A Cigarette in the Cold

 "There is plenty of wine on the balcony. You must join us."

I have greatly enjoyed the hard, salty, white cheeses I've had the opportunity to eat here. One imagines them suspended in a handkerchief in the corner of a kitchen, dripping slightly until called upon and unwrapped. In Shkoder (which is pronounced Shkodra), I mostly ate yogurt and frozen peas, but here in the mountains, settled in with the mountain people, I had access to fresh fish, potatoes, and these cheeses. 

I started this day, my last in Theth with the riddle of the Raki, then some of these cheeses, then a pleasant goodbye to Fatmire, who had successfully talked me out of the big hike, and I was bundled into a car and driven back to Shkoder. I was in the back seat with a hungover uncle who had, by the look and smell of him, been solving Raki riddles late into the evening. 

We stopped a few times to take pictures underneath tall, plain crosses, as white and hard as a mountain cheese they were. I had been under the impression Albania was a majority Muslim country, but I think my perception was skewed by reading about Kosovo. From surface observations, it looks like the cities have a pleasantly coexisting blend of everything, but the further you get into the country, it's "humble Christians." We certainly didn't say grace before the trout, but it seemed important to this carload to take those cross pics. 

On the road to Shkoder, a large bug hit the windshield and left a long red streak. 

It wasn't in a place that would obscure or hinder the driver's vision, but it seemed to unsettle him a great deal.

For several kilometers, he muttered angrily, gesturing toward it and cursing. 

Then he made a shocking left turn across a lane of oncoming traffic to pull us into a tiny tent on the opposing roadside. 

An exhausted boy with a hose sat on a bucket until the driver threw him a coin. The boy sprang to life and began spraying the windshield. 

A second boy, previously unseen, popped up with a second hose that sprayed soapy foam. 

The driver made grunts of contentment and seemed to relax for the first time since we'd left the mountains. 

The soap was washed off, and we pulled out. The boy chased us, spraying until we were out of reach. 

The windshield stayed clean for the remaining length of the drive, but I saw many more of these wash tents along the highway now that I knew to look for them. 

There seemed an unreasonable amount of them. It seemed unsustainable as a business. And yet...

For most of the trip, I had seen the word "lavazh" every few blocks in the cities and everywhere on the side of the road. I had naively thought it meant "bakery." 

In the distance, just before we turned on to the main road, I saw my first bunker and got quite a thrill. More on that in the chapter on Tirana. 

(not my pic but similar to the one I saw)

I was dropped off not in town but on the outskirts. Apparently Fatmire's nephew owned a hostel out there, and it was assumed I would be staying there. I began to wonder if the "don't hike, there is no donkey" speech was all about drumming up business for this poorly located set of beds. 

It was very comfortable, though, surrounded by softly lowing cows, a great place to hide from the heat. I was able to do laundry, and the smell of their home cooking was like being wrapped in lavash. It was what I needed after my time in the mountains. 

They also had a beautiful dog. It's always strange to see a pet dog in this part of the world, since there is a general loathing of them, and the ones you see in the street break your fucking heart. This one, a terrier-influenced mutt, was fairly standard but stood out like a comparison of a royal Belgian prince to a termite wriggling on flypaper. I loved him because he was sweet but low-key hated him for the random-seeming unfairness of it all. 

After a brief rest, I took the long hot walk to the city for one last coffee. I became grateful for it being so remote, because it allowed me to see a giant Russian market and section of the city that had been otherwise hidden from me. Too far to walk from the pleasures of the center where I had stayed a few days previous. 

It was the "real" Shkoder but it had just as many cafes, all strung together like a necklace of Columbian beans. Many boxes of cherries (in season) and roasting pigeons on spits. 

The heat was absolutely punishing and anyone foolish enough to be taking a long walk began to consider one of the lavazh places (almost as numerous as the cafes) to hose them down. They probably would have done it. When I reached town, I looked and felt like a casserole topping. 

Had a Greek salad and read from one of the volumes of Manning's Balkan Trilogy. Really tearing through books on this trip. When I ordered, I tried pronouncing it as it was on the menu and was understood. "Salata Greka." It was either correct or the server was polite. Likely a combination of both. 

I found a magnet and considered a bunker-shaped ashtray, but I figured I would be better off buying one in Tirana (more on bunkers in the Tirana chapter). Had to recreate the walk back, but I was fortified and knew what was involved. This did not make it any less hot. My shirt almost fell apart, but I made it. 

At the hostel, I was invited by a Dutch family to drink wine with them on the porch. They're driving all over Europe with their two beautiful children in the equivalent of a VW Van. Just fabulous hippies or Instagram influencers. We spent some time comparing stories, but it was too hot for me to drink their wine. I'm a raki man now. 

Amusingly, the host (Fatmire's nephew) had shaved both his head and a large beard he'd had that morning, so though he'd been part of the conversation on the porch, I didn't recognize him at all. Thought he was some random guest. 

Slept like a cow who'd been softly lowing all day. 

In the morning, the now-bald gentleman and his wife walked me to the part of town where I would catch the van to the ferry. They were both hungover but felt obligated to walk me out there. As I would learn later in Kosovo, there are official places to catch a van, known places to catch a van, and top secret VIP spots where the van will stop for old friends. This was to be one of the latter, so they had to be there. 

I felt sort of bad for them having to be awake, but it was mercifully cold outside, it being so early. They were about to roll cigarettes for themselves, and I offered them some from a pack of Marlboro I carry as a courtesy. They accepted and when they rolled one anyway, they offered it to me. When I told them I didn't smoke, they found it quite confusing that I carry cigs. I was like, "I carry them to make friends."

But it seems not to have worked in this case. 

The van appeared out of the mist (as such vans must) and slowed down long enough for me to board. The driver and Fatmire's nephew touched elbows. Their prolonged eye contact suggested a long, complicated friendship. 

We were on our way to the Koman Ferry, a journey of two hours or so assuming the windshield wasn't hit by any bugs.