Dining out in Kosovo

The night was cold.  I shifted deeper into my wool scarf and coat to block out the brisk weather.  The wind made my face tingle and my pace quicker.  We turned in unison down the angled side street lined with shoe stores and fluorescent lighting declaring whether something was "open" or "closed".  We finally reach our destination and a reprieve from the freezing temperatures.  The small store front is covered in ivy, with windows of golden colored glass distorting the ability to view the interior beyond the shadows and dancing light from a room lit only by candle.  The heavy wooden door fiercely guards the warmth within.  There is no sign, no indication that this is a place to approach, that it is a place of business at all.  You have to know in advance that you are looking for this nondescript door otherwise you'd be hard pressed to find it.  We knock with purpose.

The proprietor swings the door wide open and welcomes us in.  The small dark room, lit only by tapered candles on each of the four tables that fill the space, is where we will dine tonight.  We shake off our winter layers and drape them over the rack by the door. It is warm inside from the oven in the open kitchen behind the dining area.  We are seated at one of the heavy wooden tables set with Christmas inspired napkins and offered a carafe of homemade wine and slightly smaller carafe of homemade rakia.  The wine is deep red, slightly dry, slightly fruity, and plentiful; the number of carafes you are offered is only dependent on the number of times you ask for another.  The limitless rakia is honey colored and strong, the burn necessary for digestion of the heavy winter meal you are about to be served.  No menu is offered here and all of the four tables are served the same dishes that represent the whim of the chef.

The host/chef/prep cook/waiter/busser/sole employee drops off the first of many small dishes that are house determined. The saucer is covered in brightly colored painted flowers of oranges, blues, greens, and reds as a background for fresh green olives, each stuffed with a single blanched almond and resting in golden green olive oil.  We drink our wine and share the olives as we toast a farewell to a friend leaving Kosovo for good.

The first course is delivered.  Each plate configured haphazardly around the table, competing for surface space as the generous host serves up plate after plate of warm food to start our meal.  I prick my fork into one plate to lift up thick, round slices of well-roasted eggplant seasoned with salt, pepper and olive oil cooked to perfection as indicated by the way it droops from my fork.  The zucchini is artfully plated as a miniature stone henge, julienned pieces of zucchini charred to perfection standing on end in a perfect circle.  Two cheese plates help fill the table.  One, a warm soft feta cheese crumbled into a heap.  The other, a salty, white hard cheese reminiscent of a hard feta has been pan fried so that it is warm and crusty on the outside and soft inside but not melty.  Thin cracker bread helps guide all of these delectable treats into our mouths. 

Within the warm cavern of stone walls, we imbibe the unlimited carafes of red wine and work our way through the tapas completely recovering and rejuvenating ourselves from the chill of the icy, Balkan wind outside.  The meat course arrives just in time to mark the first hour of our time at Renaissance.  A sizzling platter of beef is offered, likely a chuck cut similar to pot roast and cooked to perfection.  The tough fibers made buttery soft from a good braising.  A ceramic au gratin dish is gingerly placed on the table filled with a bubbling cream dish of mushrooms and chicken.  We each scoop portions onto our plates having quickly forgotten the satisfaction of the starters due to the seduction of the well cooked entrees.

Our full bellies are given an antidote of rakia; a few rounds for good measure.  The burning grape alcohol helps our stomachs recover from the indulgence of this hidden restaurant of traditional Albanian food.  The evening is sealed with a serving of moist cake covered in a cream frosting, similar to tiramisu in texture.  The food and ambiance make this place special in the world.  Beyond the chevapi and burek of fast food dining in Kosovo, this is dining out at its best. 

A day in the life.

 My walk to work along the rainbow brick road.

Home, sweet home.  Our courtyard entrance to our apartment.

 Tucker's morning walk at the park near our apartment.

Our home on Bajram Kelmendi Street. 

 Our produce guy.  As the weeks have gone by and the locals on our street have come to see and recognize us, we now get warm and friendly greetings.  It helps establish the feel of being part of a community.

Our chicken and egg guy.  Rotisserie chicken for sale here for 3 euros.

 Our grocery store under a mosque. 

My office. 

My walk home at night along Mother Theresa Boulevard.  This pedestrian walkway is the main artery in town, lined with popcorn vendors, booksellers, cafes, and people peddling light up toys, balloons, and brightly colored pinwheels. 

Since people have returned to Pristina following the war, there hasn't been much attempt to use street names or any kind of address system.  Street names are given out haphazardly and known by few.  Most directions are given using landmarks.  Whether its ordering pizza, calling a cab, or having friends over, landmarks are the address system in Pristina.  We were warned beforehand that the mail system is nonexistent and that the likelihood of receiving mail from the U.S. was not likely at all.  Whole posts in the blog world are dedicated to ways to get mail such as using Albania as the country name to bypass Serbia who will just return the mail to sender.  We, in fact, have a street and an address AND a landmark and I have test mail coming my way from my dad to see if we can get care packages.

When we moved into our apartment, we asked who lived in the fortress like house neighboring ours from just off our terrace.  The house is the former home of Bajram Kelmendi.  Kelmendi was a prominent human rights lawyer who brought charges against the president of Yugoslavia in the Hague.  Kelmendi and his two sons were massacred by Serb police forces during the Kosovo War.  After the war, Kelmendi's wife continued to work promoting justice and acted as a government minister until her death last year.  Our street is called Bajram Kelmendi street. 

This poignant reminder of Kosovo's recent past gave perspective to where we were moving.  The folks in the neighborhood look at us with curiosity.  We are the new kids on the block with a Boston Terrier.  Our landlords have been incredible and the man is a local judge.  The family has helped us with the move and have been friendly and welcoming, bringing us homemade fresh bread and burek.  We have slowly ingratiated ourselves with our other neighbors; the local barber now smiles broadly wishing us a good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.  The kids run up and beg to pet tucker, their eyes wild with excitement at just getting to pat his head.  Our fruit guy throws in an extra apple and the cashier at the grocery store practices his English with me. They also look out for us.  A couple of neighborhood boys warned us of a pack of wild dogs when we were out walking Tucker one night so we could avoid them and walk another way. 

When we first got here and called for cabs, we would provide our address on Bajram Kelmendi street and get puzzled responses from the dispatch asking for a landmark.  We would give up and give them the name of a hotel to pick us up from instead.  Through trial and error, we offered a landmark instead:  taxi to Bajram Kelmendi house.  Their response:  four minutes.  Providing this landmark has not failed us once.  The Kosovars may have no recognition of the street name, but all Kosovars know where important people or places are that mean a lot to their culture and nation.  As a side note, we ordered pizza the other night to our address.  They had no idea what street we were talking about.  They asked us for a grocery store nearby.  We told them about the Maxi with the mosque on top.  Their response:  15 minutes. 

The Initiation of an Expat

I am surrounded by ex expats.  My mother has lived in Germany, Belgium, Italy, and Iran.  My father has lived in Italy, Iceland, Bahrain, Morocco, and Antarctica. My boyfriend has called both Austria and Armenia home.  My best friend doing the same in the U.K., Belgium, and South Africa.  Needless to say, with this kind of circle of influence I have a passion for travel.  My first trip abroad was as a student ambassador to Australia and New Zealand at the age of 12.  Since then, travel has been an integral part of my life.  Like a smoker, it somehow always fits into my budget.  Travel inspires imagination and excitement in me, like a story about to be written.

Starting with an atlas, ink and paper form an awareness of faraway places.  Colors show where one country starts and another stops; purple for this, orange for that, with a line in-between demarcating some real place determined to be the proper, invisible boundary between this nation or that.  After the physical location is sketched in my mind, I then turn to the guidebooks to color it in.  The ten glossy pages stuck in the middle of the book act as a paintbrush, bringing a place to life with photos.  Reading the words that sandwich the glossy middle bring the mental image to life.  Absorbing the assessment by a globe trotter who has planted his backpack in a region of the world for stint to find and share with other travelers where the best local food is served and where the most comfortable dorm bed can be found.

The purchase of the plane ticket will forever be a test of wits and determination.  Hours on Kayak.com inputting, with mathematical precision, a search for 'nearby' airports + the exact perfect combination of buses and regional airports that will save you $80 + comparing results of a search from Monday to that on Thursday + oh, and by the way, what is the actual dollar difference after calculating in baggage for the different carriers = the perfect ticket cost... or maybe I should wait the magic number of days to search again when prices will suddenly drop by $500 and I will regret clicking purchase now.

Eventually, you get on some foreign carrier to cross an ocean.  I have, in my travels, sat next to all kinds of people including the Chief of Surgery at Mt. Sinai, a Colonel in the South African Air Force, a doctor on a Doctors Without Borders mission, and a four year old.  You share a compartmentalized meal with your seatmate as you find out where they are going and why.  This part of a trip is what stokes my fire for the journey.  Touching down in a new place for the first time is a rush, challenging me to problem solve, assess, and make decisions.  This time, this process was all conducted under the guise of a long-term time commitment.  I was to be an expat for the first time.

The thing about being an expat is that rush and excitement are cradled in a certain realization; when it hits you that I am going to be here awhile.  My moment came last Sunday after biking 10 miles in what was dubbed a "Tour de Culture".  I was sitting in blazing sun wearing dark jeans, somewhere in the middle of the countryside, desperate for shade.  Our only refuge came from the small shadow created by a two-door car parked in a dry field.  While we waited for the mayor of this town to welcome us and proclaim that this was the youngest municipality in Kosovo, we resorted to sitting on dry cow patties to catch a piece of that sweet, elusive shade.  My only thought came with a sudden desperation and prayer that our water would be turned on when we eventually made it home.

Later that night, my tour de culture continued as I started a three day food poisoning diet.  My initiation as an expat had begun.  I was told by my loved ones that being an expat would not always be easy.  Travel for vacation is different because you know that you will be returning home at some point in the near future and to all of its familiar comforts. As an expat, you have to get through the hard times in your foreign environment.  Living in a developing country requires a degree of acceptance of the situation without being critical of why.  Part of the gift of my time as an expat is that it will challenge me to change my perspective and the way I evaluate things. 

In my first three weeks, my initiation as an expat has opened my mind to difficult concepts while the people I have met, expats and Kosovars alike, have filled me with warmth. 

Kosovo Initiation Roundup
1.  Communism.  The hangover of communism makes the concept of obtaining an education very different here.  During my first meeting of English teachers to develop our grading scale, I was told that we could not have a policy of no make up exams as students were allowed to have a handful of makeups and the students themselves dictate when they will do this make up, maybe two years from now.  I immediately respond with exasperation and outrage explaining how absolutely insane this is as it provides no incentive to do anything.  I am met with a resigned indifference from people that have obviously fought this battle for longer than I have been around.  This policy, that is common across the region, is built on the idea that everyone has a right to take that final exam and to pass the class. 

2.  Communism addendum:  failing a class is never reported on a transcript.  All that matters is that you pass, and everyone has a right to pass.  Failing is the same as not having done the class at all. 

3.  Sometimes you don't want to feel like a foreigner and for that, there will always be an Irish pub.  Sometimes you are just going to want to see familiar things.  No matter where you are in the world, you can be assured that there will be an Irish pub to find solace from your foreign environment in dark wood, heavy upholstery, soccer scarves, french fries, and Guinness. 

4.  People are proud of their nationality and want to share their culture with you.  The beautiful opportunity expats have is the chance to spend quality time with people from other cultures.  My first week at work here, I was invited to an all Albanian barbeque in the country side.  The meat was plentiful and the beer was flowing.  A large table was set with various foods to share as we talked into the night, laughing together.

5.  The other beautiful opportunity expats have is the chance to spend quality time with kindred spirits from the U.S.  There is something so fascinating about meeting a fellow American who is working on some important aspect of a random country.  So many people from our country have dedicated their personal and professional lives to bettering places they have no prior connection with. I love to meet them and hear their story. 

6.  Humor can overcome language barriers.  I found myself in a car on an hour long drive with three prominent Albanian businessmen who sit on the board of the University where I work.  They spoke very little English and we were relegated to basic communication.  Eventually, we devolved to the point where I would just point out signs and attempt pronouncing the notoriously difficult Albanian letters.

Nice Albanian Gentleman:  "Do you know, ë"? (pronounced unh)

Me:  "Eh?"

NAG:  "No, no: unh."

Me:  "Unh, unh."

Laughing ensues by all.

7.  The dance.  The relationship between driver and pedestrian is like that of a dance circle:  it's someones turn, no one knows who until they jump into the space.  There is no right of way.  Also, there is no annual vehicle inspection to make sure your reverse lights work so you have to be ready to react with no warning.  And in Kosovo, there is no difference between road and sidewalk further pressing you to be ready for anything.  

8.  Most importantly, your home is your sanctuary.  Even though I am in a landlocked country in the middle of the Balkans, inside my apartment I am home.  It's a cozy refuge that has my things and my dog.  It comforts me just the same as any of my other homes.  When those inevitable down days come along, you can always go home.  

This year will challenge me and inspire me but, most of all, I hope that it will open my heart and mind to embrace possibility in things that are out of my comfort zone.

The City of Bill Klinton Blvd and George Bush Road

Through the small squoval window, it was dark; an early nightfall at 7:30.  The landscape was dappled with an incandescent glow marking where people lived.  The landing gear emerged and we descended toward Prishtina.  I turned to the small four year old girl from Arizona next to me and remarked, "We're here!,  How exciting!"

She looked up at me, dressed in footie pajamas covered in butterflies and said, "Exciting!  Wait, where are we?"

"Kosovo," I tell her.

Jenny's mom brought her to Kosovo for two months to be with dad.  Dad is working here on a security contract and they decided to come stay for a bit.  How brave I think, for her to travel to the other side of the world with her small daughter to a remote, foreign land.  Meanwhile, I hoist the large, ventilated black bag over my shoulder, while its contents shift and snort at me.  My carry on is my own precious cargo that I have brought to this remote foreign land.  Tucker, has handled the flights well and I am certain he will be the new ambassador of goodwill to the Balkans.

We descend the plane into the cool night air and make our way through customs.  In less than fifteen minutes, I am back outside on the other side of the airport where I am greeted with a sign for "Dr. Laura Horton".  Here, they declare with certainty that Juris Doctorates are indeed doctors.  I smile and communicate as best I can with my driver.  We head toward the city and I get my first glimpse of my new home.  It is not totally unfamiliar; I am reminded somewhat of Greece, Bosnia, or Serbia.  My driver takes me on a roundabout drive through the city so I can take in the main sights.  I immediately catch glimpses of the cafe culture and the well-dressed and well-heeled young population that is prevalent in Prishtina.  We drive by the infamous giant, yellow block letters, splattered with grafitti.  The bright capital letters announce that Kosovo is "NEWBORN".

At the hotel, I see my boyfriend for the first time in a month and we reunite.  "Hey, by the way, remember that time we moved to Kosovo?!"

Over the next few days, the apartment search is on.  Everyone goes above and beyond in helping us find accommodations.  Bakim, real estate agent/pharmacist/bee-keeper/future law student,  takes us to just beyond the city to show us Prishtina's version of Central Park.  The park is a large wooded area that goes on for miles.  There are paths cris-crossing it and bikes available for rent.  Everything I learn about my new city confirms the choice to move here.  So far I have found an organic grocery, two pet supply stores, and finally, an apartment! 

I am officially a resident of Kosovo.