Albania 10: On to Vlores

[NOTE: This blog/diary of Mykel's Italian-Albanian trip starts several entries before this one. Due to the oddities of Blogging, the entries appear in reverse order. As much of the reportage is base on the previous days, I recommend reading from the start, at the entry ALBANIA 1.]

Travel, like life, is searching for those few drops of honey in a pool of vomit. --Mykel Board

 ALBANIA 10 Coldsore day 7 (no signs of letting up, I'm resigned to this being a permanent part of my face)

I sit in Vlora, on a bench on the beach, barely able to see the screen in the bright sunlight. The stink of garbage fills the air around me. In front of me, between the bench I sit on and the ocean, a small bulldozer pushes around the plastic debris-- not scattered on the beach, but covering it.

It's 9:30 in the morning. I had planned to go to the southern seaside town of Saranda, but the last bus left much earlier. (Than 9???) My plans change. That's what happens when you travel-- when you live.

From here I'll go about ½ way-- to Himara-- an old city (like all in Albania-- millennia old, pre-Roman-- occupied continually, city built on the ruins of older cities. It's impossible for architects, except when excavating for a new building, then WHOA, look at that! I didn't know those people lived here. In one southern city, they found a floor mosaic with a shofar and menorah depicted in the tiles. It took them forever to figure out what that was.

Not having to worry about being challenged by Africans who think I took their picture (see the Bari-Durres entry), I take lots of pictures. No one seems to mind. You'll see some of them here.

The plans are this: I go back to the hotel at 11. Then eat lunch. Then take a taxi to the bus station (5€, they say... ten minute ride). Then take a bus to Himara. We'll see. [By the time I finish writing this, I already know... I never make it to Himara.]

I haven't eaten breakfast and probably won't. Albanians never eat. There are dozens of coffee shops around town. Some quaint, old style, some very modern and too-brightly lit, some with fast food signs over them and plastic tables and chairs. Usually, they are nearly empty, one or two tables full. A few hours a day, they are packed. People at every table. In the morning, everyone has a small cup of coffee in front of him. (I rarely see women at these places.) In the afternoon and evening, people have glasses of beer... along with cups of coffee. There is no food. No plates. No one eating, or showing signs of ever having eaten. You'd think a place that says Fast Food would have food! But maybe it's different in Albania.

FLASH BACK: Last night, I ate at a Pizza restaurant. It was a nice place. Lots of wood, tables on the street, on a terrace in front, and inside. I ate on the terrace. I had an entire pizza. No one else was eating. I spoke with the owner in what little Albanian I know. Like everybody here, he expected I was Italian, and knew Italian.

[Note: The Albanians divide the world into two parts: Albania and Italy. If you don't speak Albanian, you speak Italian. If you are not Albanian, you are Italian. America? That's somewhere near Sicily, right?]

As far as I can understand, the pizza owner is from Macedonia where he was an electronics engineer. He couldn't find work, so he came to Vlora and opened a pizza parlor. He makes his own Tabasco sauce. He lets me try it on my pizza. Not super spicy, but not bad. Certainly the best Tabasco I've had in Albania.

After the meal, the owner gives me a free glass of Amaretto. He says it will help me digest the pizza. Musa Osmani, his name is. I tell him une quham Mykel. We shake hands. I make notes in a tiny notebook I always carry. I figure I'll email the guidebook company with tips and maybe score a free book in the future. At least I'll get a thank you in the back of the book. I love seeing my name in print.

I go back to the hotel, looking in the windows of the crowded bars, cafés and restaurants along the main street. No one is eating.

FLASH FURTHER BACK: Before the restaurant, I went to one of the few museums so far on this trip. An ethnographic museum housed in the house where the Albanian independence movement was born. The museum is a second choice. First, I go to the Historical Museum, but it's undergoing renovations and temporarily closed. My guidebook says the ethnographic museum is close, so I look for it. It's not where the map says it is.

Unlike others of my gender, I'm brave enough to ask for directions when I need them. People stand, point, gesture right and left. I walk in ever increasing circles, trying to follow the general directions that I didn't understand. I see a sign by an open courtyard. It says something in Albanian and House of Laberia in English. I figure that must be the place... identified only by it's revolutionary history.

I enter the courtyard. It doesn't look very promising. There is a shredded Albanian flag hanging in front of a shack, and what looks like slum housing behind it.

There are no people anywhere.

I walk out of the courtyard, and ask a truck driver.

Museo ershte ku?

He points into the courtyard.

Nuk koptoj. (I don't understand.) I tell him.

He walks to the gate and points to a little white house, around the corner of the slum building. I walk up to the door. An old woman, wearing a babushka, is picking up leaves in the garden.

Museo? I ask.

She motions for me to follow her. We walk through another courtyard, this one with a bunch of what look like headstones, scattered under an olive tree (with olives!). Suddenly she yells something. Not at me, but at the closed door to the house. Nothing happens. She yells again, then turns to me gesturing with her thumb to her ear, pinkie to her lips.

Telefoni, she says, looking toward an upper window.

After one more yell, the door opens. A young woman, answers, first with an annoyed look, then with a sudden brightness.

The old woman says something to her that I don't understand.

“Italiano?” she asks me.

“No,” I say in English, “American.”

[Note on Albanian: Po is yes. Yois no. For some reason, it's really hard to keep this in mind. Linguistic habit returns me to YES and NO. People seem to understand.]

“Ju flisni Anglisht? I ask.

“Yes,” she says, “a little.”

Then someone else shows up. An older man with a pot belly. (Albanian men age into the same shape as their American counterparts.) He looks at me.

“Italiano?” he asks.

The young woman nods her disagreement.

“American,” she says.

The guy speaks to me in Italian anyway. The girl translates. We take a tour of the museum. I'm the only person there. I get the whole treatment. The men's room where men of the house used to live. Their clothes, their weapons, their pottery. Then we go across the hall to the women's room.

The women lived together here. No men were allowed. No men in the women's room and no women in the men's room. When the women made tea for the men, they would bring it to the door and the men would step into the hall to receive it.

I asked if single and married women lived in this house. My personal set of guides assured me they did. They showed me a cradle in the women's room to explain that there were children here as well.

I did not ask the obvious, afraid it might cause some embarrassment. I never did find out, though. If all the men lived in one room and the women in the other, where did the babies come from?

Downstairs is the Albanian patriots' room. There's a wall of heroes-- one of whom looks a fuck of a lot like GW Bush. (Unfortunately, the likeness is lost in my photo of the photos. Can you guess which one it is?)

After I get the patriot spiel, the young woman takes my picture next to the double-headed eagle, symbol of Albania.

At the end of the tour, I ask the older guy if he's the owner of the museum. He laughs and says something in Albanian. The woman translates.

“No, this is not private,” she says. “We are workers... for the government. We get paid by the city. We don't own, we just work.”

FLASH EVEN FURTHER BACK: Before the museum, I take a walking tour of the town. By the beach I find the best bar name I've found in a long time. People often name bars after famous people. It draws in fans... but how far can you go?

  You guessed it: the Jesus Christ Bar (and Fish Restaurant). Yowsah!

Unfortunately, the bar was closed. I wonder if it was a wine bar. In any case, it looked pretty derelict.. but then again, so did he.

After the bar, I walk toward to center of town. I find what looks like a flea market, on a small side street off the main drag. Off that street is a network of alleyways, all of which sell stuff. Bananas, some strange-looking fresh-picked herbs, cellphone covers, bootleg DVDs, you name it. I pull out my little notebook and write down the location of the street. I'll send it to the guidebook.

I walk a little deeper into the sidestreet. There's a guy about 40, with a thick mustache and close-cropped hair. He blocks my path. Because we speak a mixture of Albanian, English, Italian, and sign language I can't exactly write down what was said. But here is something close:

“Are you Italian?” he asks.

“American,” I say.

“You were writing,” he says. “In a book... What were you writing? Were you writing about us?”

I notice he has three friends with him. They surround me, preventing my going in any direction.

“What were you writing?” he says.

  I reach to show him the notebook.

[Note: The trouble with travel blogs is so much new happens between one paragraph and the next, that you can never catch up. If my fears are correct, this may be my last entry... ever. If I'm over-reacting, another entry will appear in the relatively near future.]

Albanian 9: A quickie

[NOTE: This blog/diary of Mykel's Italian-Albanian trip starts several entries before this one. Due to the oddities of Blogging, the entries appear in reverse order. As much of the reportage is base on the previous days, I recommend reading from the start, at the entry ALBANIA 1.]

Do the best with what you have. If you have a lemon, squeeze it in the eyes of your worst enemy. --Mykel Board

DURRES (Coldsore day 7) or A Short Depressing One

So I decided I was gonna try once more to contact Andi, the guy in Tirana. I left Facebook messages. Tried to call so many times I'm like the guy who doesn't get the hint when the girl doesn't call back, even though she has your cellphone number and must know you called.

If I don't get him, I'll stay in Durres one more day, then fuck it and go south to some resort town. Enjoy the sand and the sea a bit, then go to Tirana for a short visit before going back to Italy and home.

I didn't bring a bathing suit. This is October, for God's sake. How was I to know?

Maybe I'll buy one today. First I look for a post office... takes awhile, but I find one. It's closed. Today is Sunday.

Then I look for an Internet café to upload yesterday's adventures. The first one won't allow me to plug in my own computer, so I just take care of wishing Elena a happy 50^th.

I feel really tired, so I go back to the hotel. I checked in another night, figuring I'll go to Vlores early tomorrow. I must be depressed, because I just feel tired and not wanting to do anything. I should be over my jet lag by now, but the lousy events take their toll. Especially my two “friends” in the country, one of whom is avoiding my calls, and the other of whom is a mercenary doctor who wants a big car.

I sleep for a couple hours and awake unrefreshed. I go for a souvlaki lunch. Then to a bar, in the famous Durres tower. I have a cup of coffee and write some more.

After finishing at the coffeebar, I try another internet place. This one lets me upload my whole blog. (That was TWO DAYS AGO.) Then I look for a place to get a bathing suit. Then it starts raining.

Back to the hotel. Another unrefreshing sleep. And it's now 8PM. Yeah, I try calling Andi again, without luck. Out my window, I can see flashes of lightning, but it doesn't sound like it's raining anymore. It will be tomorrow, or something even more horrible I have no idea about right now. Tsunami? A busload of American tourists?

I have a final drink at a night-clubbish place, with loud music, a view of the ocean, and tables mostly filled with all guys or all gals. I order a Tirana, but they don't have one. Becks, Corona or Heineken. This is a hoity toidy place. Imported beer only. I order a Becks.

It's stopped raining. Maybe the beach will be all right tomorrow.

I sit by myself and scribble in my little notebook. I figure people will think I'm an exotic writer and come over and ask what I'm doing. I figure wrong.

When I leave, I take a final walk in this town. On my way back, some guys wave to me. Over 40s, rare in this town of twenty-somethings and old men.

“Po? (Yes?)” I say.

“Deutsch?” shouts the guy who waved.

“American,” I shout back.

They wave me away. “Aber ich spreche Deutsche.”

They call me over. One of them also speaks German. He asks me where I'm staying and where I'm going in Albania. I tell him that I'm going to Vlora, feeling sorry that just as I'm leaving, I'm making a new friend.

“I'm taking the bus tomorrow,” I tell him.

“Why are you taking the bus?” he asks in German. “You should take a taxi. I drive a taxi. It's cheap. Just 70 Euros.”

Jee-zus! I can't get away from this money stuff. Fuck! Well, a day at the beach near Vlora should help things tomorrow. Then it starts to rain again.

-end-

go to Mykelboard.com

Albania 8: You'll Never Drink Alone

[NOTE: This blog/diary of Mykel's Italian-Albanian trip starts several entries before this one. Due to the oddities of Blogging, the entries appear in reverse order. As much of the reportage is built on the previous day's, I recommend reading from the start, at the entry ALBANIA 1.]

Give a man a drink, and in an hour he'll be thirsty again. Teach a man how to scam free drinks, and he'll never be thirsty again. --Mykel Board

BARI--> DURRES (Coldsore day 6) or A Guide to Durres

So when last we left me, I was drinking alone in the bar on the ferry from Bari, Italy to Durres, Albania. I finish my beer, depressed after expecting to be invited into an inner circle and then worshiped for being an American. I wasn't.

So I walk out on deck to look at the sea, the harbor, the shrinking of Bari. I have two contacts in Albania. Both in Tirana, I think. Two phone numbers between me and $1500 (at least) in hotel charges.

On the deck, I stand by myself looking at the harbor. A few clusters of people, all Albanian, all men, stand outside.

In the corner is a drunk. A bald guy in his late sixties, skinny as a famine posterboy. He half-sits half lies on a seat, singing at the top of his lungs. There are a few people around him. I hear a shout in something like Italian. There's laughter. As always in a foreign language, I think they're laughing at me. Must be my coldsore... or my GG Allin t-shirt... or my army boots.

Probably, it has nothing to do with me. It's just my paranoia and general depression.

Early in the morning (the boat leaves at 11PM and arrives and 7AM), I return to the deck to watch the ship approach Albania. The drunk is (still?) there. He's surrounded by his little fanclub. They motion for me to come over.

“Italiano,” says the drunk as I approach.

“American,” I say.

They all laugh, welcoming me into their little group. Somehow, they make it understood they thought I was Italian and were making fun of me. They don't like Italians very much. I tell them, neither do I.

They laugh again.

Hmmm, these Albanians are not so bad after all.

I arrive at the port after about 5 hours sleep. I have my two Albanian contacts: Denis and Andi-- not exactly Albanian names, but do I know? At least I have phone numbers.

I'm still jet-lagged, and very tired.

Customs and immigration are as easy as in Italy, though I do have to run my bags through an x-ray machine. Once out of the port building, I see there is nothing. No services. No hotel booking agent, nothing.

It is at this point that I violate two lessons I learned in my 60 years of traveling.

LESSON ONE: Never change money with strangers... especially if you're new in the country and don't know the risks. I change about $40.

LESSON TWO: Never take a taxi from a driver that comes up to you at an air or seaport and offers his services... Especially, if he puts an arm around your shoulder and guides you away from the normal exit.

The taxi driver says he knows the hotels and will take me to a good one. Cheap. He drops me where I violate yet another lesson I've learned the hard way.

LESSON THREE: If a place has to call itself, Good, Wonderful, Tasty, it isn't. I never eat at Yummies, or go to The Wonderful Mall or stay at The Comfort Inn. Inevitably these places are awful. But the cabbie has dropped me off at the Hotel Nais. The receptionist is beautiful, and speaks great English.

“You look like Al Pachino,” she tells me.

Could I NOT stay there?

“Do you have Wifi Internet,” I ask. “And can I pay with a creditcard?”

Yes to both of them.

I'm so here! At 35€ a night.

Before I go to bed, I try to call Andi in Tirana. No luck, the phone just rings.

After that, I sleep well.

The next morning, I try calling Andi, again. No luck, again. I try Denis. He answers on the fifth ring.

“I'm in Durres,” I tell him.

It turns out he is too, and will be over in a few minutes. Ah, my luck is changing, I can feel it. He arrives in about a half hour.

A normal size guy, in his 20s. Broad shoulders, light beard, very masculine. We shake hands.

“Where shall we go?” he asks, in slightly formal school English.

I tell him that everything is new for me, so wherever he wants to go is fine. He takes me to the local sites, first the famous Durres tower, over 1000 years old, and more recently graffitied. Then we go to the acropolis and other ancient ruins.

During the walks, Denis talks cars.

“I used to have a Mercedes,” he says. “I had to get rid of it. It was always needing repairs. I will buy another car. My father has a BMW, S-class. You know S-class?”

I shake my head, then remember that Albanians, like Bulgarians, shake their head when they mean yes.

“No,” I say. “I'm from New York. We don't have cars in New York. We don't need them.”

“That's too bad,” he says. “I love cars. I love motorcycles too. Big expensive Japanese ones.”

He explains that he's a medical student in the Italian college here in Durres. He wants to work in the US when he gets his degree.

“But not in New York,” he says. It's too cold there in the winter. I want someplace like Durres. Los Angeles, I think.”

I tell him that Los Angeles isn't exactly like Durres. But they do like cars there. At least they have a lot of them.

“Is Dures a safe city?” I ask. “Can I walk around anywhere any time of day or night?”

“It's completely safe,” he says. “No problem. The worst than can happen is you'll be shot dead.”

I think he's kidding.

“No really,” he says. “I'm a doctor. I see it all. I was working in ER when this guy came in. I heard the story. It was at a bar. He was giving someone a hard time. Trying to you know... to his girlfriend.”

“Hit on her?” I suggested.

He shakes his head. “Yes, that's right,” he says. “And the owner of the bar throws him out. So he comes back with a gun and starts shooting. So the owner comes out with a shotgun and shoots him. Maybe 3 meters away. There was little left. Just blood and what you call those little pieces of metal?”

“Buckshot,” I say.

“Yeah, buckshot,” he says. “I saw him on the operating table. But we couldn't do anything. It was too late. He died.”

We stop at a mosque for a photo op.

At the mosque, a man in his 70s speaks to us. Thinning grey hair, a big square head, a bulbous mole has anchored itself over his top lip. He talks to Denis about the mosque. I can pick out words. Communist, drugs, alcohol.

He talks a mile a minute. Denis holds up his hand to ask him to wait while he translates.

“He's talking about the Communist times,” says Denis. “He says that when the Communists were here they turned this place into a disco. With dancing, and music and alcohol. All those things that Muslims shouldn't have. He says it was terrible.”

I nod.

The man continues his story. I try to get the gist of it, but doubt that I do. After he's finished, we shake hands all around and walk away from the mosque.

“Are you a Muslim?” Denis asks me.

“No,” I tell him, laughing, “I'm a Jew.”

“I hope you don't take this wrong,” he says, overly apologetic. “But we don't know Jews here. We think Jews only think about money. They're rich. Not like... like...” he gestures in my general direction.

I nod.

“And Mykel,” he continues, “I read about some of your... life... on the internet. I don't know. But I guess I'm safe. We won't know each other that well.”

I smile and shrug.

Then, Denis tells me his family lives in the countryside. “I have to go up there, maybe tomorrow, to kill a wolf. It's bothering the local farmers. Eating a chicken. You want to come with me?”

Here is this guy, I just met and he's inviting me to go wolf-hunting with him. He's already talked about taking me to Tirana tomorrow. Jjust amazing. I think I'm going to like this country. Instant friends, like Thailand or Brazil.

“Where are the strip clubs in town?” I ask.

He laughs. “There are no strip clubs in Albania,” he says. “My brother and I think about opening one. There's so much testosterone in this country. It would be good to have an outlet... and one that could bring in some cash.”

We pass an outdoor café. “That's where the... how you call them... work”

“Whores?” I suggest.

He nods, which I hope means yes.

“You shouldn't pay more than two thousand (about twenty dollars),” he says. “If they ask more, they're cheating you.”

I note the location of the café.

For lunch, we go to a great seafood restaurant, right at the harbor. I I order my first local beer, a Tirana.

We then order the fish dinner. Denis insists on inspecting the fish before it's cooked.

“Some of it is, how do you say, raised in a pool,” he says.

“We call that farmed fish,” I tell him.

“Yes,” he says, “farmed fish has no taste. I just want to make sure it's...”

“Wild,” I say, finishing the sentence for him.

The waiter brings us a plate of very fresh, very mean looking fish. The menu price for this stuff is expensive. Like $30 a plate.

“I have to be careful about costs,” I say. “I may be a Jew, but I don't have much money.”

“Don't worry,” he says.

Wow! Not only have I made a friend in three hours, he's buying me a $30 lunch. Why did I ever waste that time in Italy?

The fish arrives, and it's delicious. Maybe the best I've ever had. With real taste... NOT like chicken.

In the middle of the meal, Denis turns to me with a grave look.

“I hate to discuss this, but I guess we have have to...” he says.

I expect he's going to ask more about the Jews. I'm wrong.

“I need to confirm about my fees,” he says.

So, it seems, on the internet he offered his services as “a guide.” He used to work for a tourist agency and got 70€ a day. So, someone on Facebook told him I was looking for a guide. He offered to be that guide. I was speaking about an informal guide, a local friend. Not a paid safari-leader. His face drops.

After I explain the misunderstanding, he accepts it and apologizes... he even sticks with me for a couple more hours, taking me to the castle of KING ZOG, the notorious Albanian ruler kicked out by the Commies.

But my heart isn't in it. My heart is somewhere south of where it should be. Down near my bladder, maybe. This is so depressing. My new friend... yeah right.

I pay for everything for him... the entire day. It's the least I can do for the misunderstanding. It probably cost me $100. It cost a lot more in spirit.

He leaves me at the hotel, where, for the third time that day, I try to call the OTHER number in Tirana. This time, I try from my hotel room. This time I get through, but the connection is so bad, Andi can't hear me.

“I'll call you right back,” I tell him, and race downstairs to use the phone in the lobby.

Already using the phonelines is a Japanese woman with a creditcard problem. I spend another half hour, trying to impress the receptionist with my bad Japanese. What does she know? And it works well enough to get things straightened out. I finally call Andi back. No answer.

So I go out for dinner and a few drinks. I take a seat at a sidewalk table, but the owner is afraid I'll drive off business. He makes me eat alone, inside the restaurant. After that, I go to the café.

I drank alone there, too. There are no, how you call them...

The waitress, a very butch-looking woman in her 40s, asks, in English, if I want another drink.

“Dua te paguij (I want to pay),” I say. “E dua te flas shqip (and I want to speak Albanian).”

“Why?” she asks in English.

for more of Mykel, check out his website: www.mykelboard.com

Albania 7: True Karma

[NOTE: This blog/diary of Mykel's Italian-Albanian trip starts several entries before this one. Due to the oddities of Blogging, the entries appear in reverse order. As much of the reportage is built on the previous day's, I recommend reading from the start, at the entry ALBANIA 1.]

BARI (Coldsore day 4,5) or KARMA

  I arrive in Bari more nervous than usual. A bookclub pal of mine in New York told me of his adventures in this city.

  “I was mugged,” he said. “I was just walking down the street and these guys on a bicycle... They just passed me by and grabbed my bag. Pulled down hard. Hurt my shoulder, then took off. This guy... toothless... cudda been fifty, cudda been eighty, saw the whole thing. He laughed. That's what I remember most... him laughing like that at what happened.”

So on the train, I get out the steel security net I carry with me. Wrap everything in it, and slide it between the seats.

 Then I try to sleep. Last night I slept only two hours. It was Rome, and I fell asleep at one and woke up at three... and stayed up. That's when I blew the fuse.

 Today although I have a window seat, and no one is talking to me because of my coldsore, I still can't sleep on the train. Last night I slept well at the Bari Pensione.

 Right now I sit in a “restaurant” at the Bari port. I'm waiting for boarding on the ferry to Albania. I'm suddenly very tired, but I'll try to hold off sleeping until I get on the ship. I'm using my portable battery now as no restaurants in Italy have available sockets (and all Wifi connections are super encoded with passwords like: 557B2EO3AB3E86DF13C11A71D3).

Back to my arrival yesterday: When I get to Bari, I walk out of the train station to look for a hotel. Actually, I look for the hotel booking agent, like in every European train station, right? Yeah right. Oh well, I'll just get out and walk around. There should be a hotel close to the train station, right? My bags are in a wire cage... safe right? Yeah right.

My bags, in fact, are safe. But there are no hotels. It's about 7PM. Discouraged, I return to the train station. On the way back I spy a little booth with a big i on it. Yeah, says the helpful woman at the desk, they can find a place for less than 50€ a night. It's Pensione Apollaire, a short walk through a park.

It's on the second floor of an old building The proprietress and her daughter are waiting for me. The place is only slightly less apartment-looking than the Rome one.

The daughter is the English speaker. A cute girl, about 15, with high cheekbones and a long ponytail. She takes my passport, then looks at me.

“You're American,” she says, “It's like a dream.” (She'd be all over me if it weren't for this coldsore.)

The room is nice. Alcove, shower, wifi (with a huge code), toilet and bidet. I thought only the French had bidets! I remember Jack Keroac writing about them. Saying how he was sitting on the train, looking at all the people, thinking that among them HE had the clean asshole.

I go out for dinner, wind up at a kebob place. The put paprika-covered French fries on the kebob before they wrap pita around it. Not bad, but do I come to Italy for kebob?

Back at the pensione, I plug in my computer battery to recharge it. The plug falls out. I fix it. Again, it hangs there, not making a connection. The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy is wrong. It's not a towel you always need, it's DUCT TAPE. So I tape the plug to the wall socket and the wall around it. It holds, and I have the best night's sleep so far.

In the morning, I wake up at about 10 to 10. Barely figuring out the Italian notice on the wall, I see that checkout was at 9. I hurriedly pack up, take the taped plug from the wall... and taking a good chunk of wall with it. Damaged, paint and plaster. A big white mess.

QUESTION ONE:

Does Mykel:

1. Admit and pay for the damage

2. Not mention the damage and take his chances they won't notice it.

3. Complain about the damage and say they should take better care of their rooms if they're gonna charge so much money.
   

The answer will appear below, but those who think they know me can see how well by guessing right now.

I leave my luggage at the pensione and go out to take a tour of the city. I also want to get a different, snugger-fitting adaptor. While walking around I notice that nobody in the town looks over 25. I know it's a student town, but who teaches them? The shop-owners are normal ages, but everyone else?

I take out my camera and hold it hip high, snapping street pictures on the sly. Only a few capture any people at all. I want to show you what a typical street scene looks like. Then you'll see. I think I'll try the park. I went through it last night on the way to the Pensione. Seemed like a pretty friendly place, and I don't remember any adults.

This town is a ton more relaxed than Rome. I only hear Italian on the street. And while people are not especially friendly (Note: not ONCE in Italy has anyone offered to help when I was standing on the street with an open map.), they are not particularly hostile. If you ask directions, or for electric converters, they'll work until they get it... even if they don't speak a parola of English.

In the park, there is one older guy. African-looking, in a purple robe with a necklace of what looks like ebony. He's standing, talking to some local Africans, sitting on a bench. He looks like an important person. The people around him, wearing bright, but not African, colors lap up what he's saying.

He's not my quarry, though. I surreptitiously snap some picture of some younger-looking people. So you can see.

I walk further into the park. I cannot walk further into the park. One of the Africans, a stocky guy wearing a bright red Beneton shirt blocks my way.

“You took a picture,” he says.

“Sure,” I say, “but not of you guys.”

Suddenly I'm surrounded. No escape. “Show us,” says one.

QUESTION TWO:

Does Mykel:

1. Erase all the pictures in his camera, then hand the card to the Africans?

2. Shout for the police ... in English, at the top of his lungs.

3. Shrug, smile, and invite the crew to the nearest bar for a drink.
   

The answer will appear below, but those who think they know me can see how well by guessing right now.

[Starting here, I write this inside the ferry boat from Bari, Italy to Durres, Albania. I lay in the bottom bunk of a two bunk bed. Helen booked me this private room. Sockets with plugs that don't fall out. Full bathroom (shower, no tub), pretty good. I'm here about 2 hours before the ferry is scheduled to leave. I already took a tour of the boat. Restaurant, bar (showing Tom Hanks and THE GREEN MILE), a video room with 2 small TVs and a bunch of luxury theater-type seats in front of it. I hope they're not planning to show THE TITANIC.]

Back to the Africans: I'm surrounded. With a tight grip on my camera, I turn it over and run through the pictures one by one.

“Wait, go back,” says one guy looking over my shoulder.

I go back. No pictures of them. Then I run through the rest, up to the picture of the toilet and the bidet. No one laughs at it.

“See,” I say. “No pictures of you guys.” I start to walk off.

“You are not leaving,” says the first guy to stop me. It suddenly occurs to me that the guy in purple has disappeared. These are only the disciples. It also occurs to me that I'm in a shitload of trouble.

“POLICE!” I shout in English. “CALL THE POLICE! PLEASE, CALL THE POLICE! SOMEBODY CALL THE POLICE.”

People stop, look at this poor little whiteguy surrounded by Africans. Then they walk on. It's not as if they don't understand what POLICE means. It's just that they can't be bothered to fish out their cellphones and dial 911. Maybe they'll tell their friends after, over some red wine. Ah, Italy... let me count the way.

But my shouting does scare the Africans enough let me get out of there.

I walk. In a daze. In shock. Anywhere, just away. Toward the pier, I donno just someplace. They'll be looking for me. And then my mind starts working. They'll be scouting for me. Waiting all over the city until I show up. Next time they'll be prepared. Just hit and run. It's amazing they didn't hit last time.

At this moment, I see the foundations of racism. I look at every black face as THE ENEMY. After I pass one on the street I walk on, then quickly turn to see if s/he is on the cellphone. They all work together, I'm sure. They're scouting for me. A description passed through cellphone lines around the city. Racism doesn't come from your parents. It come from your life. Let one bad thing happen, and it's a whole race who did it. Not even a continent. Not even an individual, but a whole race.

I can't hide. I can take off my hat. I can put on a white shirt. (I'd have to buy one first.) But I can't hide THE COLD SORE. They'll find me. I go to a restaurant with outdoor tables, on a very busy street. No black people pass me. I eat something I can't pronounce and have two beers with it. Then I go back to the pensione... the long way, avoiding the park by several blocks.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Earlier that morning, when I asked the proprietress to hold my bags, I also reached for my wallet.

“Scuzzi,” I said, “io damage la pared y quiero pagar.”

She doesn't understand.

I take out my wallet and show her twenty Euros. Then I motion for her to follow me and bring her into the room, showing her the section of wall I wrecked. “I'm sorry,” I said, “I want to pay.”

“It's nothing,” she says. “Nothing. Don't worry.”

Makes me think that the only nice people in Italy are pensione owners. Ah well, no good deed goes unpunished. It's the karma of the bitch-goddess. If you're honest in your daily dealings, you WILL get fucked over. God knows, that's how God works. (My Israeli pal, Nadav, once said to me, “So the existence of evil in the world PROVES God exists for you.” He got it.)

So Italy (except Torino, and a few quality people) has joined a very small list of places I DON'T like:

• Venezuela

• Austria

• Seoul

• Hong Kong

• Salt Lake City

There are good people in all of those places, but the bad-annoying-unfriendly overwhelm them. It's a shame I have to leave for New York from Italy... I shudda chose Greece. Ah well, what trip doesn't bring a boatload of shuddas?

Oh yeah, the end of the day. I spent it in the ferryboat bar. My first Albanian, met in New York, told me I'd never be able to drink alone in an Albanian bar. Hmmm, the Ferry is ONLY Albanians (and only men, except for a couple old ladies and one taken female of incredible beauty). I find it all to easy to drink alone.

Albania 6: Death In Venice

[NOTE: This blog/diary of Mykel's Italian-Albanian trip starts several entries below this one. Due to the oddities of Blogging, the entries appear in reverse order. As much of the reportage is built on the previous days, I recommend reading from the start, at the entry ALBANIA 1.]

ROME (Coldsore day 3)

  I start writing this in the train from Rome to Bari, that's tomorrow, as far as this narrative goes. Today was my day to explore Rome, recover a bit from the flight, meet the Romans. Yeah, right

  As I'm staying in a Bed and Breakfast in The Vatican, the day starts naturally with breakfast. Actually, it starts much earlier... 3AM, when my jet lag wakes me up and I play on the internet for some hours... mostly Facebooking my friends and uploading my diary. What else is there to do at 3AM in Vatican City. Jee-zus! Can you imagine?

  Well, maybe there is something. As I wandered the streets yesterday, I managed to run into a club that looked right up my alley:

But I forgot exactly where the place was... and with my coldsore, a lap dance is all I'm gonna get... and that's not enough for me. (My favorite activities all are impeded by lipwelts. Right Topher?)

About 6AM I fall back asleep and am awakened about 10:30 by a knock on the door.

“Mykel,” I recognize the voice. It's the hippie hostess of my B&B. “You are telephone.”

It's Helen. Calling from Nice to check up on me. She booked the B&B and paid for it! She also bought my boat tickets. Yow! Wadda gal.

“Did I wake you?” she asks.

I nod into the phone.

“But it's 10:30!!” she says.

“Jet lag.” I answer.

She asks about my day, and suggests I see a special church made from the bones of catholic monks. And also there's a statue, the ecstasy of Saint somebody-or-other.

“You'll love that one,” she tells me. “It's supposed to be some divine ecstasy. but you'll see... she laughes...it's just ecstasy.

Both those attractions are on the Via Veneto. It's a famous street, and even in my Pimsleur Italian lesson: Scuzi, dove via Veneto? But it's not on my map! At least it's not listed among the streets on my map. OK, I'll find it.

After breakfast I ask the hostess how to get to Rome from The Vatican.

“You bus numero sixty-four. Tutto e bus numbero sixty-four,” she says.

Since I have to go to the Vatican train station for a ticket to Bari anyway, I figure I'll get the bus from there. I buy the ticket and get on bus 64.

  It winds it's way past buildings and statues and churches and monuments older than I am. About 1900 years older. It is impressive... at first... but then it's... well... buildings and statues and churches and monuments... then more of the same.

As I contemplate this, the bus doors open and in walks a very fat man, about 40. Accompanying him is God. I wish I had the balls to whip it out right there... my camera, I mean. You could see what I'm talking about. About 18, he has a face that belongs on a bar of soap. Not a hint of a whisker. Longish, light brown hair, eyebrows a shade darker. Eyes the color of... well of heaven. My tastes usually don't run to blue eyes... or even white people in general, but this... This is Death In Venice. Death in Venice in Rome.

“Excuse me,” he could say. “Would you mind scooping out your right eye and throwing it at that old woman over there?”

“My right eye?” I'd answer, “you sure you only want that one?”

After him, what else is there to see? Who needs eyes?

There is a seat open next to me. The fat guy takes it. God sits 2 seats away. He won't look at me because of my coldsore.

I get off bus 64 at the Termini, the main train station. God gets off there too. As does everyone else on the bus. I lose him in the crowd.

So, I do the Coliseum. Just the outside. It's $20 to get in. That's almost the same as Graceland. I bet it's a fuck of a lot more than the Romans originally paid... and they got to see Christians thrown to the lions. Hell, I'd pay $20 to see Christians thrown to the lions, but not to look at the old stones where people sat 2000 years to look at Christians thrown to the lions.

After I circumnavigate the building (reminds me of walking around Yankee Stadium), I head for the subway. Before I buy the ticket, I ask the attractive, supremely unfriendly seller, “Scuzzi, dove via Veneto.”

“Get off at...” and she tells me the name of the stop... and goes back to her conversation with her fellow tobaconnist/ticket agent. Must be my coldsore.

  I take the subway to the right place, get out. Then, I see the problem. Via Veneto is actually Via Victorio Veneto! There it is on my map, under Victorio... I shudda known right? Makes me wonder if some maps of NYC list Madison Avenue under JAMES.

I walk the length of the Avenue and see nothing but expensive restaurants. You know how the cheapest places have no table clothes? Next cheapest: red and white checked table clothes. Then finally, the white ones? Nuh uh! Tables on this street have BLACK table clothes. It's a month's salary just to sit down. Finding neither bones nor ecstasy, I take intrepid Bus Number 64 back to my B&B. Maybe he'll get on again. He doesn't.

  I take a nap, then go out for dinner. The same place where those attractive German girls ignored me last night. They aren't there this time. What are there are a bunch of American tourists. Shouting, making demands on the waitress, acting like Americans. It embarrasses me. After 15 minutes sitting their. yet more of them show up.

  “I see you found it,” shouts one guy, big as a cowboy, as he walks in. “You didn't take the bus, did you?”

  One of the guys already sitting at the table, gray beard, body like a bowling pin, answers, “Oh no,” he says. “I followed your advice. Took the train.”

“Good,” answers the first guy, “that Bus Number 64 is notorious. The locals call it The Pickpocket Express.”

  I finish eating, pay my bill and go back to the hotel to charge my phone and computer. I plug in the computer. A fuse blows and all the lights go out

To Mykel's Homepage

Albania 5: First Day in Rome

[NOTE: This blog/diary of Mykel's Italian-Albanian trip starts several entries below this one. Due to the oddities of Blogging, the entries appear in reverse order. As much of the reportage is built on the previous day, I recommend reading from the start, at the entry ALBANIA 1.]

ROME (Coldsore day 2)

 Actually, I'm staying in The Vatican. Helen found me the bed and breakfast. It's run by a 40-something named Lisa who chants Nam Ryoko whatever every day. She's skinny, with a hippy aura that follows her like a puppy on a leash. The B&B is probably her apartment, redone after the kids left. There are two guest rooms, mine has a recently installed bathroom with a shower and one of those dual-flush toilets-- heavy and light. It's rare that I get to use HEAVY for the first week or so of my travels overseas. It's in a non-descript building off of a main road near St. Pietro.  

Customs and immigration was maybe the easiest of any country outside of Canada. Not a word. Just a blank page PROP! goes the stamp. That's it. Then ,following Helen's directions (figuring out the St. Peter was Sante Peitro, was easy. But figuring out that S. St. Peter was Stazione San Peitro took some doing. That first train gave me a glimmer of hope for Rome. It was a graffiti train, just like the ones in NYC back in the 70s when NYC was good. 

When I got to the station though. My troubles returned. No map. I asked the ticket seller (in English) if he knew where via S. (another S, and this one wasn't Stazione!) Telesforo was. He shrugged and told me Polizia, pointing in back of him.

I went out to the tracks. There was a small sign-- blue on white-- Polizia. It was over a closed door. I turned the handle. It was locked. Now what? How to find a street I don't know... in a place I don't know... without a map. I tried the handle again. Still locked. I start to walk out on the street. Maybe I'll ask a bus driver. There's a rattle behind me. The locked door opens. A cop looks out. Youngish, not very friendly: Que? he says... or maybe it was che.

  “I non parlo Italiano...” I start.

  “Do you speak English?” he says.

  I feel myself redden. “Do you know where something Telesforo is?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, “sorry.” Then he shuts the door. Maybe he didn't like my coldsore.

I head off again when the door rattles and the same cop sticks his head out. He motions for me to come over. I stand in the doorway. He calls to someone invisible inside and says something in Italian ending with Telesforo.

  “No,” comes the reply from inside.

  Instead of closing the door, though the voice comes over with a book of maps. He's a someone chubbier version of his cohort.

[NOTE: I write this in a restaurant having my first spaghetti dinner in Italy. The waitress just passed and I asked her for pan.  That's probably the wrong word, but she understood. She took the three slices of bread from the table she was serving, and moved them to my table.]

  Together, the cops look through the book, going from map to index and back to map again. Then, the thinner one starts to explain to me... “go out the station and then turn left, then walk a bit and look for...” The fatter guy frowns at him and says something in Italian.

  “You forget that I said,” the skinny guy tells me. “Take the bus. Number 64. Two stop. One two. That's all.”

  “I capiche,” I tell him. “Multo gracie.”

  The rest is history... or actually present, since I'm still checked in to the B&B.

  After dumping my bags, I set out on a small walk, just to check out the neighborhood, and see the Piazza St. Pietro. For those who don't know. The Vatican, is an independent country within the city of Rome. It doesn't have its own money, but it does have its own laws and its own postage stamps. I guess it's a Catholic country.

In a way, it looks like the East Village. Everybody except tourists wears black. The only addition, is the clerical collar for men and whatever they call those nun-hats for women. There are more priests here than... I donno, probably anywhere. Inside the church grounds, priests of every size and color walk around, joke, take pictures, mop sweat, just like real everyday people.

Inside, the grounds are surrounded by columns and imposing buildings with lots of statues. There is a large open space. in the middle In that space is a fenced-off area. In that area is a platform with a speaker's podium. The podium is set between two saints, at least one of whom is St. Peter (or Sante Pietro).  

That figures.

What doesn't figure, is the giant Panasonic TV screens at the base of each statue. At first I think they're to televise miracles as they happen... or maybe to broadcast the Pope's nightly address. In any case, they sure look weird. And out of place.

  Then I see that there are chairs, maybe a hundred. Then a notice, posted about some event... I get it. It's the canonization. It will be here that St. Leper of Hawaii will be inaugurated into the Catholic pantheon of miracle makers.

  I look for my ancient friend from the plane. She's probably, not here yet. I don't think this thing starts until tomorrow.

After another walk around the area, and a long hike through the city (learning the rule: If a street ends in a staircase, DON'T TAKE IT. If you do, you'll have to retrace your steps because staircase-ending streets never go ANYWHERE.)I head back to Lise's B&B, take a nap until about 8, then go out for dinner.

  In the only crowded restaurant on a street of empty restaurants, I eat lasagna, dad's favorite food. And it's damn good. I sit outside, at a table next to the sidewalk. To my right, three Teutonic maidens, enjoy their pasta. Their accents sounds right out of North Germany, nothing Austrian or Bavarian about these girls. I look their way, letting my eyes caress... I clear my throat. They barely glance at me.

  Normally, they'd be begging for my body, but it's just this goddamn coldsore! I know it.  

Albania 4: The plane to Rome

[NOTE: This blog/diary of Mykel's Italian-Albanian trip does not start  here. Due to the oddities of Blogging, it appears in reverse order. Much of the reportage is built on the previous day. I recommend reading from ALBANIA ONE, a couple entries before this one.]

AT THE AIRPORT: (Coldsore Day 1)

You know when you get to the airport, how your gate is always the one furthest from the security torture? Yet, you pass other gates. Your flight may be at gate 99Z,but still, there are passengers at gate one. Who are they? Not you? Not me? Then who? Is it a small group of people... none of whom you know? Is it a bunch of props? People paid to make the airport look busy when they're actually going nowhere?

I found out today! I got to the airport several hours early, as is my custom. I went through security, holding up everyone behind me, as usual. [Boots off, hat off, laptop out, extra laptop battery out, trench coat and hat off, belt off, camera and phone pouch off... then reassembling on the other side.] By this time I was starving. First I needed to hike to the gate, just to see where it was. Then EAT something bad and overpriced.

The gate? It's the first one, right next to the security check-in. I can't believe it. That's the first time THAT'S ever happened. OK, now it's off to the food court. Where is it? You guessed it. It's right near the last gate, the one furthest from the security check. So I have to go to the last gate anyway, and then BACK, the length of the airport to the first gate to catch my flight. So THAT'S who is at the first gate. All the passengers who had to walk to the last gate for some reason and were then forced to walk through the airport. So here I sit, typing these words... at gate 15... still about 2 hours to go until boarding. Waddaya wanna bet there'll be a gate change? Now let's see. What's the farthest gate from here?

OK, there was no gate change. This is written on the plane at 11:44 PM NY time, around 6 in the morning in Rome. DONG! I have a window seat. Next to me is an ancient woman who is going to Rome because of a canonization ceremony. Amazingly enough she is NOT fat. Some Belgian priest worked with the lepers in Hawaii DONG! during the 1800s. He built hospitals. Brought religion to the people stranded on the island. And caught leprosy. He is well-known in Hawaii. On board is a crew of Hawaiians attending the ceremony in the Vatican. My hotel is booked DONG in The Vatican. I can imagine it like convention time in Las Vegas... we'll see.

So far on this flight, the Eddie Murphy movie was canceled because of an electronic glitch. They started the movie three times. DONG After each time, the flight attendant DONG comes on the speaker system and says

I apologize, ladies and gentlemen. There is an electronic glitch in the video system. We need to shut down all the monitors and do another reboot. If that DONG doesn't work we'll have to think of something else.

Then, there is THE BABY... of course. Then there was the DONG of a bell calling for the flight attendant. Every four seconds. DONG... DONG... It was on the other side of the plane, and I felt like going over there and belting the kid (I was sure it was a kid) who was playing with the button. Then comes the slightly different DONG (more like a DERR---RONG) of the public address speaker.

I apologize for the stuck call button. There seems to be a problem with the electrical system. I spoke with the captain and he says it happens all the time. So we're asking...crrrrr, sssss, the speaker hisses... I'm sorry. Anyway, the captain said DONG the problem is in an armrest. So we need to ask everyone to put their seats in an upright position and we will reset the switches. That should stop it. If that doesn't work we will shut off the system, but we'd rather not do that in case, you know, someone has an emergency or something.

Apparently, it's fixed now, but I'm wide awake, waiting for the next reboot. I apologize for the failed jet engine....

Oh yeah, while suffering this jetinsomnia, I reread my notes about Albania. Something I missed: Remember, Albanians are overprotective of their women. If you go to clubs, pubs, etc., DO NOT hit on accompanied women. You might laugh at this advice, but it can save your life. Hmmm, maybe this oral herpes will be a life-saver!

OK, but there are good rules too. How about:

When you are offered something, like a drink or a present, by an Albanian be ADVISED that a rejection can be highly offensive. Albanians are very friendly people, especially towards foreigners, but they do not take rejection very lightly. So when offered something, ACCEPT it. The same happens when an Albanian offers to pay the bill. He/she will go to great lengths to have his/her way, so my advice is: DO NOT ARGUE!

OK. I promise not to refuse drinks or argue about someone else paying the bill. That part ought to be easy.

And now to try for a couple hours sleep, we're about 3 hours away from Rome.

Albania 3 Leaving: Board's Law

BOARD'S LAW: Even when nothing can go wrong... it STILL will go wrong.

I was packed early. Double checked the list. Ready to go. Went to bed later than usual last night, taking 2 allergy pills, so I could begin to adjust to the time change. I had a nice Chinese dinner with Marilyn. We discovered an amazing carved carrot bird on her plate. (Sorry, no picture.) Then, I fell asleep at about 2:30AM. Woke naturally about 10:30. So what could go wrong???

A COLD SORE! Over night, appearing like a tarantula crawling on my mouth. THE DAY THAT I LEAVE!! Meeting new people, yeah right. You wanna say hello to someone with a tarantula on his face? This is gonna be some trip!

Albania 2: Another disappointment

Another setback. One of my goals was to visit the MUSEUM OF ATHEISM in the North of Albania. And now, The Wall Street Journal (I read it RELIGIOUSLY) has reported:

Sunday morning in the city of Shkodra(sp): The Roman Catholic
Cathedral stands shrouded in stucco, still a sports hall. The
Museum of Atheism has closed -- and reopened as a branch of
the Democratic Party. But nearby, at the end of a dirt alley,
a mass is in progress at the Church of the Madonna of the
 Rosary.

Terrible!!! I was fantasizing what would be displayed in the museum. Maybe just rooms with white walls and nothing in them. Minimalist paintings? I donno... and now my chance is lost!

ALBANIA: 1 (Notice the lack of phone number.)

I don't leave for a day and a half and already it's started. Here's an email from my only contact in Albania. Got it today:

I hope you will read this!
I can't find the right words but anyway...unfortunately I am going through some serious health problem and will not be in Tirana. I will have to stay with my parents until I get better.
I feel so very very bad about this and I hope you will understand and forgive me. I had planed a lot of nice things for your arrival and I feel disappointed from my self.
But you can still have a nice time in here and I really hope you are going to.
But if you are coming to my city, Fier you can tell me and we can meet there. I hate this situation but I have no choice!Once again I am really sorry!
Have a great time!

Here we go!

A Visit to Ebe Ye Yie

[NOTE: This article refers to the most recent EAT CLUB adventure, at Ebe Ye Yie. For more information about Eat Club, check out the Eat Club website]

The ride from Mid-town to the restaurant takes forever. It's way up in the Bronx... past Yankee Stadium. Plus it's a Saturday, so the trains are running on that weekend guaranteed-to-miss-your-stop-and-make-you-go-backwards schedule. I get to the restaurant about 15 minutes late. Does it matter? Nope, it's only me who shows up from Eat Club.

I explain to the server in the back, protected by bullet-proof glass, that I don't know anything about Ghanian food and want something with fish in it.  

“Do you want rice and beans?” she asks. I nod.

I order a dish of fish with a mildly spicy sauce over rice and beans.

I also buy a VIMTO soda, something I'd never seen before. 

I pay my money and the owner/cook says she'll bring me my food.  

I go to a table and find it set with-- not salt and pepper shakers-- but with a glass bottle of lime juice and a small squeeze bottle of Palmolive dish-washing liquid. I expected to encounter some strange things in Ghanian cuisine, but somehow this last condiment seems wrong.

The food comes in a big bowl with a plastic fork and spoon. I give the cook/owner/server an EAT CLUB card, so she'd know why I'm there.

On the food, I use the lime, but not the Palmolive. While I'm eating, a bunch of people come in. All African-looking, some with the most incredible clothes: materials sparkly and yellow and jaw-droppingly amazing.

I open my VIMTO and suck it down. It's delicious, as is the rice, beans and fish. The only problem with the fish is the multitude of small bones. It takes some work to eat it. I have to pick out the bones with my hands.  

Then this young guy with an A's baseball hat comes in. He goes to the back, to the kitchen. I hear conversation. Then he comes out and comes right over to me.

“Hello,” he says extending his hand. “My name's Jibril. My Aunt Hajia is the owner here. She says you gave her a card with the restaurant name on it. She doesn't understand it.”

So I explained Eat Club and apologize that I'm the only person here. Jibril laughs and gets up to order his own food. Then he sits down at the table with me.

“Are you from Ghana?” I ask.

He nods.

“Then how come your name isn't Ousu?” I ask, “I thought everybody from Ghana was named Ousu.”

He laughs again. Then turned as his Aunt calls him. He goes to her and returns with a giant bowl of what looks like hot water. It is hot water. He squeezes some Palmolive into it and uses it to wash his hands. SO THAT'S WHAT IT'S FOR. Like Passover.

More food comes. There's a big plate of what looks like mashed potatoes, but is actually FOO FOO, made from yams.

There's also a bowl of fish in some red soup. Jibril tears a piece of Foo Foo, and dips it and his hand into the mixture. Then, he eats the soup-soaked foo foo. So that's the system! The forks and spoons are for the gaijin, like in a Japanese restaurant.  

Jibril and I talked about Ghana. I ask a lot of stupid questions which made him laugh. He telss me that people come from all over the city to eat there. It's not the only Ghanian restaurant in the city, but it is the best.  

He tells me that the people at the next table are from Nigeria. Some others are from Ghana, but not his tribe. We talk about language, about soccer (I know less about soccer than about Ghana), and about his dream of opening a restaurant of his own. (Now, he works in a Bronx hospital.)

We both finished eating about the same time. We plan to walk out together, but first I ask him to ask some locals to take our pictures.  

“My Aunt also wants her picture,” he says.  

So I go back to the kitchen and take Aunt Hajia's picture. I'm telling her how much I like her food when I hear a voice calling my name. I turn around, it's AG², “I thought you left,” he says. “It took me so long to get here. I'm really hungry.”

So we sit back down. I ask him what he wants. “I want something really African.” he says.

Jibril tried to talk him out of the super-spicy native stuff. “I'm a native,” he says, “and my lips are burning.” But AG² insists. So, Jibril orders it for him, explaining to his Aunt that the Japanese guy out there really does want it the authentic way. (If everybody in Ghana is like Jibril, I wanna move there!) I advise AG² to get a Vimlo.

When the food comes, Jibril explains how to eat it. Then, after a photo with us, he takes his leave. AG² dig in and quickly downs his Vimlo and orders another. I watched in amusement as he turns red. So does everybody else. I'm sure he's the first Japanese person to ever enter the place. After we finish eating, we thank Aunt Hajia. She asks God to bless us.

On the subway back, we find ourselves in a car with a gang of half a dozen Bronx hip hop kids. They're playing what looks like tag-dance. How it works is: while the others keep the beat by clapping, the IT-guy stands up and dances in the middle of the car. Each IT improvises some kind of hip hop dance that invariably includes taking a shoe off, flipping it over his head, catching it and doing something strange with it. Their ages range from about 26 down to about 12. All of them are great. But greatest of all is that they didn't do it for money. It's for their own entertainment and if the rest of the car enjoys it... that's plus. There isn't a commercial jerk, twitch or step. It's for pure pleasure-- for its own sake.  

AG² and I were treated to a half an hour of this great show. I think we go under the tunnel back into Manhattan. Then, suddenly, the subway jerks to a halt, throwing the dancer into a completely new step. It seems, says the announcement, someone has jumped onto the tracks. Please be patient. This train will be backing up. Yeah, we're back in the city, right.

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