Albania 12: Tale of Terror pt.2

[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 not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. --Ralph Waldo Emerson

Qeparo (Coldsore day 9, but will it matter anymore?)

I don't sleep very well that night. When I do manage to drift off the dreams are terrible. Fortunately I can't remember most of them. Only one where I was standing outside, just standing, my eyes closed, seeing nothing. I feel a hand grab the front of my shirt, just about solar plexus level. In the dream I know it is a dream. This is not real. I read down and feel the hand. A human hand, masculine, holding tight. I grab the hand and squeeze. It crumples in my grip. Then I wake up, again.

I must have drifted off yet again, because I'm again awakened. This time by the sound of the glass door being slid open. There he is, unsmiling, with a large cup of coffee and more fruit.
The only thing I've eaten in the past days was fruit. Figs, pamagranite, and a mysterious cactus fruit. It all grows in the garden 30 or so feet directly below. Fertilized, I'm sure, by many others who have stood in this exact spot.

I understand why he asked me how long I'm staying. He really hates what he has to do, and wants to postpone it until the last possible minute. I could escape, maybe. But I'm so far out of town, so lost, how would I ever get anywhere? And he'd see me with my backpack, that'd be a... er... dead giveaway.

Finally he tells me his name. Coocho. I'm horrible with names, but I know if I don't remember this one, I'll be in even worse trouble. Somehow it becomes the most important task of my life to remember. Let's see: Ocho is eight in Spanish. Co-means together like co-worker or cooperate. Two eights together. I fix the image in my mind and superimpose it over his face.

I take out my camera and motion that I want to take his picture. I figure when my remains wash up on shore, they'll find the camera and then catch the guy. Surprisingly, he agrees. I guess he figures on taking the camera after the act.

After the photos he points out to the sea. He asks me if I'm going to go swimming. I tell him it's too cold. He says maybe tomorrow. I say, no I'm leaving tomorrow.

I can see the sadness in his face when I make it clear I'm not staying another day. The longer he can wait the better. I know doesn't want to have to do this, but he's got to. But now it has to be tonight.

Dua te shikoj Himara. (I want to see (the town of) Himara.), I tell him. Not thinking clearly, that if I manage to get into town I could never find my way back to this place. I get lost in Soho, for God's sake.

He points to me, then himself, and then makes the two-fingers-next-to-each-other sign that means together.

Ok, at least that will get me back to the death chamber.

Together we climb the stairs to the alley that leads to the tunnel that leads to the ditch, that leads to the stone steps that lead to the road where the bus will come to take us to Himara. We wait for a bit. The bus does not come.

I take a picture of the stone staircase, another of the garage door close to it, another of a sign that says QEPARO FSHAT, right near the descent from the highway. I have no idea what “fshat” means, but maybe some cab or bus driver will recognize the sign. Besides, if I escape, like the girl in Texas Chainsaw Massacre, I can use the photos as clues for the cops to find Albania's Ed Gein.

Still, the bus doesn't come.

A car pulls out of a nearby driveway, off the main road somewhere. Slowly, it makes its way to the outer street. Coocho walks over and signals the man to stop. He has a conversation with him and opens the front and read doors of the car. He motions for me to get in the rear. I do. Then he closes both doors and waves good-bye to me. We head into town.

The driver lets me and the other passenger off at the post office. I look up the word return in the Albanian-English dictionary: kthim.

Ku kthim? I ask him. (When return?)

He shows me two fingers, one bent halfway. I guess that means in an hour and a half. I figure he'll park his cab here and return to it when it's time to leave. That doesn't give me much time, but I can buy some stamps and mail my postcards, go for a stroll down the beach, look at the ocean, have a cup of coffee. When I get out of the post office, the cab is gone.

I'll never find my way back now. My bags, most of my money is there. My computer. I know the only logic is death, but what if I'm missing something? What if he's just this nice eccentric old coot who does want to take care of me. It's not logical (or true, it turns out), but what if?
I walk to the taxi stand near the post office. Maybe the driver will be there. He isn't.

Most of the cabs are empty. In the only one with a driver, the driver is asleep on the front seat with the door open and one foot out of the cab. Knowing my own consciousness on just awakening, I decide not to wake him for the drive.

From a nearby restaurant, another guy, late thirties, needing a shave as do all Albanian men, walks toward me. [Note: Albania joins that list of countries: Turkey, Mongolia, Brazil, where the women are neck-wrenchingly beautiful, but the men are as ugly as the Bush family.]

Taksi? he says.

I pull out my camera and flip through the pictures until I find the garage on the main road.

Ju dini ketu?I ask. (You know here.)

He squints at the picture and then shakes his head. “Po (yes),” he says.

Then he says 13 Euros in English. I try to bargain, but he sticks to the price.

Taxi-meter he says.

During the ride, he never turns on the taxi-meter.

But he does get me to the garage. And actually a little past where the QEPARO FSHAT sign is. I get out and go down the stairs, trying to remember the way to the house of horrors.

A strange kind of trance music comes from someplace. It's like a pop version of Phillip Glass. I never heard it before, but it may be what's popular these days. It sounds spooky to me.

I walk down some steps, through a tunnel, another tunnel, past a ditch, through an alley. I see a
pile of bricks I never saw before. A door with a large round knocker... never saw it before. I'm lost.

I turn to retrace my steps. An old man comes the other way.

“Co-ocho?” I ask him.

He laughs, and points back where I came from. Then he makes a downward motion with his hands, and a sweeping curve with his arm. I retrace my steps, and soon get lost again.

“The sea, the sea,” I think. If I can find the sea, I can look up at the houses. I'll recognize it from the blue front and the sheer drop. If I go down, any path down, I'll find the sea.

I pick a downhill path. The music is louder here, more menacing than mellow. Like a horror movie soundtrack.

I follow the path until it ends... dead ends, then I go up a little and take another path through a bunch of fruitplants, and then down again. Sand, plastic debris, I've found the sea.

Turning my back to it, I scan the houses. There it is. Blue, in its glory, ready to fall with me, into the sea. I head right for it, up the path to the lower gate to the house. I know this gate, Co-ocho took me through it yesterday, to show me the fruit and the path to the beach. I'm sure this is the way back to the house.

The gate is locked.

I do not scream. I do not pound on it. Instead, I keep the house in view, and go up through the trees, catching my sleeve on the cactus, then pulling free. The music continues, insistent, droning. Up to a small trail. I've lost sight of the house, but I think I know where it is. I follow the path. The house comes into view again. I can see it slightly below and to the right. I reach the set of steps I recognize. They lead down toward the house. They end at a gate.

The gate is not locked.

I walk through it and escape into my room. It's warm. I collapse on one of the two beds in the room and fall into a dreamless sleep.

I awaken when it's still light outside. There is a rattle as the glass door slides open. Co-ocho brings a tray with more figs and other strange fruit on it. Much of the fruit from yesterday lies rotting by the sink. He doesn't seem to notice. He moves the food in smooth motions, like a robot. Gliding the tray to the plastic table in my room.

He makes an eating motion, putting his hands to his lips.

Bukë? (Bread?), he asks.

Po (yes), I say. I need something besides all that fruit. It'll just go right through me. I'll be a pretty messy corpse after all that fruit. He'll deserve it.

“Did you take a shower yet?” he mimes.

“Yo (no),” I say.

He shrugs, goes away and comes back with a couple slices of bread and a few cubes of cheese. He also brings about a cupful of cold spaghetti with tomato sauce. Everything looks homemade.

Then he goes away for a bit and I write a little more. Just as the sun is setting over the Adriatic, he returns. He looks grim.

Opening the sliding glass door, he takes a chair and puts in next to mine.

The miming starts again. You eat. You sleep. Now you pay. I recognize the Albanian word.

Pagoni. (You pay.)

Pay with my life? I don't ask.

He holds up one finger. A thousand Lek?? That's ten dollars. Hah, that's wonderful. I give him two thousand.

“You're my friend (I use the Italian word amici, since it was a word I never needed in Albanian),” I say. “Take more.”

He nods NO.

I don't understand. One night, four thousand lek. Two nights, eight thousand. That's robbery. That's more than I paid in my jacuzzi hotel in Vlora. This is a haunted house! $80, that's ridiculous. I'm not going to...

I hand him the money. It's most of what I have left from my last trip to the bank. But, he's only robbing me! He won't kill me. It's just extortion. He's a hustler, a con artist, not a murderer. Take my money, please! I cudda kissed the guy.

I ask him what time the bus leaves for Saranda tomorrow. He tells me 9 AM. I say I'll get up at 8.

Too late, he says.

OK, I tell him. Statë ore. Seven o'clock.

I set my phone alarm (that's all it's good for, it doesn't work here) for 6:30, just to have time to clean myself up and empty out all the fruit.

At 6:15 he opens the door to wake me up. He stands and watches as I get dressed, stuff my remaining clothes into my pack and go out the door with him. He leads me back upstairs through the alleys and ditches to the road. His wife joins him.

My bus comes and I get on it. He does not say good by. I watch him cross the street to go back to Vlora, and wait at the bus stop. Someone not from around here, will get on a bus headed South.

He will ask them where they're staying, then he'll offer his own place. Eventually, someone else will say yes, and move into the room I just left.

Albania 11: Tale of terror

[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.]

Qeparo, Albania, find that on a map! Coldsore day 8

It's time to begin the terror tale. Though it's not over yet. But life also is a terror tale. After it's over, it can only be written by someone else.

This tale starts in Vlora. The concierge at the hotel told me that all the buses from Vlora to Saranda had left. My only choice was to go to Himara, about half-way. That bus doesn't leave from the regular bus station, but one a bit out of town. I can get there by taxi. No problem.

(My guidebook lists S'ka problem! as Albanian for “No problem.” It also has this note: Often turns out to mean there is a problem.)

The bus leaves at 1PM. It's now 9 o'clock.

“Is there anything I can do at the bus station for some hours?” I ask the concierge.

She nods. “There is nothing there,” she says.

She makes a plan for me. The plan is to take a walk, return to the hotel and eat lunch in the hotel restaurant at 11. Then, after lunch, take a taxi to the bus terminal. I'll be there in plenty of time.

Maybe that's why I don't see people eat. They have lunch at 11AM. Maybe dinner at 4. Who expects people to be eating at that time? But nope, that's not it either.

I walk along the beach for a little bit and sit to watch a bulldozer push the plastic garbage around. I go to the post office and mail some postcards. Do other people still send postcards? Well, they still make 'em, so I guess so.

At 11, I return to the hotel and go to the restaurant. It's empty, though the door is open. A heavy-set woman mops the floor.

Une dua te ha ditchka. (I want to eat something.) I say. She tsks once and motions for me to sit down. I'm the only one in the place.

I ask for the menu. She brings it to me and stands over me while I decide what I want to eat. It's my first meal of the day. The menu has beefsteak, fish a la hoity toidy, pizza, pasta. I order a salad and a mineral water.

“Vetem salada?” (Only a salad?) asks the waitress, clearly meaning You disturbed me, made me open the kitchen and neglect my cleaning duties for a salad? What's wrong with you?”

“Vetem salada.” I reply.

It turns out that the salad is enough. It's weird, but on this trip I have less of an appetite than I do in New York. I drink more beer here, but eat a lot less. I wonder if I'm going to lose weight. The food is so salty, I expect I'll gain blood pressure.

My stomach is strange, as it always is when traveling. It suddenly clenches, in extreme pain. A rush to the bathroom clears me out, and I'm good for the rest of the day. After my salad, come the clenches.

I have a long bus ride ahead. So after I pay the bill, I'll clean myself out, and be ready for the long ride to Himara.

I stand to signal that I'm finished. The waitress come to me, collects my money and through the open restaurant door walks a burly guy wearing a black and white knit sweater. He walks right up to me.

“Taxi bussi Himara,” he says grabbing my bags. “We go.”

So, me, my stomach ache and I are off to the bus station, It's just a space in the street out of town, barely big enough for a bus or two. I get in one that says HIMARA on the front.

The driver takes my backpack out of the bus and puts it someplace I can't see. I'm the only passenger in the bus, but not for long. People arrive about 15 minutes before the schedule leaving time.

One of the first of the new arrivals is an older guy. About my height, he wears a typical Albanian tan straw hat. He has a worn-but-clean tweed jacket, and black slacks. His eyes are deep-set, and half closed, like they've seen too much. He sits in an empty seat, the one behind mine. He taps me on the shoulder and I turn to face him. I can see that his eyes are watery-- not sad watery, but sick watery. And one doesn't look exactly in the same direction as the other. He says something to me in Albanian.

“Une nuk flac sqip,” I say.

He shrugs, then motions for me to come and sit next to him. I do. It's not long before I begin to fear that is a mistake.

The bus leaves about a half hour past schedule.

With very few words, THE GUY speaks to me: some Italian, some Greek, some Albanian... but mostly with sign language... like he's done it hundreds of times before.

He asks me where I'm from. New York.

Where I'm going Himara.

Where I'm staying in Himara. (He puts his hands together and tilts his head on them. Then closes his eyes meaning “place you sleep.” I don't know, I shrug.

You (he points to me). Sleep (the sleeping gesture again.) My place. He points to himself, makes a little house-like triangle with his fingers, and then the sleeping gesture again.

I know. I know. But I'm sick of hotels, and Albania is supposed to be safe and small-town people are always friendlier than city people, right? I shake my head in agreement.

There's not much more to say as we ride along. Once he taps me on the shoulder and makes a straight ahead motion, then up and down, as if he's explaining the torturous mountain road ahead. I say koptoj (I understand). But maybe I don't.

During the next hour or so, I look at him every once in awhile. I'm trying for human contact. A smile or something. There is nothing. He looks straight ahead, eyes half closed as in worry, or very serious thought. Sometimes he looks at his knees. His forehead furls. I begin to feel uneasy.

After about two hours of silence, the bus pulls into the Albanian equivalent of a highway rest-stop.

It's a small mountain restaurant called: BEGO

The bus empties. Most everybody goes inside to eat. A few have a smoke first, then join those of us inside. THE GUY stays outside. He walks around. He does not smoke. He just walks, looking at the ground most of the time. I eat a simple rice dish and have some water. Just as I'm finishing, THE GUY walks in and sits at my table. Juu doni te ha ditchka? (“You want to eat something?”) I ask. He smiles weakly, shrugs and leaves again. A few minutes later, I leave and take some pictures around the restaurant, then get back in the bus. THE GUY looks at me without smiling and pats the seat next to him.

We take off, going up and down mountainsides, hairpin turns, just like buses in the mountains always go.

I look at THE GUY and smile. He doesn't smile. He looks at his hands. In them now are rosary beads. He's running them through his fingers. Squinting in something between worry and sorrow. I begin to read his thoughts.

Forgive me mother Mary for what I am about to do. I know it is evil and against your ways, but I must. I have no choice. This is my life. You know me, mother Mary. I know it is wrong to take a life. To inflict so much pain, spill so much blood. But I must. You know that, mother Mary, don't you? I pray for forgiveness.

The beads run through his fingers, one after the other, until they run out at the cross. Then, he starts again.

The bus stops to pick up some school children. They look somehow off. Especially the boys. High foreheads and small jaws. And they're quiet. Ages that from six to ten... and quiet. It's spooky. Like Children of the Damned. They don't stay on the bus very long.

We pass a roadsign. 5km to Himara. Somehow that's a relief.

When we reach what looks like Himara, most passengers get off. We do not.

An old woman, wearing all black, with a black babushka gets on the bus. THE GUY excuses himself and talks to her. She glances at me, a sad look on her face. Then, he shoos me to the window and sits down on the outside, blocking my exit.

The bus closes its doors and heads out of the city.

THE GUY taps me on the shoulder and points to the woman. Then to a ring on his finger. I guess that means she's his wife. They sure didn't act very friendly. Maybe she doesn't approve of what he feels he has to do.

For the next quarter hour, he's back to his rosaries.

In the middle of a hill, the bus doors open and the women gets out. The only two people left are THE GUY and me. A little while further, the bus stops. The end of the line. THE GUY gets out. I do too, retrieving my pack from the back.

Then we walk, through a little opening in the wall. Down a long street. Through a tunnel twisting and turning, to a gravel path, through a ditch. Turn here, there's a staircase, probably built by the Romans, or the ancient Greeks. They'll never find the body in a place like this.

Will I be slowly tortured in the basement? Tied to a cross like Jesus? Helpless, THE GUY wraps his rosary around my balls and asks mother Mary for forgiveness before he bites them off. Will it be quick? Have a seat, I'll be right back. POW! Between the eyes. Will he drug me, then do things to my unconscious body before slitting my throat, severing my head, and boiling it for dinner?

Finally, we end up at a building that overlooks the sea, sheer cliffs to the rocks below. THE GUY brings me to a room that has glass doors and enters from a balcony-- like a motel. The room has two beds, a small unplugged refrigerator, a sink, cabinets, and a bathroom.

THE GUY takes a plastic table and a couple chairs from MY ROOM. He motions for me to sit down. Then he walks away. While he's gone I run my eyes over the tile floor and plaster walls, looking for bloodstains, stray pieces of flesh. There's a dark spot. Some discoloration along the wall. I wonder who that was.

Then, he comes back with some coffee, some strange looking fruit, and a bottle of water. I see by the plastic ring that the bottle has previously been opened, then refilled. I guess that's what's drugged. I don't drink from it.

The coffee is delicious. Turkish style, made by boiling water and coffee grounds together and pouring the mixture into a cup. After you drink it, it leaves a thick black sludge on the bottom of the cup. Heavily sugared, it's the best.

It's hard to find in New York. The first time I had it was in the former Yugoslavia, with a friend whose mother read coffee grounds like old gypsies read tea leaves. I wish I could read my future now.

“Kafé Turke?” I ask.

He nods, “Kafé Grek! No Turke!”

Yowsah some rivalries die hard.

Then he asks if I'm married, do I have kids. All the things that will tell him how much the world will miss me when I'm gone. I guess he's relieved when I say I have neither.

He asks how long I'm planing to stay. An encouraging sign. If he were going to kill me, why would he care? I tell him two nights.

He shakes his head. I realize it's a trick. Something to make me feel more at ease.

Then he asks me if I want a shower, Duche, he uses the Italian/French word.

“Uh oh,” I think. “Here it comes. Get me naked and the fun can begin.”

“Yo, falaminderet” (No thank you) I say, shivering to show it's too cold to bathe.

Actually, it's unbelievably cold. In Italy, and the first two days in Durres were summer. When I got to Vlora a bought a bathing suit, a $30 Armani-- the only one they had left. It was hot. I planned to do the beaches in the south. Then came the rain and since then, cold. Now, it feels barely above freezing. My Inspector Gadget hat and coat are not enough to keep out the cold.

THE GUY wishes me good night and I open the glass doors and enter the room. I try not to think about what will happen later that night. I try not to think about how none of it makes sense in any other way than MURDER.

If he was just being generous, why didn't he take me inside and introduce me to his wife? Why didn't he offer me a little family? Why the lack of smiles? The questions about who will miss me?

Inside the little room things are so cold that I wrap myself in the only blanket in the place and sit with the computer, typing this, photoshopping my pictures, playing spider solitaire, planning as if there were going to be a tomorrow.

It's then that I notice that the glass doors to the room-- the only entrance and the only escape-- lock from the outside. Only the outside. What kind of place is this? What hotel has rooms that only lock from the outside? What house?

At about 9:30, I go to sleep, fully clothed, wrapped tightly in that blanket. Outside a dog barks incessantly. But it's not the dog that keeps me awake. I'm still freezing. I wonder how much of the shaking is from the actual cold, and how much is from fear. I shake like the flu chills. Shake like there's no tomorrow... waiting for the sound of the bursting into the room with guns or machetes. Or worse, the sound of a key turning in the lock outside.

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

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