Gjithmone ka vend per nje birre

I think you're onto something there, Mr. Franklin.

A couple Fridays ago, I made the short trip south to Korce, Albania to join several other peace corp volunteers at the 2010 Korce Festa e Birres. Festa e Birres is a four day summer beer festival that the City of Korce began three years ago. Though young, it is already enjoying great popularity (possible proof that there is, in fact, an easy road to success. It is paved with cheap beer, live music, and large quantities of grilled meat). It was a very fun night, despite my discovery that I am an absolutely terrible flip-cup player.

I like to think I was a big part of their success. Unfortunately, I played for the other guys.

I only attended the festival on Friday night, but on Saturday night they fired up the grills, cranked up the speakers, and set the beer to flowing for yet another night of fun. There was probably not a single person in attendance that night that was aware of this fact, but at that moment they were not the only ones who were celebrating the frosty beverage. Some five thousand mile away in Elmwood Park in Roanoke, Virginia, the Roanoke Microfestivus 2010 was in full swing under the summer sun.

It seems somewhat inappropriate to get too philosophical about beer (I think that Ben Franklin's supposed "proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy" takes care of that department), but the choice timing of the festivals themselves did inspire a moment of reflection for me.

To understand why, I suppose that you need to understand a little bit about my history. I was born and raised in Austin, Texas. Austin, as you have probably heard or experienced, is a great city. It combines the eclectic energy of a college town, the passion and idealism of a political hub, the wide and open atmosphere of a booming young southern city, and the friendly-but-confident attitude of Texas into a dish that many people find irresistibly attractive.

That said, I never found my place in Austin. As much as I love visiting it now, the feeling of "home" (beyond the walls of my family's house, at least) has always eluded me there. This was apparent to me even when I was in high school and, as a result, I decided to stretch my wings and explore new worlds when it came time to go to college. I landed in Blacksburg, Virginia and there, in the mountains of Virginia, I finally found a place that felt right.

When I graduated from Virginia Tech I decided that I want to try to stay in the area, despite the fact that it doesn't offer the widest selection of jobs. My methods were hardly prudent, but the pieces came together and I eventually found myself working for a regional planning commission in Roanoke, Virginia, just a short drive up the road from Blacksburg.

The next two years were, in many ways, my favorite two years of life thus far. I had great friends, my sister was living nearby in D.C., and I had a very enjoyable job. Roanoke, despite lacking the flashy appeal that draws people to places like Austin (If I had a nickle for every "You're from Austin? And you want to live in Roanoke?" that I got during those two years... dollars. I'd have at least one) suited me perfectly. It has some beautiful old neighborhoods, great restaurants, good bars, and a surprisingly lively downtown. Traffic isn't bad, the cost of living is cheap, and the weather is great. Best of all, you can trade all the conveniences of a city for a back road in the mountains mere minutes after you walk out your front door.

I could hardly have been happier there. The natural next step would have involved me buying a house, a dog, and a grill and settling down like a proper red-blooded American. My strategy ended up being slightly different, however: I quit my job, packed up my belongings, and moved half way around the world.

The fact that I made the latter choice is slightly unsettling to me at times. On the one hand, this is undoubtedly a once in a lifetime opportunity and has thus far been an incredible experience. I am meeting people and seeing places that I probably never would have come across apart from the peace corps. I feel like I am learning about myself and life at a mind-numbing speed.

Those were all the reasons that attracted me to the peace corps in the first place. There is another side of me, however, that craves familiarity and stability. When I first began to seriously consider joining the peace corps, I was an idealistic college student who thought that taking an 8-5 desk job was the functional equivalent of giving in to THE MAN. Familiarity and stability were four letter words to me then.

During those two years in Roanoke, however, I began to realize that maybe the man wasn't such a scary fellow after all. The settler that lives inside me started to quietly work his way up the chain of command until he reached a very prominent place my mind. He is still there but, needless to say, he is feeling a little neglected these days.

His Royal Poutyness is easy enough to ignore most of the time, but there are moments when he pops up with a triumphant, "Ha ha! I told you this was a crazy idea! But nooo, you didn't listen to me and now..." and so on. One such time was when I started to hear my friends in Virginia talk about Microfestivus '10.

It isn't so much the beer that holds a special place in my heart-- tasty though some of it is-- as it was the things that the festival brought together last year. It's great friends and the city and Macado's sandwiches and summer days and dancing and our old house on Maiden Lane and Thelma's Chicken and Waffles. It is the life that I left behind to come over here and the life that I won't get to see again for at least two more years.

Microfestivus '09. Just in case you ever wondered what was going on in the rest of that picture.

You don't replace something like that. I have no desire to, at that. Should I dwell on its loss, however, I am in danger of missing out on the different-but-equally-incredible people, places and opportunities that I am going to have find while I'm in Albania. Finding the balance with appreciating where I was while also embracing where I am has been a difficult hurdle for me to pass. How do I let go of the past without also losing those things that I loved about it?

There are no easy answers that I've been able to find, but occasionally life has a way of providing encouragement. When I learned that the Korce Beer Festival and the Roanoke Beer Festival would be going on simultaneously, there was the gentle nudge and a smile.

For me, it was a reminder to keep my head up and my eyes down the road. I lost something when I signed up to live so far from home for two years, but I gained something at the same time. I moved away from great friends, but I gained some new friends. I don't have Macado's here, but I do have and endless supply of byrek. My chicken is kernacka and my waffles are petule. My dances happen in a circle. And my beer festivals are now in Korce.

The day that I come home will undoubtedly be a great one, but I'd say that I have a lot to look forward to before then as well.