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.