Author Archives: DELively

Beer Pizza Sports and Instruments

Leave a reply

Today’s is random memories and I’m not even sure how many of them are accurate, but one of the best things about growing up in the ’70s was political correctness and “if you do this you will end up deadness” and the precautionary principle hadn’t yet ruined discourse and the ability to have fun. The worst thing that could happen to you was putting an eye out someday. We brought knives to school to show off and playing shooting games didn’t yet result in therapy and lock downs. You could even bring BB guns on school grounds in the summer without involving SWAT teams and suspension.

The other thing you could do was take overnight school trips and, while you were on the trip you could visit breweries. I do not remember why we went there, and I don’t remember what grade we were, but I remember visiting the Coors Brewery in Golden, Colorado on one school trip. The thing that stands out the most was hearing that the hops room (or the grain room) was kept at a high temperature and 100% humidity. I remember my friend Shawn and I pondering what that meant. Was the room full of liquid? (Now that I live in a humid region I can tell you that the room was #@%&ing nasty inside, that’s what it was.)

I also seem to remember that the teachers were able to sample some of the, um, local produce, although they did it whilst we students were on the tour. None of them, to my knowledge, were ever fired, although I may have just revealed a major secret.

The other trips I remember were some sort of band trip that involved eating apple crepes somewhere downtown, sleeping during a classical music performance and a trip to Celebrity Sports Center, which seemed like one of the largest places in the world at the time. I bowled a little and played some games. I wasn’t good at any of it but I had fun. (This was before the days when everybody had to be good at something or you weren’t allowed to do it.)

I also remember eating at the Organ Grinder pizza parlor which featured a two story pipe organ and a couple professional pipe organists (if that’s an actual phrase). I don’t remember the food at all, but I remember the show. I also remember the performers hitting a mechanical monkey every now and then when it wouldn’t stop playing the cymbals.

Either that, or I had sampled some of the local produce without realizing it.

Reckless Self Behavior Destruction Vices

1 Reply

When I was in Albania, one of the things I noticed was a propensity for volunteers, myself included, to suddenly engage in self-destructive behavior of one sort or another. Some of them involved basic vices while some of them involved automobiles.

Partly as a result of culture shock, and partly as a form of self-defense, volunteers who’d never smoked before they came to Albania suddenly became smokers. Volunteers who had smoked before they came to Albania became chain smokers. Granted, when you’re surround by groups of locals chain smoking, and science says secondhand smoke is more dangerous than smoking, it is actually safer for you to start smoking cigarettes. (Something like that.)

Alcohol consumption sky-rocketed (one of my favorite vices at first) especially because the prices were relatively low. Skenderbeg Cognac was especially popular, but I tended to stick to beer, raki and cheap vodka (I think it was 15 cents a bottle but it might have been cheaper).

My other vices were
1) Chasing the wrong woman and ignoring the right one (a novel would be required to explain more) which is something I was prone to do before (another novel) and it got worse in Albania.
2) Being cheap. The latter involved always managing to let other people pay for things and never volunteering to pay for the group when a bunch of us met for coffee (total cost for everyone, 50 cents to 1 dollar). As you might imagine, that didn’t win me many friends, especially among the Albanians with us.
3) Blather and Gossip. Not only can I talk a lot without seeming to breathe, but for a brief time I was the guy you told things to when you wanted everyone to know (but God help you if you told me and you didn’t want people to know).

The other thing that happened, especially in our second year was we started to get reckless. Albanian traffic was a remarkable thing as it was made up of people who’d just earned their licenses and were finally able to acquire cars. This made them a group of teenagers who believed the rules, in so far as they understand them, were mere suggestions. Despite this, it was normal for groups of us to suddenly cross the street without looking, often to the horror of newcomers who’d made the mistake of trying to follow us. (It was their own fault for not looking.)

We used to talk about why, and I’m not sure we reached any conclusions. I always joked (constantly that I did it because if they killed me I’d go to a better place (most likely although this blog may be held against me) and if they didn’t I’d still get to go to  a better place when I was airlifted to Germany.

I think, though, it was an odd symptom of culture shock. Albania was an exhausting and frustrating place to work and overtime that frustration built to a low level anger and everything around us. I suspect we were playing chicken with the country. Daring it to try to knock us out if it could. We wanted to go home but we didn’t want to quit.

Eventually it would knock me out temporarily, but I did get to go to a better place for three weeks.

A Container Full of Stark Raving Jerks and the Mad

1 Reply

Autumn term starts tomorrow which means I’ll once again be riding the train. Riding the train means I’ll once again be thrown in the mix with the normal train riders and the train jerks.

First you have to understand that, for all their seeming politeness, the Japanese, especially those in the Tokyo area, are in fact seething with a surprising level of selfishness that gets turned loose as soon as the train doors open. The ugliest fights are for the seats on the ends of the benches and for the last seat on the train. Granted, I don’t mean a fight in the literal sense, instead it’s more of a “#@$% women and children first; I’m getting mine” attitude, Which leads us to:

Jerks Inside the Train:
Once in their seats, the occupants will immediately become train jerks and enter what I call the “Tokyo Doze” which is a form of sleep that allows the seat occupants to ignore the senior citizen, pregnant woman and/or man with crutches standing in front of them. This is especially true if the Dozers have occupied the “silver seats” reserved for senior citizens, pregnant women and/or men with crutches. (Not a joke. I’ve seen that happen, even with She Who Must Be Obeyed. More about that in a minute.)

Anyone who doesn’t get a seat then enters a battle for space. It’s important to plant your feet securely and grab hold of the cross bar. At this point, you encounter the Oozers. Oozers start to ooze over into your space in order to make more room for themselves. They use a combination of hips and carry bags to push you over. The secret to defeating the Oozers is, if you’ve remembered to grab the cross bar, a well placed elbow right next to their faces. They’ll stop oozing.

The next form of train jerk is the Readers. The Readers open up their newspapers full, especially if their seated, and it rubs and annoys you the whole ride. Or they are standing and they open it up to that it’s over your head or in your hair (if you’re tall). Or, the Readers pull out books and use you as a book stand. I’ve been knows to fold up the tops of newspapers and remind people I’m not a book stand. (More on that later.)

Jerks Outside the Train:
For the most part, the people boarding the train let the people on the train deboard. For the most part. But there is always a form of train jerk called the Barger. The Bargers come in two flavors, those who barge directly through the people trying to exit and those who wait until the main wave exits and then pushes through the slow moving little old ladies to get an open seat.

Before the doors open though, you encounter the Dashers and the Drifters. The Dashers stand in front of a door, then as soon as that door opens, they Dash down to a different door because they see more space or an open seat. If they bump into you, well, you should watch where they are going. The Drifters float between doors. (Important note: Unlike the USA and the UK, trains in Japan actually stop with the doors next to the numbered marks on the platforms.) When the doors open, Drifters suddenly choose sides and push into a line.

Hybrid Jerks:
Pushers wait until everyone else has boarded a crowded train and then use a combination of leverage and Judo to force their way onto the train, even if it’s so crowded that even the air has been pushed out of it. It doesn’t matter to a Pusher if a little old lady or a child is in the way, all that matters is that they are in the way the Pusher wants more space.

Cutters are an especially vile form of train jerk. Outside the train they may be a Drifter or a Dasher or may seem like normal people. When they door opens they walk in carefully and then abruptly change directions. For example, you enter on the right, the Cutter enters on the left. Suddenly, the Cutter decides he should have gone right and cuts in front of/through you. It’s like someone on an expressway suddenly realizing they’re in the wrong lane and about to miss their exit.

This takes us to our final category of jerk, the Foreign Asshole. The FA comes in a couple forms, most of them loud. If they are not talking loudly and disturbing the wa, they are being unpleasant to other train jerks.

Guess which category I’m in?

I’ve been known to, how shall we say, get vocal with Dozers pretending they are asleep, especially when She Who Must Be Obeyed was several months pregnant and had been cut off and forced to stand by a Cutter. I’m also pretty good at leg sweeps and can perform world class soccer dives that bring both me and the Cutters down. I’ve stood close to Cutters once they got a seat and pretty much had a “chat” with them about their rudeness. I once gave a man three warnings about resting his book on my shoulder, then snatched the book and put it on the luggage rack.

Oddly, I’ve never been a physical fight. Mind you, I don’t intend to, I’m just an FA when it comes to dealing with train jerks.

The Casual Business of Waiting Your Turn

Leave a reply

Classes start this Friday at the school where I work and that means I’ve had to drag myself in a few times to get ready. Today, especially, was important because I had to proctor a make-up test for a student who managed to fail seven different classes.

What’s odd about the week before school starts is how much it reminds me of a track meet.

My only experience with track and field occurred, if I remember correctly, in 8th grade. I was trying to get the Sports merit badge in Boy Scouts which required I play a full season in two approved sports. I’d already played basketball–and that was the only sport I played for more than one season–and that left track and field. Now, technically, track and field was not an approved sport but it was Hayden, Colorado so lacrosse, soccer and water polo were right out and the powers what are in the Boy Scouts were lenient.

This left the problem of deciding which events I should join. I was capable of short bursts of speed, but not 100 yards worth. I wasn’t coordinated enough to do high jump. I couldn’t even clear a bar set at waist level. (My Fosbury Flops were, well, you can finish the rest of that pun.) For the record, I admire high jumpers probably more than any other athletes as I do not understand how they do what they do.

I ended up running the mile and doing triple jump and, for at least one tournament, throwing discus. I was, at best, an average miler; a below average triple jumper; and an absolute disgrace as a discus thrower. I was also, clearly, not worth the coaches’ time. I don’t remember getting any specific help on getting better from any of the three coaches at any time during the season. I learned the basics of triple jump by watching other jumpers.

Having come from basketball, though, what surprised me about track practice was the way it seemed disorganized. People wandered about practicing various events and occasionally being told to run to some location out in the middle of nowhere and then return. It didn’t feel like a team practice.

The same was true of track meets. It was very strange to be told “be over there in an hour” and then be more or less left on my own. There was no sense of being on the same team and no particular cheering section. No one seemed to care if you made it to your event or not. I remember how odd and scattered it all felt.

The same is true of the week before school. Teachers wander in and prepare lessons (most of them dressed in shorts and  t-shirts as if it really were a track meet) and no one seems to care that anyone else is there. With make up tests we’re not even sure if the students will be there. (My student showed up, by the way, which means I lost a bet.)

Starting Friday, everything will be more regimented and some of us will start working as if we were on the same team.

 

Itsy Bitsy Noiseless Patient Spider Agreements

Leave a reply

As I have become the designated bug killer in my house, I thought today I’d talk about bugs, or more specifically, spiders.

When I lived in Nou-machi, my apartment was surrounded by large green and black spiders. We quickly made an arrangement, the spiders and I: If they didn’t come inside my apartment, I wouldn’t kill them.

This agreement would, however, undergo a few modifications.

First you have to understand the spiders’ size. They were about 3-5 centimeters (1 1/3 – 2 inches) across. Their legs would just about reach across the width of an iPhone without having to stretch. They built their webs around the walkway lights and around my door light, which meant getting from the steps to my front door was rather like walking through a tunnel in lost Carcosa. The webs themselves were surprisingly strong and could move your cap a bit before they broke.

This led to the first modification: I would tear out any web that hit me in the face or head as I walked to and from my apartment, even if the web wasn’t in front of my door. I would also tear away any webs that touched my door, although I let them have the front window.

The second modification was that they couldn’t build any webs on the laundry pole on the back balcony where I was supposed to hang my laundry.

However, the third modification was a rescission of the second modification. This was done because the “balcony” was little more than an unsupported plastic shelf stuck to the side of the building, I wasn’t confident walking around on it, so I ended up drying my laundry indoors next to the window and using a fan. This actually worked better than putting laundry outdoors in three of four seasons (Pleasant, Humid and Static). (My adult students were convinced I was crazy, but I had dry clothes and they didn’t, so there.)

What I earned from this bargain with the spiders was a nearly mosquito free existence. My apartment had a rice paddy right in front of it (that I once fell into; long story, especially since I was sober when I did it). and a rice paddy next to it. There was a third rice paddy on the far side of the parking lot. These weren’t as bad as you’d think because they had frogs and crawfish eating a lot of the mosquitoes, but Nou-machi could still be overwhelmed with the little bloodsuckers especially during the Season in Which It Rains.

I only found spiders inside twice. They died.

Thou Art Hither Now Get Thee Hence

Leave a reply

One of the fun parts about being a foreign teacher in Japan is that I can get away with a lot. One of the problems of being foreign teacher in Japan is that I can’t get away with a lot forever.

On rare occasions I’ve taken students to the principal’s office or to their homeroom teacher in the teacher’s office. With junior high this is rather risky, not only am I foisting my problems off on someone else and admitting I can’t control my class, but I’m also “forgetting” that education is both compulsory and a right until the end of 9th grade and removing a junior high student is a questionable legal act. It’s better to stick them in a the corner, or at a desk just outside the door. Also, in Japan, the Group is very important and being removed from the Group can be quite shocking. With high school students this isn’t as big a legal deal, but removing them from the group is.

That said, I’m also the only teacher I know who’s thrown students out of class during observations.

The first time happened in a first year high school class. One of my worse students, let’s call him Mr. Sato, was famously bad and the kind of student who immediately goes to sleep and counts on his friends to take notes. Since my class was a speaking class, that wasn’t possible. He had to be awake and he had to work with a partner.

However, on the day of open classrooms (during which other teachers in the school could observe our classes) Mr. Sato’s usual partner was absent and he believed that meant he didn’t have to do anything. After the warm up, he immediately went to sleep. I woke him up and he pointed to the empty chair next to him and went back to sleep. I woke him up again, he pointed to the chair again and I pointed the empty chair next to another student and said be his partner. This repeated a couple more times. Finally, the fifth time I woke him up, Mr. Sato snapped and said “WHAT!” which is Japanese for “leave me the fuck alone already”.

I told him to get out and, surprisingly, he left without any argument. This, in it’s own odd way, is telling. As I said before, In Japan, the Group, in all its forms, is important. Mr. Sato clearly wasn’t feeling a part of the group.

The teacher observing my class was visibly shocked, but he understood.

The second time it happened was fairly recent and occurred during open school when three mothers were observing my class. The open school happened to fall on a presentation day when my students had to get up in pairs and do an original conversation. The first couple pairs were okay, but the third refused to go up. I wasn’t too surprised, as one of the partners, let’s call him Mr. Kato, had been sleeping, trying to do other homework and generally being unhelpful during the writing phase (prompting his partner to declare “I don’t have a partner.”) I said they didn’t have a choice. They had to go up and do their conversation.

After some “negotiation” they finally went up and, well, first Mr. Kato tried to take his script (not okay) then he tried to cheat (also not okay) then he tried impress me with his attitude (fool). I pointed out I have a nine year old daughter with more attitude and better English and put him and his partner out in the hall to practice. I apologized to the mothers and, surprisingly, they stuck around apparently to watch the end of the match.

Eventually Mr. Kato and his partner went up and did a decent job, which earned me some points with the mothers. Although that’s exactly the kind of stuff I have to worry about and I reported what had happened to the homeroom teacher (I also told him the other students had done well). It’s also the kind of stuff I really ought not try a third time.

Special Things and Unspecial Things

Leave a reply

Tonight’s topic is based on this probably apocryphal conversation:
Isadora Duncan to Anatole France: Imagine a child with my beauty and your brains!
Anatole France to Isadora Duncan: Yes, but imagine a child with my beauty and your brains!

I think it’s a truism that if you want to know what you love about your spouse, imagine what features of theirs you hope your children inherit. If you want to know what you hate about yourself, imagine what features of yours you hope your children don’t inherit.

Since we already have kids, I spend a lot of my time watching them and going: lucky, lucky, lucky, push, damn sorry about that, and well, it could be worse.

Luckily for the girls they inherited most of She Who Must Be Obeyed’s face. Especially important is they actually have lips, which is something I was pretty much denied which makes me look pensive even when I’m not, um, pensed. They both did, more or less, inherit a version of my nose, but that could be worse. They also inherited my creased eyelids which will save them a lot of make up and/or plastic surgery in the future.

The push is that they both seem to have inherited my height. Our oldest is already taller than her mother and the youngest is getting closer and closer. The oldest has big feet, which makes this a push. Being tall is a mixed blessing in Japan, especially when you try to buy shoes.

Unfortunately our oldest inherited my oily skin and the youngest at least some of my allergies. The odds are more or less against their hair. She Who Must Be Obeyed’s hair went completely white at a young age and white hair runs in my family. Mine waited a while, but is getting there slowly. My Dad’s hair was completely white by the time he was my age.

They both have good eyesight, which comes from me, but have inherited She Who Must Be Obeyed’s inner ear disturbance which makes it difficult for them to hear and understand the male voice.

Our oldest has inherited my propensity for putting off until tomorrow what is due the day after tomorrow. She’s already pulled her first almost-all-nighter and is, as I write this, finishing up the homework she had all summer to finish. (It’s 11:45 Japan time.) The youngest inherited She Who Must Be Obeyed’s work ethic, mostly. She likes to help out, but mainly on her own terms and she distracts easily, which she got from both of her parents.

Our oldest has a well developed back-talking skill, which she got from me, and she frustrates easily, which she also got from me. These are things of mine I really wish she hadn’t inherited.

Our youngest has a remarkable ability to make a small mess into a big mess when she doesn’t want to clean something. She didn’t get that from me as my skill is stretching a small five minute project into a seven day project, which means she must have got that from She Who Must Be Obeyed.

They are both much more aggressive about getting out and making friends than I am. They aren’t exactly extroverts, but they seem to enjoy people. They also aren’t easy to push around. I’m glad they inherited all that from She Who Must Be Obeyed. What they would have got from me wouldn’t have been as helpful to them.

Money Beauty Queens and Boy George Boys

Leave a reply

Soon after I got to Albania, for reasons having to do with politics and me being posted to the Faculty of Foreign Languages in Tirana and the fact you can fool most of the people most of the time early on in the relationship, I was asked to chair the entrance interview for what was described as the first free and fair entrance exam in the faculty’s history.

This amounted to first double checking the written test and then convening with four of my future colleagues (which they were, sort of, in a way) to interview and rate potential students. I vaguely remember that we agreed on which order we’d ask questions and what kinds of questions we would ask.

To this day I don’t remember what questions I asked or even if I asked questions. All I remember is that I welcomed the candidates and introduced myself and that things proceeded from there, for better and for worse and for interesting.

Most of the interviews were relatively bland and I remember faces more than what they said. The first interview that stands out was a stocky kid with a rustic look that screamed farmer. He spoke English slowly, but seemed to understand everything. One of us asked what his family did and he said they were vegetable farmers. One of my fellow interviewees then said. “You must be making a lot of money now.” I went “What the f–” but he gave the greatest knowing smirk and soft “yes” I’ve ever seen and we all knew he was getting in because money.

The second was an especially attractive young woman–you’ll see why that’s important in a second. Her English was excellent and she had the Balkan poise the vegetable farmer didn’t. One of my fellow interviewers, who had a bushy head of hair and aviator/Elvis style eyeglasses asked her if she’d ever heard of the Miss Albania pageant. She said yes. He asked her if she’d ever considered entering it. She said no. He said “but you’re very beautiful” and encouraged her to enter it right about the time I was thinking “Are you fucking kidding me!” but saying something like “ANYWAY, moving on to the next question.”

The last one I remember was a frail, rather effeminate kid with a style that would later be described as Emo. He was wearing dark aviator sunglasses that were twice as wide as his head in the interview, so I was torn between liking him and thinking “poser”. His English was good, though, so it was hard to complain about him. Later, the man who’d asked about Miss Albania, asked the kid if he’d ever heard of Boy George. The kid said no. The man said “But you have a lot in common with him you–” I never heard exactly what they had in common because I interrupted at that point. I don’t even remember what I said. I just remember interrupting.

All three of those candidates were chosen for the faculty, although I would only teach Miss Albania and the vegetable farmer (both were really nice, although it was a lecture class so I spoke at them more than to them). I saw Boy George boy a few months later. He was still sporting the aviator shades and actually looking more confident and cool.

All I could think was “poser”.

The Corner Marks the Time and the Punishment

Leave a reply

A short one today for your mercy and mine and since I’ve been in an Albania state of mind I think I’ll stay there.

Even though the Albanians were surprisingly fast language learners, my students all had a casualness toward class and studying that I think stemmed partly from Balkan machismo and partly from doing everything as a group under communism.

The first issue I encountered was keeping my students quiet and keeping them doing their own work during exams. Earlier in our first year, our TEFL trainer and her colleague from the British Council concocted one of the most complicated honesty schemes I’ve ever seen. They had a short test but the first few questions in the first part would be chosen randomly from 30 possible questions. The questions from the second part would be chosen from 50 possible questions. They gave the questions out only a day or so before the test.

Despite their best efforts, every student had the exact same answers.

I can’t even do the math on how the students arranged for different students to write the different answers and then share them with all the other students so that they could memorize them. I can only imagine they just had a giant group collaboration session somewhere and wrote them all together.

In my case, as soon as I handed out my British Lit exam–yes, I was in the United States Peace Corps teaching British Literature and no, I don’t understand it either–the men in the back row started consulting on answers. I stopped them and all was well.

However, the thing that bothered me the most was all the random student holidays the students used to take. The Faculty of Foreign Languages was a long walk from my apartment and at least twice a month I’d show up for work only to discover it was the 3rd anniversary of the fifth student summer uprising. Finally I told my students that I liked holidays, too, and I wanted a list of all their holidays. I told them that if I made it past the corner of the US Embassy (which was on the way to the Faculty) and discovered it was a holiday, I’d find a way to fail the entire class.

The students did all that. One time I knew there was a holiday but I had to go to the Peace Corps office (which at the time was just past the Faculty) and four different students told me it was a holiday.

I don’t know if that was the best thing to teach them, but at least I know they learned something.

The Beating Will Continue Until Morale Improves

1 Reply

It’s not much of an exaggeration to say that I spent a good portion of my Peace Corps experience preventing myself from being kicked out of the Peace Corps.

Granted, my charming personality didn’t help things much and neither did my tendency to blather on and on about things (more on all that in another post). Mix all that with shocking levels of bad people skills and obliviousness and, well, I didn’t win many friends or influence many people, except to have them avoid me at all costs.

The first time I knew something was afoot was when I applied for the equivalent of a grant to help partially fund a trip out of Albania. I’d been helping out the local branch of the Open Society Fund for Albania (a George Soros joint) and they’d invited us to some shindig or other in Hungary. This request led to a long, well conversation is too weak but argument is too strong, so perhaps bitchfest would be more accurate. Our country director, let’s call her Bitchy (I normally use another word that rhymes with punt, but I’ll refrain from mentioning it, sort of–see, told you I had a charming personality) recited a litany of Peace Corps crimes I’d committed–and there were many–and I argued, er, bitched back.

Eventually I paid for the trip myself (and never went to the conference) and all that went away, until the the end of my first school year. At that point, Bitchy Punt (her full name) approached me–and in all fairness, she was quite nice and genuine–and asked me to leave Tirana. She said she’d mistakenly allowed a huge chunk of Albania 001 to be clumped together in the center of the country rather than spread out around it. She gestured to a large map of Albania with all our faces pinned to it. (Still one of the creepiest things I’ve ever seen.) She asked me to move down South to Gjirokaster on the Albania/Greece border.

She paid for me to travel down there and look around and I will say it was a beautiful town. It’s old quarter may be one of the most beautiful places in Albania. Also, because it was within an hour of a national border, I could leave Albania at my leisure without needing any kind of special permission or official leave. Also, there was another volunteer there who could show me the ropes. I did consider it, but I realized 1) all my friends were in the North 2) you can only look at pretty buildings for so long before going insane 3) I didn’t have the money to zip back and forth across the border enough to actually enjoy being able to do it.

I told Bitchy Punt I was happy where I was and didn’t want to move. She more or less crossed her arms and went “Hmmm” which is Peace Corps speak for “We’ll see about that.”

A week later, Peace Corps staffers, US and Albanian, were in my school passing out surveys about me to my students and conducting short interviews with them. This freaked out my students who said it was just like the old ways under the old communist government.

A few days later I was “invited” back to Bitchy Punt’s office. At that point she basically said “I’m not asking; I’m telling” and told me if I refused orders I would be kicked out of the Peace Corps. (And you thought the name Bitchy Punt was just me being an obnoxious punt.) She also praised me for getting such positive evaluations from my students. At that point I went “Hmmm” which is Dwayne speak for, well, use your imagination and as many bad words as you can think of.

I consulted with some friends, both in Albania and in the USA, and they encouraged me to find a compromise. The compromise was that I would move an hour or so away to Elbasan, which had lost its volunteers for various complicated reasons, but I could still teach two days a week in Tirana. The Peace Corps would pay for the travel and the hotel and Bitchy Punt could move the pin with my face on it a little bit away from the capital.

Elbasan was nice enough, and the university was nice too, but I didn’t really know anybody there and it never felt like home. I had a much better time teaching in Tirana. That said, I lost out on being the gathering place for my friends who were left to wander the cold nights in search of warmth and cheap food in Tirana.

The move to Elbasan would eventually give Bitchy Punt the chance to get rid of me, but that’s another post.