Where am I Weaing?
My eyes creep across the dark walls of the castle, up to the stars
and back again. They are restless, processing information to feed
my imagination. Besides the imagined threat of vampires and a
500-year-old ghost tyrant, there is the all too real threat of being
visited by the areas many curious inhabitants- bears and wolves. I
adjust the sleeping bag so it covers my entire face and think of
warm oceans, colorful fish, and puppies.
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“Hello.” I am anything but flattered. I would not be
interested regardless of his appearance, but he
could have at least wiped the snot off his lip. The
room closes in upon me. The music is loud and the
steady hum of conversation, with its waves of
laughter, echoes off the walls.
Oh no he’s going to speak again. Do I let him down
easy? Do I run? It looks like he is on some kind of
drug. It undoubtedly fills his loins with unrelenting
passion while giving him exceptional strength and
speed. Escape is futile.
“You look naughty.”
Naughty! The word hits me in the gut like a sucker
punch and on the forced exhale my voice raises an
octave in disbelief, “I look naughty???”
“No!” He points to my head of blonde curls. “I said
you look Nordic. Not naughty, but Nordic.” He slowly
pronounced and emphasized each syllable, “NOR-
DIC.”
A vice begins to crush my head and a knife slowly
twists in my chest. I’m an idiot. “Oh,” I nervously
laugh, “I’m neither.”
The electricity goes off and without a beat Lin lights a
candle. He offers to make coffee, but the tap yields
no water. It’s everyday life in Kosovo and the
Albanian people are resilient. Lin pulls out a bottle of
homemade Vodka with enough kick to power the city
for a few hours, and some honey collected from his
parents’ hives. The candlelight dances as our
shadows pass the glass jars around the room. The
honey glows golden, the vodka burns- fire, and the
laughter warms the room.
Me (with a shrug): “Toilet!”
Canadian (stumbling with translation, voice filled with
urgency): “Toilet…uhhh….Toillettes?”
Serbian (nearing panic): “Toilettes?? ooh…ooh…
Toaleti!!! ”
This takes but a few tortuous seconds before I am
whisked away into the back corner of a nearby
convenient store, which is soon evacuated. Mothers
grab their crying children seeking shelter, an elderly
man drops from a heart attack, and passers-by duck
around corners and dive over cars in self-
preservation.
I turned. Standing directly in front of me, arms on
his waist stood a man wearing nothing more than a
smile. His legs were spread unnaturally far apart-
not that I was looking. My heart rate accelerated,
going into fight or flight mode. With each
accelerating beat my mind tried to gain control of
the situation, “Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
For the love of God, don’t look down.” My head
tilted back leaving my chin pointing awkwardly to the
sky as I struggled to strike up a conversation in a
nonchalant manner.
“Beautiful beach. How about that sand?” I would
be lying if I admitted recalling the conversation.
What I do remember is that when I was not saying
something absolutely ridiculous I was holding my
breath and staring at the man’s forehead; eye
contact was too far south for comfort.
It was a new type of hazard, hacking your ball into a
crowd of marsupials, walking gently and what you
hoped to be in an unthreatening manner towards
the creatures, some of which weighed 170 pounds
and were eight feet tall, and finally, finding your ball.
Most hazards in golf cannot cover well over 20-feet
in one bound, and leave you with a reminder of your
slice off of the seventh etched on your face in the
form of bruises and scratches.
Geographic Society
Construction encased the building and a sign gave
directions to the entrance. With each step I became
a little more intimidated. Walking the perimeter of
the building twice, I was unable to find a break in the
construction. If the rule doesn’t exist, it should: If
you cannot find the front door of the Royal
Geographic Society- Leave…you don’t belong
here... idiot!
I am happy with being able to place names, faces,
and experiences with certain places. Kosovo and
Bosnia were always dark “No Man’s” lands
dominated by the violence of warfare until I played
PlayStation with a 22 year old Kosovar and before
I discussed the siege of Sarajevo with a Bosniak
over dinner. Hawaii would just be a tropical
paradise if I hadn’t neared hypothermia at the
summit of Mauna Loa. I would not follow the civil
war in Nepal if I wasn’t able to remember the kind,
smiling faces of individual Buddhist monks, the
young legless street beggar girl who attacked me
with a stick, and the smell and buttery warmth of
salt tea.
If I have gained anything from my travels it’s not a
well-traveled savviness envied by others, but an
increased caring. I care more about other nations
and their people, having visited them. I care for
them because I appreciate their differences, and
most of all, I recognize our similarities. It’s their
Home I visit and realize how not so different it is
from my own.
Outside metal grinds against metal- a stressful
abrasive sound that never stops- like a thousand
fingernails clawing a chalkboard. The screeches
invade the silence of the night, accompanied by
irregular thumps and dissonant echoes resounding
off passing buildings and trees, cities and
countries. As a whole, it represents an orchestra
that irregularly abandons and tastelessly bounds
upon ill-thought crescendos, but somehow purveys
perfectly its purpose and ultimately moves its
listeners.
The chest spasms increase. My body wishes to
inhale, whether it is air or water.
“Warning…Warning…oxygen levels low.” I begin to
kick up towards the shifting light of the surface,
escaping the scads. My oxygen depleted legs
grow heavy as I kick harder. I’m Cinderella, it’s 11:
59:57 and it’s time to leave this party.