decent onto the freeway. Of course, being Detroit, there is virtually no entrance length and absolutely no driver etiquette even at 7:00am. I am keeping a close eye on the mattress as I am forced to speed up in front of oncoming death drivers and merge onto the Lodge. I make it, just barely, and look back to make sure my cargo is in place…one missing…like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze, the mattress flew from the truck and over the ramp to an abyss I can only imagine.

As Mateo, I would toss care to the wind and drive to my next destination without a single thought as to the whereabouts of the mattress. As Matthew…I panic. Drivers begin waving at me to let me know the fact that I had already learned. Next exit, Warren, 1 MILE! I come back around fearing someone was killed by a flying, 80 pound, Queen bed. I retrace my steps and (stubbornicity) get back on the freeway. This time, however, I throw on the blinkers and make everyone stop for me…that’s right, I learned something. I enter the ramp…nothing. I get on the Lodge…nothing. No remnance of posturepedic explosion or mangled steel anywhere. As my panic begins to subside and I start to accept the loss of my bed, I glance in the rearview mirror…the box spring lay in the middle of the road.

The rest of the day went somewhat in the same vein. I cleaned out the apartment and washed it from end to end. As I grabbed Clair’s clothes to transport, I (Matthew) began to swell with tears. But not to fear, tomorrow to Bulgaria! Then to Macedonia! Then to Kosova! All will be conquered by Mateo! No tears allowed! And then I collected Frankie and Fred and I (Matthew) cried for the entire length of the drive to Kurt’s apartment.

I must explain that Frankie also has a mysterious alter ego that emerges during her travels. So mysterious you may never see her. As Francesca, she looks for those details we as surface dwellers overlook. The nooks in basements and behind beds, Francesca understands and adores. She is a woman of the dark. She is reclusive and sometimes she even fasts during her travels.  She is very disciplined…unlike Frankie, the morning terror. Once she gets her meal promptly at 5:00am after knocking every visible and physically manageable object onto the floor, Frankie will roll around on the carpet in the sun for hours and then insert her nails into our modest furniture.

Fred, or his travelling self, Federico becomes…well he has no alter ego. Still an asshole.

So I find myself on the edge of a steep cliff with one foot to the air. A great adventure is to come. Who knows what’s in store for Mateo. Who knows if his friend will even be there to greet him…uncommunicative bastard. The ever attractive and enticing unknown is just one more step. And yet, my existential being, where the two conditions converge, is caught on the edge. Excited and overwhelmed. Looking to the future and thinking of yesterday. As much as I am the fearless and independent world traveller, I am also the sad, homeless, catless, bedless, Clairless little boy.

I miss you Clair.