Thankfully, Snoring -- Prizren, Kosovo

I'm starting this post from the common area of Driza House in Prizren, Kosovo. Three red velvet couches form a U shape along the white and floral wallpapered walls. Crisscrossed wooden floor underneath me, sagging wooden ceiling above me, giant plate of orange peels on the flimsy coffee table under which the yellow dog likes to hide.

Dali clock melting off the computer desk on the wall to my right, hands fixed forever at four thirty five. 

Johnny Cash plays on the laptop next to the melting clock. 

I'm trying not to be irritated. I'm trying to just be grateful that I have a place to be and I'm not outside in the snow. To be thankful that I have thirty euros to spend on a hostel for three nights. But at the same time, I am so frustrated with that couchsurfing host. If he didn't want to host me, he should have told me right off. I could have made other plans. Instead, he told me an hour after I'd arrived in Prizren that he was in Belgrade. Then he told me he'd call me later and that he'd pay for my hostel as apology. Then he didn't call me later. And he's not paying for my hostel. Nor is he responding to any of my Whatsapp messages. 

Blurgh. 

This is what happens when you book with people, Bourget. Some people are like Igor, and even though they have to cancel on you, are incredibly communicative and helpful. Some people are like this guy and totally leave you hanging. In Kosovo. 

Blurgh. 

I lingered at Sweet Cafe until four thirty, then received the message from Zafir saying he was still in Belgrade, so he most certainly wouldn't be hosting me that evening. I sighed, paid for my fifty cent syrupccino and complimentary lemonade, mapped a route to Driza and shouldered Ellie.

At least Ellie is now two and a half kilos lighter. Which is... umm... not a small deal...

Google maps directed me into a parking lot with no signs for a hostel of any kind. 

Which doesn't mean anything. As I learned from Dada. 

"Hostel?" a large fellow wearing a reflective vest asked. 

"Yes!" I happily responded. 

That was easy. 

"It's here. EY!" he yelled at the house in the corner of the lot. 

"Thank-you," I hurried towards the hostel, fingers curled into my grey sweater, hiding from the biting air.  

"Can I book for one night?" I panted to the young lady at reception, optimistically hoping that Zafir would still be able to host me for my final nights in Prizren. 

"Yes. A bed in a room of ten is nine euros. In a room of four, it's eleven euros." 

"The cheap one." 

Always the cheap one. 

"Okay,  may I see your passport?" 

The lady wrote down my passport number, took my money and escorted me to my room. All the bunks had curtains for privacy, their own reading lights and large lockers underneath the bottom bunk. 

This'll be okay. It's not couchsurfing, but it's okay. 

I shoved my valuables into the locker and went for a quick walk in the frigid night air. I didn't have high hopes for Prizren, or any hopes, really. Partially because Podgorica had dramatically lowered my expectations of cities in general, partially because of feeling immensely irritated at my couchsurfing host and partially because of the sickening bus ride from Podgorica to Prizren. A bus ride that was not sickening due to cliff edges or narrow roads, but due to the unbelievable amount of trash in the fields, in the ravines, piled up on the side of the road. 

The banks of streams and rivers looked as if they'd been made out of garbage. Trees which had shed their leaves for winter revealed a new kind of foliage. Blue, pink, yellow, green, white plastic bags clung to branches in thick clumps. The water itself was teeming with bottles, tires, plastic cups, every kind of refuse imaginable. A few men stood here and there, clenching fishing rods between gloved hands, breath clouding in the cold, stealing from the water whatever life was left. 

They have time to fish, but not to pick up the plastic bag, the plastic plate, the plastic fork, the plastic cup they used to carry and eat their lunch.

My stomach churned. 

How can people live this way? I realize I'm coming from a very privileged place wherein I've never had to worry about simply staying alive. Those men down there could be survivors of the Kosovo War, which didn't end until 1999 and which ended the lives of over three thousand civilians. I wonder how priorities shift after an experience like that. I'd like to think I wouldn't mindlessly toss my garbage out a bus window into the river, but I don't know. 

  

So when I started my walk into the touristic area of Prizren, my thoughts were, Just survive until Sofia. It won't be the best experience, but now at least you've been to Kosovo. And while checking off countries is not the reason you travel, it's still awfully nice. 

But downtown Prizren totally caught me by surprise, enchanted me, stole my breath away. 

Magnificent Ottoman architecture from the 15th century, softly illuminated by street lamps and the lights from inside cafes and restaurants. November 28th is Albanian Independence Day, and as the majority of Kosovo is of Albanian heritage, people took to the streets in throngs, wearing the terrifying double-headed eagle Albanian flag, waving Albanian flags and causing all sorts of patriotic hullabaloo. 

This is worth so much more than simply checking it off my list of countries. 

The Belgian guy who shared the ten bed dorm with me snored softly all night long. Or, the bits of the night when I woke up and could hear him snore. 

After a shower and complimentary breakfast the next morning, I headed out for a walk in the first snow of Kosovo.

Boy... I wish you were here. This kind of place with its ancient architecture and narrow cobbled streets, this kind of weather with its soft, quiet snow... and its fifty cent coffee. 

Sigh. 

Why aren't you here? This is what you dream of, isn't it?

I wandered into a mosque's courtyard through very open gates, was looking at a rose dusted in snow, about to snap a photo, when I heard an abrupt, "NO!"

"What?" I turned around and saw a fierce police lady behind me.

"No!" She repeated in a tone I chose to interpret as stern and not angry. "It is closed!"

"Okay, thanks!" I smiled. "Didn't know."

'Cos, ummm, the gates were flung open...

Trash, trash, trash

Eventually, I found myself hiking up a large hill and towards a fortress. As one does.

Trash, trash, trash.

Kaljaja Fortress. A gorgeous monument that was erected by the Byzantines and served as the capital of the Serbian Empire before it was taken over by the Ottomans in 1455.

This church was closed too.

Trash, trash, trash

I spent the rest of the afternoon at the hostel, then went on another walk up to the fortress with two lovely fellows from Saudi Arabia. They had both studied in Ireland, then one had gone off traveling and had been completely seduced by Prizren, so had invited his friend to join him here.

I can't say that I blame him. 

View of Prizren from the fortress

We shared a coffee by the Prizrenska Bistrica (Prizren's river) and then headed back to the hostel, hands stuffed into pockets, chins burrowed into coats, still feeling soft, cold flakes of snow on our faces.

The Belgian guy snored again last night. And laughed in his sleep. Then I woke up at four in the morning to a rhythmic sound and my bed moving back and forth.

Is he... masturbating? I believe he is. Ew, this is awkward. Couldn't he do that in the shower? 

I spent a few moments contemplating my next step.

Should I just pretend like it isn't happening and go back to sleep? 

That would be nice. But I'm not a good enough pretender for that. 

I opened my laptop, put in my earbuds and turned on one of my yoga playlists. Which dulled the noise somewhat, but did nothing at all in the way of vibrations.

GAH. 

Once again, I turned to my laptop, punching the keys with extra oomph as I updated my status on Facebook.

When your couchsurfing host in Kosovo cancels on you last minute and then stops responding to your messages and you end up in a hostel sharing a room with a Belgian guy who only stops snoring and sleep laughing to masturbate...

Do you

A) leave the room at 4:30 am to make yourself a cup of tea and hope that he's finished when you return?
B) Make a lot of noise so that he can tell you're awake and hopefully stops?
C) Post a facebook status and then watch an episode of Doctor Who to drown out the noise?
D) other?

The punching keys on my laptop got him to stop for a few minutes, but then as soon as I settled into my episode of Doctor Who (guess which option I chose?), it all picked up again.

Jesus Christ. 

I started writing gibberish on my keyboard, making enough noise to let the guy know that I was still awake and could definitely hear everything. 

I heard a deep sigh, some turning and tossing, and then, thankfully, snoring.

This is one of the many reasons I don't do hostels. Except for when couchsurfing goes horribly awry, of course. Like it did during this leg of my adventure, thanks to Zafir.  

But this is my life. For now. Six months of travel down, six more to go.  

When Life is Beautiful -- Podgorica, Montenegro

I'm starting this post from a cafe near the main bus station in Prizren, Kosovo. Sweet Cafe. A cafe so hazy with smoke that I can hardly make out the counter with all the sweets. Lemonade is served instead of water and my cappuccino has so much chocolate syrup drizzled on that I can't take a sip without getting a massive chocolate mustache and sticky hands. 

I didn't know one could overdo chocolate. But one can. One really, really can. This is evidence. 

This cafe, like so many cafes in this part of the world, is bursting with testosterone. I see one young girl sitting with a man I presume to be her father, but that's about it. All the other tables are populated by young men, middle-aged men, old men, smoking and drinking coffee and looking at their phones. As the odd lady out, I draw glances from everyone entering the cafe. 

Frankly, I'm surprised they can see me at all, what with the thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

I have no idea where I'm going to sleep tonight. Well, I suppose it's 50/50. I'm either going to stay at Hostel Driza or with a couchsurfer who agreed to host me, but then life happened to him and I'm not even sure if he's in Prizren at the moment. 

I hope he messages me soon, I glanced at Whatsapp on my phone for the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes. It's not a big deal... the worst that can happen is he says he's unavailable and I have to spend an extra thirty bucks on a hostel. The thing is, if he's still in Belgrade and I do have to stay at Hostel Driza, I would just rather not walk there in the dark. 

This is flying by the seat of my pants. For sure. And although I have significant experience in this awkward maneuver, I'm still working on finding the fun in it. And not just the anxiety. 

Especially when I'm flying by the seat of my pants alone in Kosovo. 

I miss Sarajevo. 

I was devastated to leave Sarah and Julieta on Friday morning (sounds like an exaggeration, but it's not). Julieta's playfulness and Sarah's kindness made me want to commandeer the nest of all nests and live there until next Thanksgiving at least. It was with the heaviest of hearts and a pain in my gut (probably from too much Thanksgiving...) that I hugged them goodbye just outside of their cantankerous home. 

"Maybe see you in France next year." 

When I arrived at the bus station, I discovered that the international bus station of the capital city of Bosnia and Herzegovina does not accept credit cards. Nor does it have an ATM. 

"No ATM?" I gaped at the woman behind the glass, being slightly culturally insensitive and more than slightly annoyed. 

"No," she said firmly, as only someone from the Balkans can. "Euros?" 

"Oh, thank god," I handed her the fifty euro note I'd been hanging on to since Slovenia, and she gave me my change in both euros and marks. 

Well... I have to take Boy to Mostar one day. I'll save these marks until then. 

I boarded my tiny bus bound for Podgorica and was again displeased to discover no toilet facilities for a nearly seven hour journey. 

Dehydration, commence. 

The issue with these kinds of buses is that they do stop every two or three hours. Partially because everyone and their cats smoke in these countries and they would all probably perish without smoke breaks, and partially for people like me who always seem desperate for a toilet. My problem is that I can't understand a damn word the bus driver says. Ever. I don't know if the stop will be on minute, five minutes, ten minutes... so I fly out of the bus, making sure the driver is smoking a cigarette or heading towards the cafe or something else to keep him occupied and not driving away, and I rush towards the toilet as quickly as I can. Before the driver has time to finish his cigarette. 

I climb back onto the bus, restart the audio book on my iPhone, and congratulate myself for not getting left behind. Then I wait another ten minutes for everyone else to finish smoking and board. 

The journey through the mountains of northern Montenegro was breathtaking. Canyons, rivers, gorgeous rock faces. 

It was also terrifying. Extremely narrow roads with two way traffic, drop-offs by the dozens, and the rare, flimsy guardrails that seem more for show than for stopping runaway buses. 

I'm glad I sat on the left side of the bus this time. At least I don't have to look at what seems like my imminent death. 

I arrived in Podgorica earlier than anticipated and walked to a cafe near my host's apartment. 

Where the internet didn't work. 

This is a day full of things not working. Fine. You win. Universe of things not working.

Since I couldn't contact my host to see whether or not I could arrive at his home early, I decided to walk to the nearest post office to try once more to send my Christmas package. A Christmas package I feel like I've carried a much greater distance than Santa Claus ever has. 

And Santa Claus has reindeer and elves. I just have Ellie. Even if I'm unable to send the package, my family and Boy's family can know that I tried. That I gave it my absolute best. 

The lady at the post office told me no, I'd have to go to the international post office by the train station to send the package. And that it was already closed, but would be open the next day until two pm. 

"Okay. I'll do that." 

It'll be the fourth post office I've gone to. 

Then I met with Dusan (my host from Couchsurfing), his fiance, and their gorgeous little cat from Thailand. My host worked, I wrote my blog, then we both bundled up and headed out to walk around the cold city in the dark. 

Podgorica is a much better city at night. The lights let you believe that there's still magic in the place that was nearly completely demolished during World War II and then reconstructed during a communistic regime. The buildings are colorless, characterless (this is subjective, of course) and drab.

The soft street lamps help hide the scars of war. 

Dusan and I walked up a hill on the outside of the city, shared some wine and apple rakia, then grabbed some cheesy goodies for dinner and flagged down a cab to take us home. 

The next morning, I used google maps to look for a post office by the train station. I zoomed in and out everywhere and discovered that the closest post office was about a kilometer away from the tracks. So I grabbed my Christmas package, took a few deep breaths and stepped into the lift. 

I'm allowed to be sad if I get turned down again. But... but I'm also allowed to be okay. I'm allowed to just be happy that I have people I care about this much. That's the beautiful thing about this utterly maddening situation. 

Graffiti on the way to the post office. Montenegrins and Italians both seem to have the motto, "put a penis on it." Doesn't matter what it is. Just add penis.

Found South Park in Montenegro!

Walking is a stressful activity in Montenegro. I'm convinced that drivers don't understand the concept of crosswalks or sidewalks. Or the just have an entirely different understanding of them. For Montenegrins, sidewalks are places to park and crosswalks are places to blaze through before the pedestrian can get the advantage by taking that first step.

I'M WALKING NOW, I glare at the drivers as I deliberately step across streets, making them slam on their brakes.

I find it absolutely hilarious that people in this part of the world are terrified of getting damp or caught in a draft. Five drops of rain, everyone opens umbrellas in a panic. Wet hair will make you die. A draft will end you. But nobody minds the psychotic drivers who seem to pose real harm. From my perspective, anyway.

After half an hour of glaring at drivers and charily scampering across sidewalks, I arrived at the post office. And was told that it wasn't the correct post office.

"Train station," the guy behind the desk said and handed my box back to me.

"But it's not on my map," I mumbled, knowing my English was useless but still needing to speak.

I walked twenty minutes to the train station and started looking for the post office.

Nothing. 

"Can you tell me where the post office is?" I asked the woman at information.

"Umm... yes. Yes. Out and... left?"

"Okay."

Nothing. 

"Can you tell me where the post office is?" I asked a security officer.

"Umm... yes. Yes. Straight, then... right?"

"Okay."

Nothing. 

"Can you tell me where the post office is?" I asked a lady selling train tickets.

"Walk left. Two minutes. Red building."

"RED BUILDING! Thank-you!"

SOMETHING. 

"Umm... " I approached the counter of the correct post office, "I'm sorry, I only speak English."

"No," the postman said.

"Okay," I laughed.

I'm just going to laugh. No matter what happens. I've made my decision. 

"Can I send this to Colorado? USA?"

The gruff postman weighed my package and then handed me four different forms to fill out. Unfortunately, the forms were in Montenegrin and the postman couldn't explain how to fill them out. So I spent ten minutes scribbling away, was told I'd done it all wrong, had to pay a fee for the incorrect paperwork that they had to shred, and then start all over again.

I laughed.

"Do you take credit card?" I asked when they told me it would cost 50 euros to ship my package.

"NO. Cash."

"Oof, okay. ATM?"

"Bus station."

"I'll be right back."

So I ran to the bus station, withdrew cash, and skipped back to the post office.

Am I finally mailing this thing? Is this really happening? 

It happened. I paid the 50 euros, they gave me a tracking slip, and told me, "Okay."


I'm sad that it would probably be inappropriate to give everybody high fives. That's all I want to do right now. 

Instead of giving high fives, I said, "Hvala," and went on a quick walk through Podgorica. 

The Ottoman Clock Tower. Podgorica's one surviving monument.

Millennium Bridge

Dusan drove me to give a friend of his a massage that afternoon. A friend who was a yoga teacher and massage therapist. A friend who had her own massage studio with beautiful drapes, mood lights, ethereal music and incense.

It felt so wonderful to give a massage on an actual massage table. With the oil I needed. In a space that incredibly beautiful with zero distractions. 

I can't wait until I can create a space like this. 

One day. Perhaps. 

My host from Banja Luka had a good friend in Podgorica, so he messaged her and she messaged me and we met for coffee during my last day in the city. Then we met with her French boyfriend and strolled around, talking about France, food and travel.

"We're going to my mother's for lunch in an hour or two. You're welcome to come," Mia invited me.

"That sounds wonderful. Yes, please."

Mia called her mother to ask if there would be enough food for one more person.

"Who is it?" Mia's mother asked, thinking I would be one of Mia's old friends.

"Someone I met today," Mia replied.

"You're just like your father!" Mia's mother laughed.

"She says that because my father was always bringing strangers home," Mia explained. "An example, in the 90s, during the war... our family was poor, we barely had enough food for ourselves. But my father, one day, he came home with a mother and her four small children. I think they were Bosnian refugees. And they stayed with us for a whole month." 

The meal was glorious. Partially because the food was delicious, and partially because I was sharing a family lunch with strangers who were treating me like family.

This is when life is beautiful.