Winter is coming...

Not long ago, I went back and looked at some of the pictures that I and other volunteers had taken during our first weeks in Albania. When we arrived in March (a nearly unbelievable 6 months ago, now), the Albania that was waiting to greet us was just beginning to wake up from its winter slumber. The weather was bright and sunny for our first few weeks, but the trees were still bare and the grass was caught somewhere in the transition from a tired tan to a fresh spring green.

In many ways, it was a stark and drab landscape. I know that I shouldn't find anything odd about such scenes in the early spring, but I was surprised by how great the difference was between the Albania that I saw in those pictures and the Albania that I have since constructed in my mind. A lush spring arrived a few short weeks after we did and the world that I have since known here has been leafy and green. Logic and reason aside, a small part of me had been lulled into thinking that this would never change.

This feeling is especially pronounced for me in Pogradec. Whether I choose to acknowledge it or not, I know that I have seen Elbasan and Bishqem in their winterish garbs. Pogradec, however, is a city that I have only seen wearing its summer's best. Furthermore, this is a city that comes alive in the summer. The beaches around the lake were covered with the best of the balkans-- the tanned, the burned, and the speedo-bound. Restaurants and cafes stayed open late and were almost always full. The xhiro (/ the promenade/the road that everyone takes their evening walks on) was unbelievably crowded for hours every night with strolling families and groups of friends. In the office, my coworkers would randomly disappear for month long vacations. All those things, combined with the occasionally inescapable heat, made the feeling of summer as palpable for me in Pogradec as it ever has been in my life.

In amongst this resortish wonderland, however, there were a few gentle reminders that life wasn't going to continue this way forever. One, for example, hangs behind my desk in the bashkia.

What's that you say, boy? Not a big fan of Raki? HEH. Let's hear you sing that tune in January.

The other came in the form of the long sought after answer to my question, "If all the buildings here are built with cement, cinder block, and rebar, why are are there so few trees to be found?" Answer: firewood, dummy. Before now, the idea of firewood in my mind was synonymous with the cute stacks of logs that you see in front of your local grocery store in November (Impress all your friends with your fashionable outdoor campfire ring!). Not so in Albania. Here, firewood is an industrial scale business. The wood stove remains the most common source of heat for houses in this part of Albania and August, I learned, is the month that most people begin to buy their fuel for the upcoming winter. The soundtrack of summer-- the splash of water, the dance music drifting out of all the cafes, the laughter of kids at the beach-- played a strange duet with the harsh whine of chainsaws, the crack of axes, and the rhythmic stacking of woodpiles.

Mine was obviously the ignorance of a greenhorn. Even as August reached its pushim-y (vacation-y, with equally horrific grammar) climax, I received repeated warnings from everyone that I know in Pogradec that summer was quickly approaching its end. September, they told me, would bring cool weather and the departure of the tourists and the summer residents that filled our happy and lively city.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I doubted them, but I thought that the transition between the seasons would be more gradual than most people tended to imply. My expectations seemed accurate as August drew to a close. On the final weekend of the month, several other volunteers visited Pogradec and a group of us spent our Saturday morning hiking out to a small church and a series of waterfalls that is located a short distance outside of town. It was a beautiful day, but it was an intensely hot day as well. By the time we reached our destination (via a route that included an unexpected and extensive trailblazing session down a steep, scrub covered mountainside), I felt downright grungy and wanted nothing more than to jump into a giant pool of cool water.

And that basically sums up that hike.

In a great stroke of luck, it just so happens that our town has one of those on hand. When we returned from our expedition, it took every ounce of my self discipline and resolve not to run straight to the lake and jump in-- hiking gear and all. Thankfully, it doesn't take too much time to change into swimsuits and our group quickly reconvened to take two proud paddle boats out onto the high seas of Lake Ohrid. My exit from our boat into the water followed shortly thereafter.

Had I not been so blissfully enraptured by the embrace of the cool, clear water, I might have payed closer attention to the northerly breeze that was beginning to blow across the lake. I also might have noticed that the towels and umbrellas weren't forming their typical continuous carpets and canopies across the beach. Like the doomed protagonist in your favorite after school specials, though, I simply dug my hands deeper into the pockets of my neon-green windbreaker and struck up a happy whistling tune, oblivious of the fact that the street light was out and that a group of mustachioed men in trench coats waited forebodingly on the corner.

Oh, hey there fellas! Lovely-dovely night out, isn't it? You want some change for the bus? Sure thing! Let me check my fanny-pack.

The distant rumble of thunder crescendod into a deafening roar that night when we decided to head out to one of Pogradec's beachfront discos to drink overpriced beers and teach our Albanian friends a thing or two about the fine art of anglo-american club dancing (The grass doesn't cut itself, after all... somebody needs to start the lawnmower). Per usual, we could hear the music pounding out of the club from afar as we made our way down the xhiro. Upon entering, however, it was quite apparent that something had changed. A week or two before, we would have been blazing our second trail of the day, this time through a tight crowd in search of a rare empty table. That night, however, our group of six effectively doubled the population of the room. A few more stragglers would join in later and push the headcount up into the high-thin air of the 20s, but at one o'clock-- just as our dance party was coming into its own-- the lights came up, the music went down, and we were ushered back out onto the street and into the slightly scratchy sweatervest of fall.

It may seem like I'm being overly dramatic, but the change really was that sudden. The next day, the cool northerly breeze turned into a chilly northerly wind and blew the remaining beach-goers right out of town. During my nighttime walks that week, I would find that the warm electric glow of the cafes that had escorted me home all summer had been replaced by closed doors and dark windows.

Fall is a happy time of year and I usually find myself looking forward to its sweatshirts and ciders and the never-ending football on the TV (oh wait). The speed with which it came upon us simply took me off guard this time around. I sometimes feel like I have been living in a completely different town for these last few weeks. While many cities in this country are getting back to full speed with the return of students and families and employees, Pogradec is slowly sweeping the floors and softly chuckling to itself as it remembers some choice scenes from its party the night before. Like all great hosts, it knows that those friends will be back for more someday. Now, however, it just needs to see its way through a quiet afternoon... and a little bit of cold weather that follows close behind.