People called Romanus they go the house?

Just before I left for Albania, a friend asked me what my greatest fear was regarding the next two years. The question was actually difficult for me to answer. I was not expecting to spend two years in the Peace Corps without encountering any challenges along the way, but at that moment I was still too captivated by pictures of the crystal clear seas and rugged mountains of my soon-to-be home to give any serious thought to these things. After mulling the question over in my mind for a few minutes, though, I decided that my greatest fear was the language and the consequences that would follow if I found myself unable to learn it.

If someone were to ask me today what my greatest challenge currently is, my answer would stay the same: the language. The answer remains the same, but the reasons why are not what I foresaw before I arrived. I had never made a serious effort to learn (much less use) a foreign language before, and as I result, I didn't know what to expect from the learning process itself. In my imagination, I only considered the extreme possibilities- complete fluency or the inability to form even a single sentence.

What I did not consider, however, was the time that a person must spend on the road between those two points while learning a new language. It is both a longer and lonelier road than I ever anticipated that it would be.

If I didn't have a proper appreciation for languages before, I certainly do now. I have understood for some time that the human experience is, in many ways, defined by the ability to have complex, self-aware thought. Somehow, though, I failed to give proper regard to its inseparable companion: the ability to give form to those thoughts and to share them with others. I never realized just how important that was until I found myself unable to do it.

Language allows you discuss complex issues like philosophy or politics. It also allows you to order a suflaqe with everything but mayonnaise, thank you very much. I am still a long way away from finding my place in philosophical discussions, but am getting pretty good at ordering my lunch. Even with the simple things, though, I am still at a point in which nothing comes out easily. Shqip is an interesting language that holds very little in common with English. As with all new skills, it is very easy to become hung up on the rules that will eventually (hopefully) become second nature. Shqip just happens to have lots of these.

(At this point, I am about to give a lesson in Shqip. If you don't have the time or interest, I wouldn't blame you in the slightest. Just skip down a ways. I'll tell you when the worst of it is over and when the fun begins again. A Monty Python video awaits!)

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For those of you who have been brave/foolish enough to continue, take a look at the following sentence:

A i falenderove shoqet për dhuratën?

This sentence translates into English roughly as "Did you thank your friends for the gift?" Now then, let's deconstruct it.

A i falenderove shoqet për dhuratën?

The "A" at the beginning of a sentence indicates that the sentence is an inquiry. This is one of the two easy parts of this sentence.

A i falenderove shoqet për dhuratën?

The "i" in this sentence is an example of something called a clitic. A clitic precedes a verb and serves as its direct object. Specifically, this "i" tells you that the direct object of the verb is the third-person plural- a.k.a. "they/them." (I won't expand on this thought too much, but really, think about it for a second. If you are a native english speaker, this is quite confusing and counter intuitive. ) Now we just need to figure out what is being done to they/them...

A i falenderove shoqet për dhuratën?

The verb "falenderoj" means "to thank." There are few things that slow down my mental processes in in Shqip as much as the verbs. The conjugation of "to thank" is not very difficult in English. I thank, you thank, he thanks, we thank, you thank, they thank. In shqip, the same progression goes like this: Unë falenderoj, ti falenderon, ai falenderon, ne falenderojmë, ju falenderoni, ata falenderojnë.

That series only applies for the present tense of the verb, though. Shqip also has the imperfect tense to indicate past habits or behaviors, the past tense to indicate an action that was done at a specific time in the past, the subjunctive tense to indicate a planned or future behavior, and an imperative to indicate commands. Nothing too crazy there, but the ending of the verbs change both depending on the tense and on who is acting out the verb. Shqip also has far too many irregular verbs that change the entire root of the word for the different tenses. Thankfully, falenderoj is not one of them. Anyway, in this case we are asking about a past behavior that happened one time, so the case is past tense.

So we get to conjugate it. Again, the English isn't too complicated. Did... I thank, you thank, he thank, we thank, you thank, they thank? Playing that song in Shqip, however sounds like this: A... falenderova, falenderove, falenderoi, falenderuam, falenderuat, falenderuan? Since this sentence is being addressed to the second person singular (you), we use "falenderove."

A i falenderove shoqet për dhuratën?

Do you remember the clitic "i"? If both parties in the conversation already knew who they were referring to, you could leave their title out of the sentence all together. You are talking about thanking "i", aka "them." In this case, though, that understanding is not assumed to be there, so we must explain who "they" are that are receiving the thanks.

In this case, they are "shoqet." The friends. The female friends, to be specific. It is in the nominative case (I think. Possibly accusative. I get confused when clitics get involved. More on cases later, though). Nouns can be singular or plural, indefinite or definite. "A friend" is "një shoqe." "The friend" is "shoqja." Some friends" are "disa shoqe," and "the friends" are "shoqet." Therefore, the "i" is referring to "the friends" or, shoqet.

The first four words must be taken together to produce the meaning. "A i falenderove shoqet?" Did (A) you thank (falenderove) the friends (i... shoqet)?

A i falenderove shoqet për dhuratën?

Për. It means "for." That was your second easy part.

A i falenderove shoqet për dhuratën?

Hold on! You're almost finished. Unfortunately, we must end with noun cases. Doesn't sound familiar? That's because english doesn't really have them. The ending of a noun in Shqip will change depending on its purpose in the sentence. A noun can be nominative, genitive, dative, accusative, or ablative.

"Dhurata" means "the gift." Not "a gift," mind you (that would be një dhuratë), but "the gift." Depending on its purpose in the sentence (is it the subject? Does it show possession? Is it the indirect object of the verb? Is it the direct object of the verb? Does it indicate location?), its ending will change. Dhurata can also be "e dhuratës" or "dhuratës" or "dhuratën." And that's just for definite singular. You get completely new endings with definite plural! Not to mention all the indefinites. In this case, it is accusative and definite singular. It is the one thing that you gave thanks for. Therefore, it becomes "dhuratën."
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(It's safe again! Start reading here!)

So there you have it. That is a small taste of why my brain hurts at the end of the day. I wasn't sure that I'd ever be able to properly convey this mental challenge to anyone until a couple weeks ago. That was when I happened to sit down to watch Monty Python's "The Life of Bryan." Leave it to the Brits to create a perfect representation of the internal dialogue that takes place in my brain before every sentence that I try to speak in Shqip. Centurions and all:

So I haven't figured out how to link the youtube videos directly on my page, so you get to click here.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Thankfully, things are gradually slowing down in my mind. It reminds me of my first driving lessons, when something as simple as looking in the side view mirror and turning on a blinker and moving over into the next lane seemed like the most overwhelming demand someone could make of me. It slowed down and eventually became second nature. I am holding out hope that the same will happen here-- provided, of course, that I continue studying and don't expect that time to come tomorrow. I just need to learn to find my feet in my current state of limbo and to not forget to appreciate what I've earned when things do eventually start coming together. You know, Hail Caesar and everything.

Gezuar

Whenever entering a new phase of life, I find it very interesting to observe the development of the patterns, relationships, and habits that will come to hold lasting places in my memory. I always go in expecting it to be the big things-- the campus of a university, the commutes, the apartment, the office in a new job, etc-- that will define the times, but that rarely is the case. Important though they are, the big things-- the settings, if you will-- often lack the subtleties of character that leave room for the personal touches that allow you to find your own place in the picture. That is usually reserved for much smaller things that you have to find along the way.

With that in mind, I got to thinking about the things that have defined my first three months in Albania. If I got on a plane tomorrow and returned home, what would come to mind when people asked me to talk about this place? There are several things that I immediately think of, most of which I have already touched on in previous posts: Germeli's, furgon rides, language classes, hiking, suflaqe, ice cream (I brought not one, but TWO ice-cream related shirts to Albania with the expectation that the dairy delight wouldn't be nearly as popular over here. I was very happily wrong about that one. As it turns out, I should have brought peanut-butter shirts), dusty roads, and the ever-present dance music to name a few.

One that hasn't gotten proper recognition in my blog, though, was dinner with my host family. Fortunately, it turns out that I have a picture that almost perfectly embodies my memories for this:



The table looks like it did most every night. A bowl of soup and a bowl of pasta for each person, two pieces of bread, and a basket of fruit to end the meal. The table is in its proper place along the kitchen wall and everybody is in their usual seats (except Taulant, who was taking this fine picture). The best part about it though, in my mind, is the raising of the glasses.

I rarely talked during dinner, partly due to the language barrier and partly due to the fact that it took every ounce of my concentration to eat half as fast as the rest of the family, but I never felt uncomfortable at the table. A big part of the reason why has to do with the simple action that you see here. At the beginning of every meal (no, really. Every single dinner for ten weeks), before I took a bite to eat, I would pour my drink and my host father would pour his and we would get things started with the traditional Albanian toast, "Gezuar!"

It makes me smile even now to think about it. If you asked me at the end of my first day in that home (other lifetime ago that it now seems) to identify one thing that would become a part of my lasting memories with this new family, the toast would not have been my guess. I suppose that's what keeps life interesting. And beautiful. And to that, I say, "gezuar."

Cheese heads

The transition from life in pre-service training to life as a volunteer was very abrupt. For ten weeks, we were told where we were supposed to go, when we were supposed to go there, and how we would get there. Whenever we traveled outside of our sites or Elbasan, Peace Corps staff members were always there to make sure that we were getting on the right buses and that we would know what to do whenever we arrived at our destinations. Even at home, our responsibilities were very limited. Our host families made us breakfast and dinner every day, and, for some of us, cleaned our rooms and did our laundry. It was a very busy time, but it was made much easier by the fact that we had few requirements outside of studying the language and learning more about the country that will be our home for the next two years.

That life effectively ended the moment that we took our oaths as Peace Corps volunteers. The Peace Corps certainly looks out for our well being after training, but they take a much more hands off approach. After weeks of having our hands held during every step, it was oddly stressful to suddenly find myself in complete control of my actions. I knew that I had to get to Pogradec, but nobody was going to tell me how or when. When I arrived at site, nobody was there to direct me to my apartment or talk to my landlord or help me find the odds and ends that I needed to settle into my new home.

Soon enough, though, I remembered why I enjoyed independence so much and set about getting my life in Pogradec into some semblance of order. This began on the first afternoon with the small, but ever-important task of moving furniture around into an arrangement that I would be happy with. Then I sat down on my bed, envisioned how I wanted my apartment to look, and began making the list of all the things that I had to do and to buy in order to make that vision happen.

The next day, I took that list and met Stacy (who had put together her own for her apartment) for our first of several trips to the bazar to do some shopping. We had not even made it the entire way to the market when a girl in front of us turned around and asked us if we were from America. This question is not uncommon in Albania (or any other foreign country, I'd imagine), but you never know what the follow up question or statement to your answer will be. Most people want to know why you are here. Many have family in America and want to know if you lived in their state. Others just like Americans. I certainly never expected, however, to hear the response that we got from this girl.

"No way! I'm from Wisconsin!"

Alda, our new friend from Wisconsin, was born in Pogradec and lived there for the first ten or so years of her life. In 1999, though, her family moved to Wisconsin and began a life in America. As it turned out, she had returned briefly to Pogradec to get married to a guy from Albania. So, as you would expect to happen anywhere, she ended our three minute conversation by inviting us to her wedding.

Ok, so maybe not anywhere. But it does happen in Albania and I am a big fan. The wedding was this last Wednesday at a reception hall in Pogradec. Weddings in Albania are very different than weddings in the states. There usually is a small ceremony at a church or mosque (or simply the civil court), but the real meat of the celebration, and the things that most of the people go to, are the huge parties that they hold with their families. The bride and the groom both have their own parties for their own friends and families. We, obviously, attended the day of the bride. In the beginning, the only people at the celebration are the friends and family of the bride. The bride sits at a seat of honor in the middle of the room and is flanked on either side by long tables that seat her immediate family. Other family and friends sit at tables around the room, much in the way that they would at a reception in the states.

About half way through the day, the groom and his immediate family arrive to join the celebration. The groom sits with the bride and the family that he brought sits across the long tables from the close family of the bride. Toasts are given, pleasantries are exchanged, and then everyone gets back to the business of the day-- namely, eating and dancing. And dancing. Aaaand dancing.











The vast majority of the dancing that happens at traditional ceremonies in Albania happens in the form of a circle. To be precise, it happens in a line that moves in a circular motion around the dance floor. There is always a defined leader of the dance, who directs the steps and usually brandishes a scarf in their free hand. The basic steps are easy to learn and very repetitive, but the dance remains entertaining for a long period of time. Whenever you get tired of dancing, you simply return to your table and to the new plate of food that that was probably served while you were up. This goes on for hours. It is loud, hot, slightly chaotic, and loads of fun.

After the wedding, we took some pictures with the bride and her brother-- who currently is a student at the University of Wisconsin. We met up with him a couple other times during the days after the wedding to talk about peace corps and college and the wedding and america and albania and all those other fun topics that come up when you run into familiar strangers so far from home.

So gone are the days of structure and order that we had in training. It is intimidating in some ways. It is up to each of us now to make the next two years as productive-- or not-- as we want them to be. I want to do this well, and suddenly I find that I am putting undue pressure on myself to not to take any missteps (which really is just a part of life you must accept while living in a foreign country). But this reality also opens the door to the chance encounters and improvised adventures that offer so much of romantic appeal to experiences like this. Because you just never know when you'll turn a corner and run into someone from Wisconsin.

The Sacred Arts

It is my belief that deep within the recesses of every man's heart is a secret longing to know what he looks like with a mustache. From time to time, a generation of men will step out from the shadows and embrace this longing (see: 19th century Bavarian military officers and 60's/70's southern rock bands), but far too often it is ignored or-- even worse-- ridiculed into a sad and silent submission. It never completely dies, though. Hard though some may try to kill it, the longing simply retreats and waits patiently for a spark of inspiration to set it free.

For the men of Peace Corps Albania Group 13, that spark came during our pre-service training in the form of a whimsical conversation between some of the volunteers in the village of Librazhd. According to legend, the conversation was drifting into the subject of facial hair when one of the girls simply stated, "You're in Albania. What does it matter? You should all grow mustaches." The logic was sound, the timing was right, and the spark was ignited. By the next day, nearly every one of the 16 (or so. Can't remember the exact number) male volunteers in our group had agreed to grow a mustache for our swearing-in ceremony at the end of PST.

As the weeks past, some of our proud soldiers fell victim to the whims of social convention and renounced their vows, but several of us remained committed to the cause until the bitter end. Some guys began their mustache journey well over a month before the swearing in ceremony. Others waited until only one or two nights before. I was somewhere in the middle- I made the transition from beard to mustache about two weeks before our ceremony.

I never appreciated just how important the supporting cast is for the success or failure of a mustache. I have made many jokes in my day about the questionable character of any man who sports the lip-curtain. For example:



in said get-up, I probably fit the profile of a wanted criminal in no fewer than 27 cities in America. On the other hand, there are many natural, peaceful companions of the mustache. Plaid shirts and cordoroy jackets were my tools of choice. And the aviator sunglasses, of course.



And just like that, all of your suspicion evaporates. Well, most of it, at least. Thanks, plaid shirt!

And with that, I think that I just wrote about 500 words too many about mustaches. Apologies if you were expecting, you know, news. In brief, this was my first week in Pogradec. Everything has been going well- I'm getting settled into my apartment, getting to know some of the locals, and, after a few days of waiting, finally got a desk to call my own at the bashkia. I'll be sure to devote a little more time to all that and more next week. Until then, just go back and admire that mustache at the top of this post again. You know you like it.