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.