While working at the hostel in Berat, I made some pretty good friends. But one of which, was as unpredicted as it was unusual and as I look back on my time spent in Albania, I can’t help but laugh out loud at some of the predicaments I've gotten myself into over the past year...For the past 20 minutes all I've been able to think about is how awkward this seemingly innocent gesture made by a fellow co-worker has become. I can't decide which of the materials strewn across the counter before me will cover my now all to obvious chest and avert the gawking stares of the 5 Albanian women crammed into the tiny shop. My choices are a pink frilly bundle of lace or black satin scraps begging to suction themselves to a stripper's behind. If I didn't love Chachay's quirky sense of humor so much I'd march my newly laced ass out that front door, across that dirt road, and back to the hostel full of other Westerners who understand that the gesture of buying someone lingerie as a going away gift is better left to the sleazy husband types.
But let's forget the undergarments for a minute so I can give myself a chance to rid my cheeks of their now ruby color and start at the beginning. I met Chachay at the hostel in Albania. The thing that first made me take a liking to Chachay, with her mousy reddish brown hair and short stubby legs, was the fact that even though I don't speak a lick of Albanian and she knew it, instead of using hand signals to go about our business, she took to speaking at a snails pace and yelling the same jumble of synonyms in the understanding that by doing so, I'd miraculously become fluent in Albanian. I didn't have the heart to walk away from the smile that all too clearly mentioned friendship.
As the days rolled by, Chachay got creative with her communication and resorted to smacking my ass or just plain laughing at me whenever I walked by her. It was comical, to say the least, seeing her waddle across the kitchen with a wooden spoon brandished in one hand and a mischievous smile sprayed across her face.
But when the time came for me to move on, I knew I couldn't leave without a proper goodbye. I invited myself to Chachay's for some tea and before I knew it she had armed herself with a photo album and was relieving each of her son's childhoods to me. When the reminiscing had ended, or else I think it did because she was speaking Albanian the whole time and I didn't really catch much, she stood up and started pointing at her boobs. Weird, I know, but stranger things have happened. I tried to go along with what the point she was trying to make with a strained and confused expression playing across my face. That is until she made me nearly faint when she motioned to lift her top up. What the hell? After convincing her to keep her clothes on, she started writing in what looked to be More Code until I guessed right that she was asking for my bra size. I figured I'd humor her and went along with her game before giving her a hug and heading back to the hostel.
The next morning at breakfast Chachay came bustling into the kitchen dripping in sweat from the sun that had decided to set to work early. She handed me a plastic bag and when I opened it I could barely control the waves of laughter. Staring back at me was a hot pink bejeweled wonder bra that looked as if it belonged on a Can-Can Girl or Jennifer Lopez. I removed it from its casing in pinched fingers and held it at an arms length while I examined the most goddy thing I have ever seen. I even had to shield my eyes when the sequins and gems caught the sun's light as to avoid being blinded. It wasn't until I found the bra's size that really made me crack up: A32 a.k.a the cup size of the spokesperson for the Iddy Bitty Tittie Commitee.
When I explained the sizing issue to Chachay she looked at me through determined eyes, grabbed her purse and hauled me down to the main street where I now stand with five pairs of shameless hands doing their best to embarrass me further. With one look at the pile I spot the right size, pull the tag and the red satin piece attached to it and stuff it in my bag before making a break for the door before Chachay and her middle aged friends decide I need matching knickers. Once in the confines of the bustling street, I hold back a minute or two so Chachay catches up and, like that experience is one she sees to everyday, she slips her arm into mine and we stroll back through the foreign streets of Berat.
