Category Archives: Albania

Survival and Purists and Groups of Skinny Dippers

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When I was in Niigata, one of the things that got me through three years was the weekly gathering of the handful of teachers in my area.

Every Wednesday the five of us would meet on the train platform at Itoigawa station and take the train to a nearby onsen (hot spring bath). The ladies would head to one side and the gentlemen would head to the other where we’d go through the ritual of stripping naked, cleaning up, sauna, cold bath, jacuzzi bath, outdoor bath and then cleaning up again. We’d do this pretty much rain, sleet or snow–the onsen was actually at its best when it was snowing lightly. We enjoyed this so much we even invited visiting family members to join us–although we were requested to leave names out of all future discussions.

After that, we’d recover with a beer and then head to Naojiro’s, a bar run by a terrific guy who spoke English and was very patient with us and our loud English speaking foreign ways. We’d eat and drink as a group until a couple of us had to run for the last trains and that pretty much got us through the rest of the week. Even as an introvert, I was energized by these gatherings. We also were suspicious of one of the new guys (after several staff changes) when he didn’t join the Wednesday gatherings.

This is in contrast to the Peace Corps which holds that you should be looking to locals for your support group and they do their best to force that by dropping you off by yourself in a site and saying “do something photogenic that we can use in promotional materials” and “don’t embarrass your country.”

If you were near groups of other volunteers, you had to hope you weren’t near the purists who sought to so thoroughly immerse themselves in the local culture that they would barely speak English to you when you saw them. To make matters worse, their pronunciation was much worse than they seemed to think it was and they thought speaking soft and fast made them sound native. (All it really did was make them harder to understand than a native.) A typical conversation with a purist went something like:

Me–Hey, dude, long time no see!
Them–Frdap, holtan mikentanan, Doayayne. Kratt kratt moltantan brackan?
Me–Dude, I have to speak that crap every day, let’s relax a bit.
Them–Doayane, makartely hop hop shi makartely sey. Krappat nikata fortan nikto.
Me–Sorry, dude. Gotta run. Great seeing you, though.
Them–Krdap, mikenora, Doayayne.
Me–Fuckez-vous mikenora, dooshbackan.

(Note: this language was created purely in the mind of a madman for illustrative purposes only. Any resemblance to any language, living or dead, is purely coincidental.)

Now it’s true that most Peace Corps gatherings involve lots of complaints about being in the Peace Corps (it’s the toughest job you’ll ever love having completed but completely hate while you’re doing it.) This makes a lot of the gatherings tedious versions of the Four Yorkshire Men:

A–My village elders set fire to me every night and make me run around fetching gasoline.
B–LUXURY! At least they provide you some heat. Mine make me sleep on blocks of ice, even in winter. With no blanket, either, I tell you.
C–In my town they give me a blanket and then kill me and take it away again.
D–My town makes me teach without textbooks.
A–Stop talking nonsense, D. No one could ever be that cruel.

The same thing usually happened in gatherings of teachers in Niigata, too. But for our Wednesdays, we could usually keep the complaints in check. It was enough for misery to have company. And no purists around, just great people.

 

You Never Forget Your First Unrealized Technical Engagement

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The US Peace Corps, whether it will admit it or not, has two basic mottos: “The toughest job you’ll ever love” and “For God’s sake, don’t embarrass your country.”

Therefore, one of the things the Peace Corps cautions you about is that you are expected to obey local customs involving courtship. This means that if you are caught “knowing someone” in a Biblical sense and her father invokes local laws, you are pretty much bound to obey them, especially if you are unable to escape the country in time. If this means buying her family seven cows, you will be expected to buy her family seven cows. If it means an AK-47 wedding, congratulations, welcome to the family. What stupidity hath brought together let no one tear asunder. Live long and prosper.

However, you expect all of this to be an active process. You don’t expect to blunder your way into it.

In my case, my host family basically set me up, as an “English teacher,” with one of their cousins (let’s call her Kay). She was 19 years old and gorgeous; I was smitten (and in culture shock) and we started having English classes. At first my host sister sat in with us, but eventually she would excuse herself and leave us alone. After a while, I started meeting Kay at an office building for private lessons and we even had an adventure escaping the building when we got locked in once.

Eventually I was invited to Christmas dinner (keep in mind, I’ve only been in the country five months at this point) and they let us spend lots of time alone.

Now, I’m convinced there are two kinds of people in this world: those who have a clue, and those who don’t. When it comes to women (actually, all personal relationships now that I think about it) I fit in neither category. I’m pretty much beyond clueless and often don’t see what’s going on around me. This is especially true when you throw in culture shock and a vague sense of being used for a blue passport.

Kay and I saw each other off and on after that, and then pretty much stopped seeing each other. I kind of missed her, but had other complications to worry about: mainly moving cities and schools.

Eventually, I made friends with an Albanian-American who was invited to join the Peace Corps in-country. One day we were rambling on about politics and I invoked the notion of “He needed killin'” laws” which I stole from a comedian whose name I’ve long since forgotten. The idea was you could kill anyone who needed killin’ (He raped a baby; he needed killin’ He dog-eared the pages of my new book; he needed killin’.) The Albanian-American said that he thought I needed killin’ for dating an Albanian woman and not marrying her.

I protested that we’d never actually done anything (remember: buying cows; AK-47 wedding; beyond clueless; also Albania still has vendetta killings) but he started listing off what had happened: they’d let us be alone in and out of the house; they’d made me a big dinner; etc.) When I responded with what amounted to a clever “Yeah? So?” He said that basically meant we were engaged in the eyes of her family.

I was one part “so f@#king wha?t” and one part “do I need a gun?” and one part “Is there a gun pointing at me right now?”

In the end I just let things remain where they were. I never got over the notion that her family were interested in that blue passport, but that’s more a comment on my sense of self than on them.  There was a brief moment near the end of my service where we started hanging out again, but it was the end of my service so it went no where.

I have no idea where Kay is now. I hope she’s doing well.

 

Leaving There and Coming Back There

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About this time 20 years ago, and I may have the timeline messed up, I’d returned to the USA from Albania after a rather unceremonious exit caused by lots of complications stemming from my own remarkable ability to stare at the right thing to do and then not do it because I’m too busy staring at it. I was surprised, though, by a lot of happy/bittersweet surprises.

The night before I left I was given a send off party that was attended by my friends and several people I didn’t realize thought of me as a friend (a very complicated post that; until then refer to my above comments about my ability to stare at the right thing to do and not do it). I don’t remember wanting a party, but everyone I cared about–well, at least the non-Albanians–attended and some of them, as a direct result of a substantial amount of alcohol, serenaded me with Beatles’ tunes rewritten with my name in them. (A film of that night would have served as a great warning about the dangers of alcohol consumption.)

I should also add that I do not recommend you get drunk the night before you travel. I, did, however, emerge in surprisingly good shape.

The first hitch was that my Albanian airlines flight from Tirana was delayed and, surprisingly, it was not fault of the Albanians. Instead bad weather postponed the flight in Macedonia (aka the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia aka FYROM). When I finally left, I didn’t think I’d be sad to see the cobblestone runway get smaller and disappear, but I cried knowing I’d most likely never see it or a lot of the people I knew there ever again.  After I settled down, I had a nice chat with the gentleman traveling in the next seat, and he made my day by questioning the sanity of the exact Peace Corps staff member I’d spent two years having issues with.

I arrived in Zurich feeling surprisingly content only to discover that the delay had caused me to miss my flight and that I’d be stuck in Zurich for the night. Now, as a place to get stuck, Zurich’s not that bad. I got a hotel near the station, paid for, I believe, by the Peace Corps, and tracked down Swiss chocolate and some Cuban cigars. Soon after that, I was back in the USA.

Now, the dirty little secret of coming home after a long time away is that it’s not really home–at least not the one you left. Subtle things have changed: trees have grown out; people have aged; cars have changed; stores have closed; your parents have rented out your room to strangers and you have to sleep in the garage (something like that).

I then had a few months to kill before I started my Ph.D. program at Ole Miss. I went out job hunting and my attitude was the same as Lester Burnham in American Beauty “I’m looking for the least possible amount of responsibility.” Two years of teaching under lots of petty bureaucratic nonsense rules and the constant sense that we volunteers were always on display, made slinging tacos at Taco Tico seem like a great idea. At least until I was made shift manager and that responsibility thing came in to play, along with a short-sleeve oxford style shirt and a clip on tie.

I managed to settle back in and then moved to Oxford, Mississippi where I spent another two years in reverse culture shock before deciding to head to Japan for a couple years. At least I thought it would only be a couple.

My Freaking Freakish Left Foot

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Special Note: Although I usually don’t do this, I slightly updated yesterday’s post to clarify the Albanian X-Ray and which bloodletting left me with a bruise.

Since yesterday I talked about getting an X-Ray in Albania, today I thought I’d explain why it was necessary. First you have to understand that among all my other physical oddities, I’m also cursed with weird feet. Besides being flat-footed, I’m also one of the 10 percent of the Earth’s population to have Morton’s Foot (also Morton’s Toe). Basically, my second toe is longer than my big toe. (Or vice versa, I guess.) This has a few minor effects that add up.

First, most of of my weight is supported on one of the narrow bones in my foot and not on the largest bone. This causes me to walk, at least on my left side, with the outside of my foot hitting first and then everything rolls in. Because of this I tend to wear out the soles of my left shoes fairly quickly. Because the weight is supported on the narrower bones, I have to be careful of stress fractures. In fact, I had one in the months leading up to my Air Force Officer Training and it made it difficult to train and get in shape.

Second, I also tend to swing my left foot as I walk. My foot comes forward slightly sideways until my heel hits and my foot rolls in. If I’m not careful when I’m walking barefoot, and apparently, as you’ll see, I’m not, I tend to catch The Little Piggy Who Had None and The Little Piggy Who Went Whee Whee Whee All The Way Home on things around the house. The result has been three nasty injuries.

I did that once back at Kansas State and ended up with an impressive bruise. I did it again when I was in Albania. As soon as the Peace Corps nurse saw it she decided to send me off for scientific experiments in the room of mad scientist equipment. I should also add that they took three X-Rays. After the second I asked about a lead apron and the Albanian staff member just said “No problem.” (When someone who works with radiation dismisses you with “no problem”, you’ve probably got a problem.) It turned out my toe wasn’t broken, just bruised.

The third time happened in Japan when I clipped my bread maker, which had been stowed away under the table, but not carefully. I put a dent in the bread maker and could tell by the angle of the Little Piggy Who Had None (who had suddenly become The Little Piggy Who Went Holy F@3king S%#t That Hurt) that it was broken. An X-Ray confirmed that.

I then had the unique experience of getting half a cast on my foot. Make a plaster cone and stick it over the end of your foot and that’s the cast I got. The doctor then said “Go Ye Forth etcetera etcetera”. I took two steps and it felt as if my left foot was trying to go up hill while my right was on flat earth. I asked if I was going to get a special shoe and he looked at me as if he wondered why I was till there and simply sent me to a shoe store.

As result, I turned down the chance to go to a movie, although it turned out that fate was on my side. The movie was “Star Wars: Episode One — Really, George? Really?” I also, though, missed a chance at a final beach party which apparently involved skinny dipping and lots of people with cameras.

The funny part is, I stopped wearing the cast after two days. It was too much of a pain.

Marched Stabbed Bled Irradiated Irradiated Postponed

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Today I got to take part in my semi-annual–sort of–mandatory physical for those above a certain age who are on Japan’s national healthcare scheme.

I did the first one back in 2010 and experienced the “joys” of drinking barium and then rushing home whilst the barium rushed to evacuate. (Don’t ask. I have no comment on that.) In 2011, my physical was scheduled after the earthquake and tsunami during the time of rolling blackouts and random train cancellations. My company said “well, why wouldn’t you go? What could possibly interfere with your physical?” I did say “No way in hell” to the barium unless they provided a Bugatti Veyron and a professional driver to get me home. The only funny part about that physical was there was an aftershock while I was getting my EKG. I mentioned it to the nurse and she went “huh?” and then she felt it and I’m pretty sure she was ready to run out of the room with me still hooked up to the jumper cables (not their real names).

What shocked me about these physicals was that, despite my weight, I was actually in pretty good health. I was especially surprised my cholesterol level was low.

Today I got to go to a clinic near my office. A national health physical is about as militarized as, well, a military physical. I filled out forms, answered absurd questions:

Nurse–Are you healthy?
Me–Isn’t that what you’re supposed to tell me?
Nurse–I’ll count that as a “yes”.
Me–To which part?

I was then given a blood pressure check followed by a shockingly swift series of instructions that sounded roughly like “procedetothebloodtestafterthebloodtestrprocedetothesecondfloor.Therestroomisontheleft
oftheeleveatorfillthecupleavethecupandyourpressurebandagebehindthewindow. (breathes) ProcedetotheEKGaftertheEKGgetyourhearingcheckedthenprocedetoroom23foreyeinspection.
Returntofirstfloortoreceivechestx-raygiveformtonursewhoinprocessedyoudowhatshetellsyou. (breathes) Pay. Go home.

The first station was bloodletting and it went well. Strangely enough, although I once had a bad experience donating blood–the Red Cross nurse couldn’t find the vein, gave me more stabs than a junkie and left me with a huge bruise, and never managed to get any blood–I’ve never had any problems with needles and bloodletting. (I realize this is not a talent most people find impressive.) After that, “filling the cup” went smoothly and I remembered to turn in the pressure strap the bloodletting nurse put around my arm. The eye test was conducted in a room that looked like something out of a steam punk movie with a rack of lenses and five foot tall lighted eye chart that looked as if it came off a game show set.

There were only two glitches. The first x-ray didn’t turn out so I got irradiated a second time. Actually, I feel safer doing that than getting the foot x-ray I got in Albania. (Imagine a room with an x-ray machine that looks like a pile of junk from a mad-scientist convention. The Albanian staff positioned me then disappeared. I said something like “Excuse me, aren’t I supposed to get a lead apron to protect my–BZZZRRRTZZZTSNAP (room goes white)–I guess that’s no then?”)

The other problem today was the doctor was busy so I couldn’t meet him and have to go back next week. These doctor meetings are always kind of funny, and are surprisingly similar to the conversation with the nurse:

Doc–Do you have any problems?
Me–Well, I have a bad knee and this has caused one of my calves to–
Doc–I’ll take that as a “no”.

In about a month I’ll get my results and either change my wicked ways or double down on them. Also, after two x-rays, I’ll glow in the dark for a few days.

Note: Edited on May 21 to clarify events involved in the bloodletting and Albanian X-Ray.

 

Stuffed Blind and Ruined Forever Pretty Much

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Albania is the first place I remember being where I realized that hospitality, done too well, can border on violence and if you don’t know what you’re doing you can get hurt. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn this during my Peace Corps training; I learned it in the field, after lots of plates of food.

Part of the problem Albania 001 had was that Albania had isolated itself from the rest of the world. As a result, many of the expats who could conduct our training hadn’t been in Albania for decades. The result was a language textbook so out of date that one trainee tossed his out the window (which luckily had no glass in it yet) after about the 10th “Well, actually, we don’t say that anymore”. Also lost in translation was any sense of manners and protocol.

I guess we were expected to learn that the hard way.

On the first day with my host family, I was given lots of food. As I finished a bowl of noodles, the bowl was quickly refilled. When I stopped to use my four words of Albanian, and left food on my plate, a long discussion ensued about why I didn’t like the food after having only three bowls of it. Finally, I guess my host family lost patience because they brought out beefsteak, and fish, and chicken, and fried potatoes and an oily eggplant dish. (Oddly, I think the only time I’d eaten eggplant had been in at some kind of festival, or food event in Hayden, Colorado, but I don’t remember any more than that). After all that, we got grapes and watermelon with feta cheese. And then they brought dessert.

Finally, jet lag and carbo-load took effect and I requested a nap, which probably saved me from a Mr. Creosote style explosion.

What I didn’t know, because no one thought to tell us, was that leaving food on your plate was a signal that you were ready to move on to the next dish. Cleaning your plate meant you wanted more of the same dish. Of course, there was that “why do you hate it?” game if you left food, but I think we all got pretty good a that, although it was exhausting at times.

One thing we got plenty of was watermelon. When we arrived, watermelon was only about a penny a pound. When served with salty feta cheese–I belong to the “salt your watermelon” school–it was a great summer dish. Except when you have it for breakfast, lunch and dinner (and snack) every day for two months. After I finally left my host family, I found I couldn’t stand watermelon. That carried over into life after the Peace Corps. In fact, it took me almost 20 years to be able to eat watermelon again. The same thing happened with persimmons, which I’d never had before I went to Albania. To this day I can’t eat fresh persimmon; although I can eat a dried version that’s a regional specialty here in Japan.

The only things that I kept a taste for were fresh figs–which I’d also never had before –and bread dipped in salt, which is pretty much how I liked to eat bread anyway.

I never developed a taste for kos, a kind of warm pre-yogurt with the look and consistency of vomit–I laugh every time someone cites the Daily Kos, because to me it means “Daily Vomit”. I did like pretty much everything else made from yogurt, though. I still miss the ferges–random animal parts cooked in yogurt–at the Taverna Tafaj, which was the first restaurant that became a Peace Corps hangout.

I even kind of miss the hamburger stands, too, even though they put the French fries on the burger itself.

Leads a Lonely 2 Unlimited Ma Baker Country Music Life

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It’s fair to say, although I’m loath to admit it, what little sanity I have left is a direct result country music.

Because my Peace Corps batch arrived in Albania only a few months after the country’s first free election, and because that election was preceded by six months of anarchy in which almost everything that could be smashed ended up smashed, there wasn’t much to choose from on the radio and not a wide variety of music to be found in the market. (Because that’s the most important thing when you’ve been sent to a country to help in its development. Well, it is.)

Partly because of this, and partly because the Albanians were interested in trying out non-Communist media, and partly because, apparently, someone copied the same mix tape ten thousand times, there seemed to be only three songs played in constant rotation.

(Note to people under a certain age: music used to be recorded on magnetic tape that was contained in a small cassette and then inserted in a device called a boombox which is larger and heavier, and had better batteries than most Priuses–Prii?)

The songs, unfortunately, even the one that was kind of good at first, soon wore on the nerves after you heard  them in every coffee shop, restaurant, bar, taxi and bus in the country, usually on an endless loop, every day for months and months.

Coming in at number three, and at most inexplicable, was Boney M’s Ma Baker, which is, well, unique. But it wasn’t played as much as number two, 2 Unlimited’s No Limit. Turns out, that yes, in fact, there is a limit. Usually more than seven times in one day. (Yeah, I know, that’s an easy and obvious joke. So what?) However, topping the chart at number one was Ace of Base with All That She Wants. (My apologies to any fellow Albania 001 batch members currently suffering flash backs.)

To make matters worse, foreign radio was also limited, unless you understood/could tolerate Italian radio. We got BBC–We will now say something full of wit but in a rather dry and droll tone that conveys no sense of excitement or energy. You’re eyelids are getting heavy. Send money. Pay your licensing fee. This is BBC. We are watching. (Something like that.) Then there was Voice of America, which featured such standards as Casey’s Top 40 and American Country Countdown.

After a few months, although I’m not a huge fan of country music–I don’t hate it; I’m just ambivalent about it–I found myself listening to the country countdown more often than Casey’s Top 40.  The rock/pop top 40 seems set in stone. You hear the same songs constantly and, after a while, the titles begin to program you. Just in 1992 the message was: Tears in Heaven End of the Road Jump Under the Bridge Baby Got Back To Be With You.

Mind you, country music isn’t always happy with its songs about how my dog stole my pick up truck and crashed into my favorite fishing hole while driving drunk with my ex who lived in Texas (Oh, don’t act like you’ve never heard that song) and it did give titles that when strung together sent the message No One Else On Earth Past the Point of Rescue Straight Tequila Night, but the country charts are volatile which means a song spends a few weeks at number one and then quickly begins to fade. The chart is always changing and crap song will be gone soon. This means you don’t have to listen to “I Will Always Love You” for 14 weeks at number one and then for another seventeen years as it slides down the top 40.

My friends, of course, were very supportive. During the dead of winter one fraternity brother sent a mix tape that included such uplifting groups as Depeche Mode and the always cheerful Morrissey with his lyrics “I will live my life as I will undoubtedly die– alone.” Exactly what you need to hear on a cold February when the power’s out and the batteries in your music player are slowly dying.

Had to listen to “Achy Breaky Heart” just to stay sane, which gives you an idea of how bad things could get.

You Are All About to Die and Welcome to Bunkerland

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Over 20 years ago, in a fit of pique, and with a vague sense of needing to do service and nothing resembling a plan, I decided to join the US Peace Corps. This involves a surprisingly lengthy selection process including interviews, health checks, background checks and lots of shots. Somewhere in this process you get to list your preferences. I picked Europe, Asia, Africa and Central/South America in that order.

Once you’re accepted, the Peace Corps gives you some control over where you’re sent. They tell that a position in XYZianastan (not a real country) is available and you leave in two months. If you’re not interested in that, you go on hold until another position is available. That could be one month, it could be six.

In my case, I was offered a chance to teach English in Albania as part of the first Peace Corps group. I checked the map and Albania appeared to be attached to Europe. I didn’t notice, though, that the cheapest ways out ran through the war zone in Bosnia and Serbia which meant Albania wasn’t actually attached to Europe. Armed with this ignorance, I said yes.

A few months later, I was in an airport in Rome choosing which of my two large pieces of luggage I loved best and which I wanted to leave behind on a Roman holiday. I was like, the bags can go on ahead, I’ll stay here but the Peace Corps was like, um, no.

We than boarded the Alitalia crop duster that would take us across the Adriatic Sea to Albania. I was teased for a brief second when the luggage handler picked up my second bag and started to carry it toward the plane. I celebrated too early, though, as he took two steps, looked at the bag, initiated scientific weight measurement by raising and lowering it twice, and then chucked it back on the cart.

I slept through take off, but I do remember the sound of panic when one of the propellers either stopped or appeared to stop during a throttle down. I also remember the look of operatic, yet surprisingly attractive horror on the face of our Italian flight attendant when we hit a nasty batch of turbulence. We all turned around expecting to see a hole where the tail had been and prepared to pray for our eternal souls. Instead she was worried about her loose drink cart. Even through it was harmless, the look of horror woke me up.

The real shocks hit when we landed on the cobblestone runway at Rrinas International Airport. It was a series of hexagons designed to be replaced quickly during an attempted bombing by US forces. We also noticed the dozens of pill-shaped concrete bunkers surrounding the airport designed to keep invading US forces off the cobblestones. When we finally finished the welcome ceremonies and met our language trainers and got on a bus, we noticed dozens and dozens more bunkers built at random locations as we drove to Tirana.

As we passed a vineyard, we noticed that every vine was attached to a concrete pylon that was topped with a nasty looking spike. We were told the spikes were intended to, how shall we say, become intimate with the buttocks regions of US paratroopers dropping in the vineyard during an air invasion.

Needless to say, with all the stuff designed to keep us out, it was sometimes hard to feel welcome–we’d later learn, as mentioned before, that our hosts thought we were being punished by being sent to Albania. Finally, we arrived at the Hotel Arberia–which would eventually become my home away from home–and discovered we’d missed the time of day when running water was available. If we wanted a shower, we’d have to wait until two, or maybe three a.m.

Culture shock hit at about that moment, became worse when we met our host families the next day, and, in my case, lasted the remaining two years.

More In Common Than One Would Hope

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Another work related one today. I do not have a one track mind. My mind runs on TWO tracks that go in the same direction.

Just over 14 years ago my company sent me for an interview at the school I currently work at. Before I went there, it’s not much of an exaggeration to say the powers what were at the company were speaking out of the sides of their mouths in a kind of “Shpeek odlee laik zees. Ze vallss haf earss” style and told me not to discuss the opportunity with the world at large (meaning anyone else in the company).

I was told I was heading to a top tier private Anglican school and that I shouldn’t tell anyone I was going there. I’m convinced they “disappeared” the other candidate who attended the interview.

When I got to the school, I was surprised at how plain it was. It was a long, three story building with an odd maroon/brick paint job. What really shocked me was the interior: it featured a slabular concrete look with narrow, dark hallways that seemed to stretch on for quite a distance. The concrete floors were cracked. I stopped for a moment because for a moment I was back at the Faculty of Foreign Languages in Tirana, Albania. In fact, to this day I’m shocked by how close the two buildings were and how disturbingly familiar the building in Japan felt.

There were a couple fundamental differences:

In Japan the hallways were dark because the lights had been turned off to save energy. In Albania the hallways were dark because someone had smashed all the light fixtures leaving, in most cases, just a few wires and bits of twisted metal.

In Japan, the windows were cheap and thin and basically served as energy vents that let heat escape during winter and let it enter during summer where it basically mocked the pathetic swamp cooler air conditioning system. In Albania, the windows had bars but no glass because someone had smashed them all.

In Japan, the blackboards were painted metal boards that actually could be written on with chalk. In Albania, the blackboards were black squares painted on the walls. Any attempts to use local made chalk caused gouges in the walls.

In Japan students could study English for six years and still respond to “How are you?” with “How are you?” In Albania, students could go from zero English to near-fluency in just about a year.

In Japan there’s a financial incentive for learning English but no one has bothered to tell the students. In Albania, the students knew they could make more money if they learned English.

In Japan, we have lots of places to get lunch, but they pretty much always serve the same things. In Albania, my boss would take me across the street to a vendor for qofte and a couple glasses of Raki before class. Needless to say, class usually went very well after that. (Note: Please don’t tell the Albanians Raki may have Turkish origins.)

Now, though, we have a new building that is bright and shiny, but looks disturbingly like the Academy of Arts in Tirana.