tick,
tick,
behind me.
Reminding me that I only have a couple more hours to be in this epic home with this spectacular lady who welcomed me into her life for a couple of days.
This is one of those moments I wish I could make time stand still. Stop the relentless, merciless ticking of that clock. What bittersweet moments these are. The moments that we live for and the moments that drive us mad because we have to acknowledge how powerless we are to hold on to anything.
When I say this home is epic, I mean that it houses an entire family. Two uncles, two aunts, many munchkins, sisters, brothers, mother, father, Leonita, and me for the moment. Living on different floors, in separate apartments, but all popping in and out of others' floors and doors with the ease that comes with being family.
This is the ease I pine for when I'm away from home.
I left Prizren on Thursday morning around eleven o'clock.
For me, Prizren will forever be frozen in my memory with these things:
- the couchsurfing host who canceled on me last minute and then lied to me about helping me pay for a hostel
- the masturbating Belgian
- the walk to the fortress and the view of the sun setting over the white, glistening mountains and the small, Ottoman city
- the Saudi Arabian fellows who took me under their wings for the three days I spent in Driza's House. When they went walking to the fortress, the asked me to join. When they went for coffee, they invited me as well. When they went shopping, they asked if I needed anything. When I sat in the common area, curled up on the couch and writing a blog or reading my kindle, they always offered me juice or chocolate. All the little kindnesses that made me feel seen and cared about.
As I walked towards the bus station on Thursday morning, I noticed a bus with a sign for Pristina lumbering towards me.
Damn. Just missed it. Oh well, the hostel owners said there should be a bus that leaves every fifteen minutes or so... no big deal.
But one of the two bus drivers opened the front doors and yelled out at me, "Pristina?"
"Pristina!" I nodded, thankful for once that in the Balkans, vehicles can and do stop wherever they damn well please. So the bus stopped in the middle of the main road of Pristina while I loaded my bag and hopped aboard.
The two hour journey felt like a drop of time compared to the six hour ride from Sarajevo to Podgorica and the eight hour trip from Podgorica to Prizren. And it was broken up by the moment wherein the bus drivers stopped the bus in the middle of the road in front of a store, ran in, grabbed some candy, and rushed back to take their seats before the orchestra of honking cars behind us reached its crescendo. Then the assistant walked down the aisle of the bus, passing out candy to passengers. I was startled to receive a small black candy called, "Negro."
Hmmm... well, that could be misconstrued in all manner of racist ways. Only in Kosovo.
I ate my negro, then disembarked just outside of the city and walked towards the downtown area, feeling remarkably charitable to my heavy backpack.
Sometimes the weight of this bag feels like a burden and sometimes it feels oddly... comforting. Reassuring. Sometimes I'm thankful for how heavy my life feels.
Like it's full.
As I had five hours to burn before I could meet with my host, I connected to the free Wi-Fi downtown, messaged a few locals on couchsurfing, and then retreated into a cafe to read my Kindle and escape the bitter cold.
Where I made the mistake of ordering a cappuccino.
Never order a cappuccino in Kosovo. Kosovars have a delectable cuisine and make excellent coffee, but for some reason, they can't seem to understand the cappuccino. One orders a cappuccino and expects to be delivered a cup of espresso, hot milk and milk foam. But in Kosovo, when one orders a cappuccino, one is delivered a cup of whipped cream doused in syrup with maybe a couple drops of espresso hiding out someplace super secret and entirely inaccessible to human taste buds.
I dolefully finished my cup of whipped cream, then moseyed on to another cafe, where I ordered what I should have ordered the first time -- a large macchiato. Which is the closest to a cappuccino you can get in this country. And is amazing.
Leonita met me at the cafe around four thirty, just to chat and share a coffee. From the moment she blew in the door, I knew this lady would be a happy part of my life. Easy smile, quick to laugh, generous, talkative, friendly. The kind of people I'm thankful have joined couchsurfing so I get to meet them for a macchiato at a cafe in Kosovo. Leonita had broken her leg in March as well, so we shared stories about doctors (Kosovar doctors are nuts) and how we've managed to put our lives back together.
We parted ways at around six pm, promising that we'd keep in touch and try to meet up again the following day. I shouldered Ellie and began the slow, cold walk to Latif's apartment, about thirty minutes away from the city center. I listened to an audiobook, "God is Not Great," as I walked through the dark city, making eye contact with all the deranged drivers and ruminating on how religion was used as a tool to tear Kosovo apart.
Unable to find Latif's exact location, I sat at a cafe nearby, ordered yet another coffee and used their internet to send him a message on Whatsapp.
"Google maps has failed me. I'm lost."
So Latif rushed down to the cafe to find me and then led me back to his home.
It's even smaller than Jakub's apartment in Prague. Which is saying something. I don't mind small even the slightest, but I wonder where I'll sleep? I thought as I (quickly) surveyed the tiny space. There's just one couch and one small chair. And the couch doesn't even look like it pulls out into a bed, my brow furrowed with worry. But I'm sure something will work out. Surely he doesn't expect us both to share the couch.
We chatted about gardening, music and sports. Eleven o'clock rolled around and I rummaged through Ellie, grabbed my toiletry bag and started brushing my teeth.
"So," I began a little nervously, "how do you normally arrange the sleeping situation with your guests?"
"Excuse me?" Latif asked.
"Where do you sleep and where does the guest sleep?"
"I usually sleep on the couch. Just like that. I don't have blankets."
"Umm... so, where, uh... where will I sleep?"
"I could try to sleep on the chair. You can have the couch."
"Thanks, that's really nice of you," I looked at the small, unassuming chair, wondering how the hell lanky Latif would manage to sleep in it.
No blankets. The heating in the apartment is out and there's just one small space heater. All I have is a sleeping sheet. And it's well below freezing outside.
This. Is going to be a horribly long night.
We watched a film together and then I crawled into the sleeping sheet Cathy had given me so many years ago and tried to fall asleep, doing my best to not shiver with cold. Latif sat down in the chair and pulled another chair close enough to prop his legs up.
He is not going to sleep. And I am not going to sleep knowing that I'm on the couch while he's on the chair. Fuck. I hate situations like this. It's not fair. If I had known the sleeping situation would be like this, I wouldn't have stayed with Latif. I would rather have spent the money to be at a hostel with my own freaking bed. And blankets. And a heater.
"Hey," I said to my host as he tried to make himself comfortable in the chair. "You can sleep on the couch too. Let's sleep feet to head. My head here, your head over there."
Sleep is a strong word for what I did that night. A better description would be "curled up shivering in a ball on the edge of the couch."
How does he live like this? I repeated to myself, over and over that night. Not wanted to judge other people's life choices and standard of living, but feeling cold and resentful enough for a momentary lapse in open-mindedness.
The next day was a bit warmer, so while Latif worked on his sport articles, I walked into town to meet with Arti, a couchsurfer who'd contacted me a few weeks earlier, asking if I'd like to hang out.
Arti was a remarkable fellow. We met for macchiatos and then he drove me around the city, pointing out different buildings and telling me their stories.
He also gave me the tiniest glimpse of what it had been like to live in Kosovo during the 90s.
"One day, the Serbian soldiers came and told us we had five minutes to leave our home. Of course, we knew it was coming, so everything was already packed. But they wouldn't just let us leave. We walked for an hour and then they stopped us. They lit our homes on fire and made us wait. They wanted us to watch our homes burn. Then we walked again and were joined by more refugees. Again, we were stopped to watch more buildings on fire."
Albert Einstein was wrong. He said that, "only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity." I hear stories like this, and I think that the quote should be revised to, "the universe and human cruelty."
Arti dropped me off downtown and I strolled back towards the main walking street to use the free wi-fi to contact Leonita. As I walked, I tried to pick out the architecture that inspired me, the buildings I found beautiful, but they were few and far between.
The beauty is in Prizren. The energy, the hum of life, the excitement is in Pristina.
Leonita met with me and some couchsurfers from Spain in one of Pristina's main squares that had been turned into a hot wine heaven.
Then we walked through the brisk air, bellies warmed by wine, cheeks flushed with cold and alcohol, to Soma Book Station. Where I drank a cup of sahlep dusted in cinnamon and reminisced about my time in Istanbul.
In between reminiscing, I blurted out to Leonita about my unfortunate sleeping situation. The cold, the awkwardness, the dearth of toilet paper, the broken shower head, the mold on the ceiling.
"I'm glad he's on couchsurfing, but I don't think he's ready to host," I concluded. "He's a nice guy... it's just... unpleasant."
"You can come stay with me," she immediately offered. "Come stay with me and my family tomorrow."
"I love staying with families..." my desire to sleep in a warm bed and my love of spending time with families began to outweigh the guilt I felt about leaving Latif. "I'll talk to him about it tonight and I'll let you know."
 |
| I enjoy the Christmas tree in the foreground and the minaret in the background |
 |
| On May 9th of this year, Pristina celebrated Europe day by placing this single yellow Lego brick in the main square. It's meant to symbolize their willingness to join the EU, and that they are currently a "missing piece." |
I walked back to Latif's at around six that evening, gave my host a quick yoga lesson and then checked my couchsurfing profile. I browsed through different messages, rolling my eyes and archiving the ones like this:
"Hello Aimee how are you doing if come to india I would love to spend time with you if you want to spend time with me just let me know like drink hangout anywhere I am always ready and I can host you as long as you want stay my palace
you are such a sexy girls it would nice spending time with you have fun togetherThanks
Raj"
As I archived, Latif asked me, "Isn't there anything else you teach?"
"Well, I teach a bit of acro yoga and yin yoga... and I practice massage."
"Massage, that's it. Could you give me a massage?"
"No," I said firmly. "I've had bad experiences in the past giving massages to hosts who have misinterpreted my intentions."
"But I wouldn't misinterpret," Latif pressed. "You wouldn't have to worry about that with me."
"That doesn't matter. Because I've had multiple bad experiences, I've made boundaries for myself. Just to feel safe. I will give massages to women in their own homes, but for men, I will only give massages in studios where I have a table and there are rules and regulations and structure."
"But nothing would happen with me," he repeated.
"That doesn't make a difference."
Calm down, Bourget. Just because you've had experience working with traumatized youth and understand the effects of trauma doesn't mean everybody does. This person just doesn't realize that even though his intentions may be good, the act of giving him a massage in this kind of space would be triggering for me.
I returned to browsing couchsurfing and discovered I'd received a message from a New Zealander who happened to be living in Nepal, working as a writer. We hit it off immediately (he used the word "lugubrious" in his original message) and had decided it would probably be best if we spent some time adventuring through Nepal together. I'd suggested a trip to Chitwan National Park and a cave called Siddha Gufa.
He wrote back with this:
"Another option (not necessarily incompatible with the ones above) would be to spend a night in my host mother's village, in the hills a couple of hours from Pokhara. I went there a few months ago and fell in love with the place, and locals said that I was the second tourist in living memory to visit. The view of the Himalayas on a clear day, and the stars on a clear night, are something for the memory books. That'd be a good option if you feel like seeing a side of Nepal that not many tourists get to see. (as an added bonus, my host mother's name is Santa so we'd literally be visiting santa's village for christmas)."
I collapsed over Latif's table in delighted laughter.
Here I was, worried that I would spend this Christmas alone in a hostel in Nepal. But here I am, meeting people like Matt with whom I can create and share a Christmas that I'll remember. And not because I spent it eating kale chips and singing mantras on the top of a rooftop somewhere in Mexico. Like what happened two years ago.
Because I could maybe go to Santa's village.
Latif and I stopped by a market to buy some beer, then hopped on a bus to the city center. Oscar, his Colombian friend, was packing up his life and heading home to Colombia, and that evening was his going away party.
Some of the best couchsurfing experiences arise from moments like these. Moments wherein I somehow find myself attending random parties of random people. Like that wedding I ended up attending in Westport. Or Passover in Marrakesh. Or those Druid Moon ceremonies in Kilkenny.
I spent the first portion of the party sitting at the drink table, slowly sipping a gin and tonic (or two) and chatting with whoever got tired enough/drunk enough to sit down with me.
This is such a good way for an introvert to cope with parties until the introvert manages to get tipsy enough to forget that she's an introvert.
I chatted with John, a chap from Buffalo, New York, about his experience living in Russia. We talked about Couchsurfing and his difficulty trusting people enough to try it, especially after some substantially sketchy situations in Russia.
I've witnessed and experienced enough abuse and danger to make it logical for me to not trust people either. But what kind of life would that be? I have this one, impossibly short life wherein I have the opportunity to pour my passion into as many people and places as possible... so why would I choose to deliberately limit myself?
...
I do choose little limits, I suppose. The limit of not giving massages to male couchsurfing hosts. The limit of not staying with people whose profiles are riddled with references from young, single women. The limit of not jumping on a plane and heading to Morocco to couchsurf for two months with no money.
These are the limits that keep me safe and allow me to trust. Everyone has them. Everyone ought to have them. But for me, I want these limits to be as small as possible and I want to keep questioning them constantly -- to make sure they're in place because I truly need them and not because of habit.
John escaped onto the dance floor and Genc took his place. I can't quite remember what we discussed or how long we discussed it (I had moved onto wine by this point...), but I do remember ending up in the hallway, on the floor, silly smile etched into the face and Genc balancing on my feet.
I love it when this happens.
Two other girls joined the fun, one of whom found it difficult to relax, to release, to trust.
I wonder why she has this limit. And I wonder if she'll allow me to work through this limit with her.
"I can't support you if I can't feel you," I said gently and looked up at her as I struggled to keep her tense body in the air.
I mean, it makes total sense that she wouldn't trust me. I'm just a strange, tipsy American on the floor who likes to put people upside down at parties.
But she did trust. She did let go. She gave me all of her weight and we began to play.
This is the joy of acro. I get to feel people let down their guards, work through their limitations, relax into a state of trust in such an intimate way. I get to feel their worlds opening.
That high gave me enough energy to abandon my corner at the table and dance until three o'clock in the morning.
When we returned to Latif's apartment, he received a text message from a friend, inviting him to join for a very early morning video game session.
"You sure it's okay if I go?" Latif asked me.
"Yes, sure!" I tried to hide my enthusiasm.
This means we don't have to share the couch... thank goodness. New limit I've learned for myself -- just don't share a sleeping surfaces with strange men. Seems straight-forward enough. If something like this ever happens again, go to a hostel right away.
I shivered by myself on Latif's couch that night, pining for my aubergine colored sleeping bag that had retired with Yann and Estelle in Grenoble, because I assumed I'd no longer need it.
Which is a fair enough assumption. Never, in five years of couchsurfing, have I stayed with someone who owned zero blankets.
But thanks to my generous helpings of gin and wine, I managed to slip into a fitful slumber.
What ran me over? I wondered when I blearily opened my eyes the next morning. I know Kosovar drivers are berserk, but I feel as if I've been hit by seventeen of them. Which seems excessive.
My hamstrings ached, I had whiplash in my neck (from dancing like a crazy person), a slight headache and quite a bit of nausea.
Meh... it was worth it. But now... damage control. Water. Drinking and showering. Yes.
I drank a half liter of water and then hopped in the shower. Hot water quickly turned ice cold and the broken shower head sprayed the frigid water in every which way.
I stared bleakly at the black mold on the ceiling and felt a little homesick.
"Can we do yoga today?" Latif asked when he returned from video games later that morning.
"I'm really not feeling very good," I told my enthusiastic host. "It's a slow day. I drank too much last night and didn't eat enough. And now I'm suffering."
"But you promised we would do acro yoga."
"Oh. Okay, then."
I reluctantly lay down on the floor, put my feet in the air and resentfully flew Latif.
This is not the joy of acro yoga, I thought as I stood up, my small headache transformed into a raging headache from the strain of supporting my host. I popped an Aleve and then asked, "I want to go to the Christmas market for some hot wine, would you like to come? Then I'll meet Leonita after that."
So I bought Latif a hot wine at the market, wished his team (Barcelona) luck in their match against Madrid, and then set off towards the giant Lego to meet Leonita.
I love Leonita.
Rarely have I stayed with a host who has taken such good care of me. Who seemed to know exactly what I needed and offered all the things before I could even ask.
"Are you hungry?" Leonita filled the table with homemade Balkan goodies.
"Do you want to take a bath?" Leonita gave me a towel and sent me on my way.
"Do you need to wash some laundry?" Leonita helped me pile my clothes into the washing machine.
"Let's make sangria," she started dicing fruit and mixing wine with sprite.
Yes. Yes, I think I love this person.
"It's okay to say no, but would you give my mother a massage?" Leonita asked me as she put the sangria in the fridge. "She has a lot of pain in her shoulders and neck."
"Sure, I could give her a massage. Maybe a twenty minute shoulder rub?"
My new host's mother happily lay face down on the floor and I began to work.
"We have to go soon," Leonita told her mother in Albanian.
"Shut up!" her mother responded playfully in Albanian, not wanting the massage to end.
I laughed.
Eventually, we tore ourselves away from Leonita's mother and went to an Irish pub for a drink with another couchsurfer.
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| Leonita loves to do makeup, so she even dolled me up for the occasion. |
I went to bed with a blanket that night. In my own bed. In a beautiful home. And I felt so damn grateful. Grateful for people like Leonita and grateful that I've finally learned to honor some of the limits I've made to keep me safe and happy.
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