Today I came home from Fushekruje a few hours earlier than I had anticipated.  The rhythm of life and work in the country is fluid in nature.  I am coming to appreciate the variety in my schedule.  Life here is kind of adventurous even for people who aren’t in my position, because systems provide luxuries and not staples of existence.  I was transposing some measurements onto my plan-set today at the Cafe Nord, which is the cafe nearest my jobsite.  The power went out on three different occasions in about 45 minutes time.  No one seemed to notice.

In 2004 I fell in love with the woman of my dreams.  Ever since the spring of the following year I have been able to appreciate the beauty of flowers like this one.  Some relationships, however fleeting, can still usher in miraculous changes to a person’s mind.  You cannot see that just below this rose is a roughly constructed CMU wall stacked atop a litter strewn, packed earth road.  You don’t need to see that.  The truth is, all I see is beauty and sky.

Today a wedding was held here at the school.  Because I came home early, I was clean and dressed by the time it began.  As an American I have inherited the status necessary to attend such an event without being questioned by anyone.  However, I felt like it wasn’t my place.  I could eat an entire cheesecake, but that doesn’t mean that I should.  I did take some photographs.  This wedding was more like the ones I have seen and participated in back home.  Christianity has a lot of European baggage, and it seams we cannot divorce the bride and groom of “Christian Marriage,” with “Western Norms.”  The homogenization of traditions is often mistaken for progress.  That said, the wedding was of course beautiful; a grand celebration.

The second floor of the school provided a special vantage point for people like me who were not invited guests.  Cimi’s family eagerly took in every moment of the nuptials.  The way of affluent Europe is a fascinating study for the country people of Albania.

I suppose I was caught up in the fascination as well.

This morning I was greeted by more hungry cries from two affectionate little ones.

I was on my way to the bus, and so I stopped to say hello, but I did not take these little guys home.  I know what you are thinking: “But there such a little fuzzer fuzzer yes they are, a wuzzer wuz.  Yes a little persum snicker love, yes they do.”  I was thinking those very words, and it is a compelling argument, but I have learned to let the fuzzy farm friends remain as they are.  Speaking of which, I haven’t seen Max for a few days.  I haven’t seen two of his close pack companions either.  This makes me think that they are either together somewhere safe, or together somewhere lifeless.  Of course I am hoping for the former.  The lives of animals are not considered as valuable here as they are in Seattle, so who knows?

I arrived in Fushekruje early enough this morning to have a coffee at Buyar’s Cafe.  It isn’t really named that and there is not any signage to speak of, but I like to think of it that way.  I was thinking of asking Brad or Greg to design a sign that read “Buyar’s International Coffee House.”  When I am there he alerts everyone to my nationality with pride. People from the United States are treated like dignitaries here.  Almost no one can figure the angle on leaving the States to volunteer at a church here.  It doesn’t pencil out, especially given the fact that in the minds of most of the Albanian men I’ve spoken with, moving to America would be akin to finding out that you are actually the lost prince of a very opulent kingdom somewhere.

The two exceptions to this have been Fatjon and his father Saimir.  Fatjon wants to be a doctor and he wants to stay in Albania.  He aspires to live in Fushekruje.  This contentment is one of the attributes which makes Fatjon the strong person for God he is and is becoming.  Fatjon’s father has traveled extensively in search for work.  He has relayed some stories to me which are both endearing and heartbreaking.  Through all of that, and all of the uncertainty of being without a job in the second to the most poor nation in Europe, Saimir has maintained his dignity through strict regard for his principles.  

An interesting cultural fact is that many of the puntors (laborers) will arrive to work in work clothes; but before leaving the jobsite for the day they will change into a nice shirt and slacks.  This tradition is popular with the men who are in their 40s.  After work today I was invited back to Saimir’s for refreshments.  We deployed a Chess board and Saimir taught me how to lose.  He is the kind of person who becomes more interesting with each conversation.  I am looking forward to a long relationship with him.

A wonderful thing happened a few day ago.  I got a package from my parents.  In case you were wondering, for the low price of $28.87 you too can ship six crispy-white, fresh t-shirts and a two pairs of 72″ boot laces to Albania from the States.  Post marked on the 4th, arriving here on the 20th, thanks Mom and Dad.

Items of quality are not to be found in great quantity here, and those that are tend to be prohibitively expensive.  When my parents and I were Skyping about a month back they asked if I needed anything.  Some luxuries are too familiar to pass up.  Speaking of which, I am going to sell all the way out and say thank you to the inventor of Skype for all that your product has done for my sanity since I moved here.  I have been talking to my Dad and Jen on a pretty consistent basis, and then today I got a surprise call from Hannah.  If you would like to Skype, my name is joshua.hughes.106, knock yourself out.  Please allow for a 9 hour time difference.  

Tomorrow we will be on site again with a better plan for the “white water” system at the Fushekruje church.  Things are moving along, albeit at a pace I am as yet unaccustomed to.  There is a 26 story building in the middle of Tirana which has been sitting idly incomplete since long before my arrival here 10 weeks ago.  

I love you. 

This morning, like so many Sunday mornings here, found me waiting early for Kurt and Stephanie to arrive at school. The three of us, along with four Italian pastors, headed into Fushekruje for church on the second floor of an apartment building near Buyar’s Cafe.  On the ride up there most of the communication was done via Italian.  It has been a revelation to have English, the only language I have ever known, become obsolete in most situations.  It is like I am only equipped to make purchases with a currency which has lost its’ value.  I now have to barter with an empty purse.

At church, I stepped out to use the nearest restroom; located at Buyar’s Cafe. He was the only person there, so I stayed for a coffee.  He has in his mind that my name is George, spelled Gjergj in Albanian.  Gjergj was the given name of Skenderbeu who is the most celebrated Albanian in all of history.  I’ve decided to let his mistake lye.  After a few minutes of conversation, I went back to join the singing.  I realized this morning that I am at home here, I feel at peace.  I enjoy the worship at the church in Fushkruje as much as I would if I could understand every word.  It is the spirit of the worship that moves, and it was moving this morning.  The speaker today was one of the Italian pastors.  He spoke on Jeremiah chapter 6.

After the conclusion of the sermon, I was tapped on my back by a woman called Fatima.  I have met her a few times before.  I mentioned a woman some weeks back who asked me to pray for the healing of her hands.  After that first prayer she looked at me and simply wrung her hands, feeling no difference.  I felt like I had administered a placebo.  Today I was surprised to be asked again by her for prayer.  I held her hands tightly today, and there was a palpable energy from my head downward as I spoke to God.  “Only you can heal Lord God, and I pray for the healing of this woman in the name of your son Jesus.”  After a few minutes of praying together, she was delighted to inform me that she had felt something, and that her hands did feel better.  She asked through an interpreter that I pray for her whenever I pray.  I told her I would.  More than a few times after we parted did I see her talking with someone from the church while looking and pointing at me.  I have never been the conduit of something like this before.  Later Fatima was sitting with a woman in a white head scarf.  With permission, I took their picture.

After Fatima, Alban asked me to pray for him, and so we prayed.  There was another man who I had never seen before, sitting in the back row. I went to him and prayed with him.  I can not say how humbled I am to be a part of the Body of Christ.  As church concluded, I felt like a part of this congregation for the first time.  It takes time to find comfort in a new home.

Pastor Gezim has been the thrust behind our getting deeper connections with the churches of Italy.  After church in Fushekruje we went to his house to have a meal with the fifteen Italians who are visiting for the week.  Perhaps growing up with a bus system which allows for no limit to the number of people who can board a motorized vehicle has given the Albanian people a higher threshold of comfort when it comes to packing into small venues.  24 of us sat and broke bread in Pastor Gezim’s 4×6 meter dining room, spilling into the kitchen.  His lovely wife and daughter provided a delicious pasta as the first course.  Tomato, cucumber and olive salad followed with thick slices of rotisserie, slow cooked pork.  Ice cream was the finish after a brief interlude of fresh peaches and cherries.  With permission, I took their picture.

As clouds hurdle the Balkan Alps I am reminded of the beauty of God’s creation.  Looking across the land to an avalanche of moisture pushing up to the sky in a display of contrasting laws, I took a few moments to process the beauty of a gift so temporary and so beautiful.

It is beautiful here.

I know hollering

From midnight sportsmen

A few distant crickets

Mosquito too close buzzing

The second hand making its rounds

Cool moving through

Breeze breaking humid cloud

Sweat from nothing

Soaking garments through

Skin sticking cold

Peel hands up from keyboard

Reach slowly to wipe your face

You know rain

Familiar in its approach

A walk around Greenalake

Another day perhaps

Trapped at your computer

Chanting brings you there

Looking up at rough-hewn beams

We are holding hands you

And I for the first time

Walking on lazy feet

Powerful woman

Bold in stride and life

This air has me missing you

Just over the lip of

A coffee mug

A few feet away

Together

Today, in order to get some documentation finalized for my residency in Albania, I spent most of my time with Kreshnik.  Kreshnik is the man when it comes to just about everything.  We went downtown to take care of about half-a-dozen things for Pastor Kurt and myself, navigating the loosely controlled chaos of Tirana’s streets.  We went to a notary to get my rental contract and birth certificate notarized.  The charge was 500 Lek per document.  Afterward we stopped in at a coffee shop.  Kreshnik is one of those guys who simply loves life.  He has chosen, at whatever point in time, to laugh, smile, and bring laughter and smiles to those around him.

In a cafe, there is a joke in Albania.  Sugar is given with every coffee drink, and unlike cafes in the States, you order from a waiter who then delivers the coffee to your table.  These formalities speak of the importance the sharing of coffee has for Albanians.  The joke is to ask the person across from you to hold onto the table firmly with both hands.  As soon as they do, the other person proceeds to tap the bag of sugar against the edge of the table.  The idea is that the packing of sugar has a magnitude of importance which is very high.

After coffee we went to a nearby dry cleaner.  I asked Kreshnik to ask the man for me if I could take his photograph.  The man lit up as so many men in their fifties and sixties do at hearing that I am an American.  “Because of America, Albania has freedom.”  He told me.  Then he went on to explain that many of the people who love America also love Communism.  In his view, these people are confused and have forgotten how miserable life was under the yolk of Enver Hoxha.   We said our goodbyes and went off to the bank, and also to purchase the necessary food for the school cook this week.  There is a group of 15 Italians visiting the school until Monday.  Italian people are very pleasant, outgoing, and sincere.  We need to keep them well fed.

At 6:3PM Pastor Kurt picked me up en route to pick up Pastor Alban en route to a meeting in preparation for an upcoming visit from Luis Palau.  I am told that Luis Palau is the successor to Billy Graham as the most dynamic evangelist with the biggest following in the world today.  Aside from the fact that he is Argentinian, I don’t know much about him. The meeting was held on the 13th floor of a building near the Orthodox Christian Church in Tirana.  From there, I was able to get a new vantage point on the city.  I find the roofs of the simple houses in Albania’s capital city to be endearing.  Mediterranean architecture has a familiar homeyness to it.  Grape vines are commonly trained over arched entry ways and in order to make privacy walls.

Six months ago Albania became a nation with over 50% of its population living in urban areas instead of rural areas.  Tirana is a city of about 1,000,000 people in a nation of 4 million.  This ancient city is getting its face lifted daily by a driven people, determined to have a capital city which rivals those of its neighbors.

At this meeting I heard a joke in the form of a fable, and I thought it was spot-on.  A king took an ordinary peasant from his realm and stood with him in a field.  The king pointed to the horizon and told the man that from place they were standing to as far as the man could walk that day, the land he crossed would be given to him.  The peasant walked until he died.  As he lay on the ground taking his final breath, the peasant reached his hand out for another half meter of land.

We give up so much of ourselves for the folly we chase after.  Remember the words of the Teacher in Ecclesiastes.  Good night.

Think of beginning the word awesome with a “d” sound; that is how you say wedding in Albanian.  The day of this event began for the groom’s family with the beating of an animal-skin drum accompanied by a clarinet at 6AM.  The groom exited the home of his father with the shattering of a drinking glass.  Twenty feet away his younger brother fired a single shot from a shotgun into the air, announcing to the mountains the coming of a special day.  A videographer was on hand to capture the opening moments of this all important morning.  The groom danced with the women of his family while some sang a song, the only words I could make out being “slowly, slowly, take time to be careful.”

Here the story fades into assumption.  The groom and his immediate family all left the property to go to another location.  This left lesser family members and guests like myself to drink Turkish coffee together with small glasses of Raki, and the occasional glass of dhalle.  A hot glass of sugar-spiked, freshly drawn cow’s milk makes a tasty breakfast.  Soon the groom came back with the bride, both passengers in an SUV decorated by red and purple streamers and bows.  The driver was the same brother who had wielded the shotgun earlier, the car horn was now his medium of exuberant expression.  They wedding had been performed.

Soon all of us pilled into forgones for the trek over mountain roads into Peshkopia-proper for the reception.  In a great banquet hall about 120 people had gathered.  The bride and groom were the last to enter.

Looking around at the guests of the party, I recognized most of them from the night before.  There was loud music, and plenty of dancing.  Each guest was given a plate full of delicate foods; 22 oz. bottles of Tirana Pilsner were distributed widely.  About 2 hours into the event, it dawned on me that every person there was from the groom’s side of the family.  I asked Veesy why the bride’s side of the head-table had no occupants.  He told me that they would arrive in about 15 minutes.  15 minutes later, ten representatives from the bride’s family filed through the front door past all of the principle members of the groom’s entourage.  I was invited to be a part of the greeting party.  Four women and eight men passed through to the to the head of the room.  At this time a second course of food was distributed to all of the people.

At the conclusion of things, three important events happened.  First, the bride’s family came out onto the dance floor.  The bride joined them making this the first dance she had participated in that day.  This was also the first time I saw the bride smile.  After three songs, the bride’s family left amid exuberant applause.  Second, the bride and groom danced in a circle, each waving their individual handkerchiefs.  The groom used his to wipe his brow and soon, he handed it to his bride.  The bride carefully handled the small square of fabric, folding it gently as she danced; smoothing out the wrinkles with care.  The groom then took the handkerchief back from here and pierced it with a dinner fork, holding it up as he lit it on fire with a lighter.  After flame had consumed it fully, he took possession of the bride’s more ornate, silver-tasseled towel.  Third, there was a money dance.  People came onto the dance floor to press bills into the hands where bride and groom were joined.  As soon as the money had been taken in hand, it was allowed to drop to the ground, leaving a circle of paper around the dance floor.

A cake was soon brought out.  As it was cut a few people gathered the money into bunches and threw it over the married couple from behind.  The cake was three tiers tall, but not one person was served any of it.  It was time to go.  Seven hours later I was back in Sauk.  For the trip back to the Fushekruje area, I sat next to Zaladin.  With a bit of effort we were able to share about our lives and our families.  I hope to see him again.

After our return from the mountain hike, the music for the evening’s festivities kicked off.  The festival area was outside, with a sound system set up at one end near a fenced off area of farmland.  Both sides of a dirt dance floor were lined with benches and chairs occupied by men.  The women congregated near the entrance to the great-house, seated under a veranda on pillows, blankets and rugs.

In a near by field below, the main dinner courses were being prepared by a team of three men working over four, lidded, steel drums heated by beds of red-hot coals.  The man at the helm had been a chef in London for four years before returning home to Albania.  He now works as the head nurse of a local hospital.  Getting a job abroad is a boon for both the individual Albanian man, and his family.

The first people to eat were all of the oldest men, served at long tables near what would later be the dancing area.  At this time Veesy and I were taken back upstairs to the room where we had eaten a lavish meal only four hours earlier. Veesy explained to me that it was out of profound respect for me that we were being treated to this.  I would have preferred to eat with everyone else, but the protocol is to swim with the flow of the river.  We were treated to cheese, bread, beef, lamb, salad, and soup.  Neither of us could eat very much.  After visiting briefly with Veesy’s wife and daughter, we soon went back down stairs.

There was a five piece band of clarinet player, drummer, keyboardist, singer, and technician for the families entertainment.  The music was traditional Albanian dance music which I do not have the vocabulary to describe.  Each song was about ten minutes in length and came in volley after volley of enchanting lyrics; sometimes slow, and sometimes fast.  The dances often would begin with only women or only men, hand in hand in an open circle, dancing to the right.  The lead dancer carried a handkerchief, spinning and waving it in the air until another participant came to the front to take the lead.  When men and women danced in the same circle, men danced beside men, and women with women.  I was soon invited to dance by one of the groom’s brothers.  The steps were confusing and clumsy for me, and soon I was the most profusely sweating person at the party.  After a few minutes I was temporarily rescued from further cardiovascular activity by a concerned participant who insisted I take a break for water.

At one point I was the lead person spinning the handkerchief.  It was here that I found I could not articulate my feet in the proper sequence.  My hosts loved me for trying.  This dancing in a circle continued from sundown until about 1:3AM on Sunday, at which time Veesy and I were ushered to a nearby house to take our rest.  I was encouraged not to venture far into the darkness alone because the dogs of this mountain place are quite formidable.  Why argue?  My backpack had been stowed behind a couch on the second floor of the great-house.  Inside was my passport, my ipod and a number of other “precious” items. I did not fear for their security in the least.  It is disorienting to be around a people who’s mindset is so different from the one I am used to.  It had not occurred to anyone that I should be harmed in any way.  It was an honor to show me every degree of respect and deference.  For this reason I will always love my mountain family.

On Saturday of last week I met Ervis in Tirana at 6:3AM.  I had forgotten my cell phone at the college, so it was fortunate that I recognized his bright blur Adidas jacket shortly after making it to the center of town.  We walked the customary half-mile or so to find a forgone to take us to Peshkopia, which is a town some four to five hours drive away.    As we made our way down the highway past Fushekruje, we stopped to pick up Veesy’s mother, Drita.  Drita is a lovely lady with a really terrific smile.  Drita means energy in the Albanian language.

Once we arrived in Peshkopia we took another forgone into the mountains where Veesy’s wife’s family lives.  The forgone reached a point of no return on the primitive road.  Saying thank you, the three of exited to finish the trek on foot.  Our destination could best be described as a hamlet.  About a dozen or so structures within a stone’s throw of each other; some for humans, others for livestock.  Every structure was principally constructed of stone and mortar with timbers composing the support of any elevated floors or roofs.  Wood was also used for headers over door and window wall penetrations.  If Disneyland were to install a “Little House on the Prairie Land,” their artisan craftsman would toil in design over thousands of man hours to come to the realization of this place.  Fences twisted together out of rare wood scraps, strips of tree-bark, living trees and precious nails keep the beasts from roaming.  Huge mountain dogs unleashed and unafraid yet obedient to the strictest of degree keep strangers from harming their masters.  Streams of cool clean water keep thirst travelers from heat exhaustion.  Steep, loose-rock covered paths to all corners keep one from lapsing in vigilant care.  Farms right up to the edge of the world keep a resourceful people well provided for.

Upon my arrival, I was taken into a room with seats lining all four of the walls within.  I was given the seat furthest from the door, an indication that I was encouraged to stay.  I met most of the primary men in the family, including three of the four brothers who comprise the patriarchal nexus of things.  One of the brothers is Veesy’s father-in-law.  His son would be married the next day.  He sat next to me for this photograph.

After a piece of candy, some coffee, some water, a glass of fresh milk, and an offer of raki, I was invited to eat something.  “For everyone?”  I asked.  “No, just for you.”  I was told.  “I will wait until everyone eats.”  I said.  “Bravo,” was the reply.  Soon I was ushered to an upstairs bedroom for a meal with Veesy.  In the bedroom napping was the fourth brother.  He was the only smoker of the four, and he wore the woolen cap of a southerner from the flat lands.  There are three traditional styles of hat in Albania.  Each style is indicative of a person’s origin.

After our honorary meal, one of the brothers, a man named Zaladin (which has to be one of the greatest names I’ve ever heard) offered to take me for a hike around to take some beautiful photographs.  Of course I said yes to that.  Over the course of the hike, we arrived at about four places with some of the most beautiful views imaginable.  Also, at each of these places, I was offered, if I wasn’t too tired of course, to go to a higher, more beautiful place.  Looking back, I can’t say for certain if this man knew exactly how to goad me into another bit of hiking, or if he truly was making sure that I could keep up with him.  Either way we soon were near the top of the mountain, having set out initially for a brief jaunt.  At one spot, we came to a field dotted with flat stones.  Our host explained to me that the stones had a high salt content, and that the animals which made the trek to that place to lick the salt had the most delicious meat around.  The house near the top of the mountain was the home of a family friend of Zaladin’s.  Veesy and I waited for him for about 20 minutes while he paid his respects pending the marriage of his nephew.  After the two men joined us back outside the four of us hiked the last bit to the ruins of an ancient stone catholic church.  The footprint of a structure was not discernible to me, but an altar had been stacked out of some of the cut stone which lay about.  The shrine was a place of great respect for my Muslim hosts.

At the top of the mountain we could see some of the mountains of Macedonia, Albania’s neighbor to the east.  

 By the time we arrived back at the house, three hours had passed.  Festivities soon commenced.  I am going to leave the story here, because I want to capture it as completely as I can in another post.  Good night.

One of my favorite memories of you is from when I was in Junior High School.  Our neighbor, my best friend Kurt, had found a dog and taken him in.  People were always abandoning dogs on our hill.  I think there was a myth about our neighborhood being well-to-do.  Often as not, these dogs found homes.  I recall that Kurt always had two dogs, both Black Labrador Retrievers.  His family had a tradition of owning expensive things, and taking in a stray dog was probably as outlandish an idea to Kurt’s father as driving a vehicle which hadn’t been waxed that week.  Our family had had a few dogs for as long as four or five years, but we had never been a dog family.

One day, Kurt told me about this yellow dog he had been feeding.  He had given the dog the name Bo, after Bo Jackson, one of the most formidable athletes in the history of professional sports.  Kurt explained that he couldn’t keep Bo, and he urged me to ask you if I could keep him.  Although I told Kurt that there were no conditions which would allow for your accepting this dog into our home, he was persistent.

I asked, and your answer was “Sure.”

I had already painted you into a corner in my mind, and it took me a bit to get used to the idea that you had actually consented to my request.  Behind you in that corner a door appeared, and you opened it effortlessly.  I will not dwell here on how much having Bo around meant to me, to all of us (this is in honor of Father’s day and not of Canine’s Day which no doubt will surpass Halloween in the next decade to become the second most celebrated holiday in the States; just as soon as Hallmark can figure a way to get it established on our calenders).  And so I will say that the best surprise of all was to find that I didn’t really know a thing about your heart.  I didn’t expect you to be generous in that way, for you to trust me to take care of a creature.  I had thought you were unkind.  Now I know that you have one of the biggest hearts of any man I know.  This was not the last time your kindness surprised me.

Last January you made me as proud of you as I have ever been.  You gave of your time, money and spirit to the people of El Salvador; the very children of God.  I am praying every day that you will honor your church and the people of that nation with another week of service this coming January.  You have earned the honor of living as you did that week again.  Love,

Joshua