Taking a Breather: Berat, Albania

Helping out at the Backpacker's hostel in Berat, Albania was one of the best decisions I think I made all year. Hesitant at first to be traveling through the Balkans as a single female traveler, I was soon able to squash my worries when arriving at Berat Backpacker's. The energy that hung throughout the place was astonishing and I had this strange feeling that this was were I was meant to be.

 I was lucky enough to befriend some of the greatest people while in Berat. Nick and Lucy, an English couple were light-hearted and had a way of making even the worst situations seem like a walk in the park. As for Jandrew, the dynamic Australian duo, well their charismatic energy made it hard for me to leave Berat.

During my stay, Andy, Jade, and I decided that the good weather was best enjoyed at the waterfalls. Joined by a most interesting couple, Jen and Noam, we set off for the falls, taking in the brilliant Albanian scenery. The waterfalls themselves were a sight, like we had uncovered this untouched oasis. Berat will always hold a special place in my heart, and I know deep down that one day I'll return and that upon my arrival I'm sure to feel just as alive I did when I was 19 and carefree.

Albania: Undercover

This is the link to an article I wrote about Albania for Travelhoppers, enjoy!

http://www.travelhoppers.com/2011/07/21/albania-home-of-the-nodding-no/

Fresh Off the Boat: Next stop, Albania

Thanks to a very handsome Australian, I was given the contact details of a hostel in Berat, Albania that was looking for helpers. I jumped at the opportunity as my Schengen Visa was about to expire and I had to get the heck out of dodge. So I made my way to Bari, Italy where the 9 hour ferry would take me across the Adriatic to Durres, a port city along the coast of Albania. Well that 9 hour journey stretched itself long and thin until it reached 14 hours. From Durres I took a furgon (privately owned van that shuttles paying customers from city to city) to Berat where I was greeted by an Ottoman oasis. The important thing, I must recognize, is that I made it to Albania, but the getting there wasn't all rainbows and sunshine. So that's where the juicy bit comes in...

The sun had long since set and after a long, bumpy bus ride to Bari's port, a dark dust had managed its way across the entire harbor. As I stepped off the bus, only to be greeted by a toothless grin and shaky hands. A middle-aged man stood between me and my exit from the bus and from what broken English he had, he was going to escort me through the haunted harbor to the ferry. I humored this "gentleman" and followed a few paces behind him as if to allow him the feeling of leadership and importance and after a few minutes was led astray by a shorter route.

Waiting in line for customs, I took in my surroundings. Dark, worn eyes were plastered to my own and I couldn't help but feel like a black dot on a clean sheet of loose leaf. The ferry was, as you already know, delayed due to a growing mass of human bodies that squirmed against each other while waiting to have their papers signed. In an attempt to avoid the unnerving stares of the queue, I dragged my pack to a welcoming corner as to wait out the crowd. When my turn finally came I approached the customs window with a bright smile and an open passport. He closed it, read the country name on the cover and ushered me to join the rest of the cattle.

Boarding the ferry at nearly 2am, arms dragging and head swagging, I was called to attention by the thick cloud of smoke that hung lazily all throughout the ferry. I had forgotten about the lack of smoking restrictions in Europe. I walked past the groupings of people with their hoards of bags and Italian goods and meandered through the isles. With eyes piercing the back of my skull I knew there was no seat for me there and so I found a smaller room used for film viewings and set up camp in a nearby corner. It was in these hidden nooks, those forgotten corners that I felt the most at ease.

Using a sweater as a blanket I shivered my way through the night, waking up occasionally to curious eyes scouring over me. Exhausted and frustrated, I pulled the sweater over my face and forced myself back into sleep. I just had to get through the night. Once in the night I woke to a different face peering over the sweater. A salt and pepper haired woman with deep tell tale lines that ran across her face in a drooping half-smile shook her head at me once and reached down towards my feet. Naturally I flinched at her touch but was then calmed by her soft old hand when she took the sweater that had fallen askew and covered my feet with it. She was my guardian angel.

When the sunlight began to pour through the portholes and swirling cigarette smoke and voices filled the tiny room, I knew that there was no chance for sleep. I left my bags in the corner and as I stepped out onto the top deck I passed by two of the men who had watched me the previous night. I cringed as our shoulders brushed and thinking it as an invite, they leaned in leaving me with a hissing sound that rang through my ears long after they passed. Forgetting my initial desire for fresh air, I high-tailed it back to my corner and remained hidden beneath my pack until the ferry docked.

In over my head and shaking, I once again lined up for customs. By this point I was already expecting the probing stares that awaited me in the queue and I the second time around I took them with a grain of salt, sure that any Westerner would be greeted the same. Not quite 11 in the morning, the sun already began to blister the streets and left me panting my way through the bustling crowds. Every taxi driver in the vicinity could smell the fear and confusion the clung to my body and they attacked in a disheveled ferocity. I was pulled back and forth like a pack of wolves devouring their prey and had haggles thrown at me with excessive force from every which way. Looking for an out, I broke through the buzzing drivers and ran towards a security officer in uniform. I breathed a sigh of relief when he smiled with my approach that I quickly exhaled upon finding his sole language was Albanian. I was on my own, once again, and in Albania to boot.

Then, like you see in movies, the security guard laughed a deep bellowing laugh and said in perfect English, "Just kidding, I speak perfect English. Now how may I help you?". Pfft, yeah right. What happened next was something no one could have predicted and still, to this day, leaves me stumped. A tall, broad shouldered young man with short brown hair that had a tenancy to fall over his eyes came bouncing up beside me and said, "Hi. Are you lost?". Hallelujah! And hell yes; the answer to his question was and absolute yes.

His name was Bori and he was a 23 year old Albanian truck driver who as it just so happens managed to be in the right spot at the right time. I followed him through the broken cobblestone streets, that looked as if they had just seen a World War, where he led me to the bus station, an ATM, and finally to a cafe for lunch. Halfway through the meal that he had persuaded me to join him in, I asked him the question that had been churning in my gut from the moment we met. "Why are you being so nice to me?" His answer was simple. It was concise and to the point, but the weight of his words stretched further than his mouth would take them. "Because no one else would."

My first impression of Albania was one from a girl still living in a dream world. From a girl who wasn't ready for the toll that was to be taken by a country that's never been given enough. But now, when a stranger asks my opinion of the country, I reply with an open heart and a melting smile that takes me back to the stranger that unveiled to me the good of this world that's sometimes hidden in the forgotten corner.

Mi Scusi

I think we can all agree that hostels are wonderful places. Practically 5-star with their roomy en-suites, big feather down pillows you can get lost in, and of course, the gourmet breakfasts. On the top floor? Don't worry because the bell-man is here to help. He'll carry your bags up those steep steps and offer you a complimentary bottle of sparkling water when you reach the top. Ah yes, don't even get me started on the roof top terrace and the mile long swimming pool. In. your. dreams...

Hostels are an experience. I think what I just described was an experience alright, but not the kind I'm looking for. Adored for their budget friendly nature, hostels give you exactly what you pay for; A dorm room nearly choked to death by the number of metal bunk bed frames squeezed into it and 6-12 other sweating bodies all competing for the remaining fresh air in the room. And you can forget about using the toilet alone. With one communal washroom, your given a free pass into the digestive tracks of every guest in the place. Enticing, isn't it?

When I finally reached Rome, ready to take on the world, my adrenaline high disappeared quickly when I found my hostel. The owner greeted me with a crooked yellow smile, tossing my stomach as if it were on tumble dry. His name was Marco and he was what a serial killer should look like. He was tall and lean, his dark curly hair plastered to his head with a thick layer of engine oil, he smelled awful, and to top it off, he was lonely. I had booked the hostel last minute and wasn't given much choice in lodging. I took the first hostel whose reviews didn't mention bed bugs and didn't ask questions. But when I got there, I found the place next to empty, save for a few American couples so lost in each other's eyes that  I didn't bother. There was a reason I was the only one there, a really good reason. The place was in the middle of nowhere, covered in a thick layer of grime and other unmentionables, I'm sure, and looked more like a half-way house than a functioning business.

 There was nothing else in the entire city of Rome, so this would home; Id learn to love it. But because I've got a shamrock stapled to my forehead, Marco decided that I was going to be his new best friend. He'd wake me with offers for gelati, corner me and discuss his oh so appealing sleep habits,  nag me about going out clubbing with his "hip" friends, invite me out on long romantic strolls, and convince me to let him show me his "art" (plastic masks painted with glitter). He even took to calling me bella, which might be cute if he was 20 years younger and didn't resemble a wanted pervert. I was desperate to shake this middle-aged creepy-crawler before my Roma experience turned into a train scene from "Eurotrip", so I took to sneaking out of the hostel as the sun came up, and not returning until I knew he was off "creating life" with glue sticks and sparkles. I used every excuse in the book to avoid the ultimate "mi scusi" moment (check out the link below to see what I'm talking about). I left the hostel on the third day, only after arguing for 20 minutes over the 10 cents change he didn't have but insisted I needed to continue my journey with. One very long and excruciatingly uncomfortable hug/massage later, I outta there and ready for my next 5-star experience.

Mi Scusi

Fontana di Trevi

Flip the coin; heads, I win, tails I lose. Toss it into the deep grinding throat that gnaws the copper and corrodes the nickel.  Let the rust scrape against my skin so I can taste the metal long after its gone.

Dreamers cast a wish, anchored by expectation, into the marble pool. Ignorance is what turns their backs and closes their eyes as our beauty was but breathed into our lifeless limbs, our shallow centers, our hollow cases.

Let the Aqua Virgo pour over our chiseled bodies, releasing Neptune into its depths and piercing the Triton through this wild beast. Even the most gifted and enduring hand could not shift the mold, to concentrate the flow, as to prevent the raging sea from pooling lamely at the feet of the god of the sea.

From Platform 4 to 13

Trains are new to me. Having spent my entire adolescence sponging rides off my mom and dad and then bumming them from friends when I hit high school, there was never any need. That and the fact that Canada isn't a huge supporter of train networking leads me to where I am today, alone in Florence's train station, trying to print my ticket. I decided I'd save a few bucks by booking THE cheapest ticket I could find online. I was offered a second-class, extra slow-moving, piece-of-shit-but-I'll-take-it-anyway, one-way ticket to Rome. My luck ran out when reached the station and found that my confirmation number was invalid. I turned to the first member of staff I could find; a middle-aged woman with a sneering smile and crooked teeth. Her straw-like hair was scraped into a tiny bun at the base of her skull and I couldn't help but shiver from the cool air that emanated from her vacant smile. In the middle of explaining my dilemma, she shooed me away while mumbling something about the ticket booth.

Waiting in line I couldn't keep my eyes off the clock. I started out with 30 minutes to kill before my train left and that once plump number was quickly whittled  down to 10 in the blink of an eye. I began to panic and left the queue and found the same woman who had originally "helped" me. Surprisingly, she collected my papers and found the first open ticket window. I think her generosity was more of an attempt at getting rid of me. It wasn't until she turned on her heel and click-clacked her way back to me that I saw the wide sneer plastered across her cardboard face. The code was invalid, alright.

I rummaged through my head looking for a solution, I knew I placed one somewhere around here. Searching the woman's face for some kind of sympathy, I went out on a limb and asked her what I should do. 7 minutes. She shrugged and said check the number again before walking away. I did a quick evaluation of my options before grabbing my heavy pack and flew down the stairs that led to the metro. I ran up and down the halls, made a left, and then heaved a sigh of relief when I found the giant "@" sign I had been looking for. No scratch that, praying for. 5 minutes. Not wanting to waist time, I flew through the cafe's doors, tossed the cashier a 1 Euro coin, and began hammering furiously on the first keyboard I could get my hands on. I signed into gmail, pulled up the confirmation email, scrolled through the small print, and found it, yes, the confirmation numbers were the same. 2 minutes. Hot with anger I threw my pack over my shoulder and set off down the hall in a dead sprint. Skidding around corners and crashing into other innocent bystanders, I made it up the 2 flights of stairs and nearly collapsed, I was so out of breath. Frantically I searched the platform numbers until I found number 4, empty. I squinted my eyes, focusing on further down the tracks and could just make out a departing train, my hopes of getting to Rome waving neatly from the window.

Thinking my luck was bound to change, I approached a plump, hopefully more friendly station employee and delivered my story with as much despair and sadness I could muster. I think I might have even stuck out the bottom lip once or twice. The woman hummed and ha'd along with my elaborate tale and just as I finished and flashed her my most desperate pleading face along with watering eyes, her features turned dark like someone had switched out the light. She crossed her arms and said in a thick, snarling but somehow still beautiful Italian voice, "You want to go to Roma?" I nodded furiously, "Then go buy another ticket." And she stormed off.

I let my pack slide from shoulders with disappointment before it landed with a heavy thud on the cement platform. I didn't have any money left in my bank account, my credit card was maxed out, and all I had for cash in my purse was a crumpled up, sad looking 5 Euro note. But the part that stung the most was that I had no one beside me to share the disappointment with. I was alone. And this painful burden was mine.

I sat there alone on the cool cement floor just watching. The people continued to board trains and leave them, shuffle from platform to platform, say their good-byes and welcome backs, and that's when it hit me. I was stunned at first, maybe even a little hurt, but what matters is that it got to me. People kept on moving. Trains kept to their schedules. No one stopped because of my tragic streak of misfortune, no one cared. This world was going to keep on living and breathing and growing, with or without me.

So I slowly rose to my feet, pack secured to my back, and I marched over to the station's huge schedule lit up in yellow and green. With a quick skim through I found it, platform 13, my saving grace. I weaved between fellow travelers until I stood face-to-face with Trenitalia's 14:16 to Roma. I took the first step like you do a leap of faith, knowing all too well what I was getting myself into. But I didn't care. I boarded the train anyway. It was when I began to walk down the aisle I started noticing things. The over sized plush seats, the squishy red carpet that I could practically feel massaging my toes through my dirty sneakers, the leg room people over 6 feet dream off, and the men dressed in neatly pressed suits.


Shit. 


In an attempt to double back and get the hell out of there, I crushed a woman's neatly combed up-do with my pack and nearly sent her glasses flying. The whistle sounded and the doors shut. There was no going back. I ditched my bags in a very posh looking luggage bin and took my seat next to a wanna be stock broker with big pink cheeks and silver framed glasses. Don't worry, they hardly ever check tick-, I tried to reassure myself but was cut short but the soft calling for biggliettas. I peeked my head out into the isle just quick enough to see the small ticket woman coming my way. With my thoughts swirling together in a big jumbled mess, I did the first thing that came to mind. I closed my eyes, let my mouth fall ajar, and did the best damn imitation snore of my life. I could hear my heart beat rattling in head, bouncing around against my skull. And her footsteps getting closer were like a steady jackhammer. A waft of floral daisies let me know she had reached my row, and in a whispered voice she checked the tickets of those nearby and continued on. Anyone carrying a pair of fresh undies in their Armani briefcases today?

The train arrived in Rome in just over an hour. I did the fake sleep routine twice during that time and was never bothered. When I stepped off the train the weighted feeling of disappointment and loneliness seemed to some how muted themselves and I felt like a feather floating in the wind. Sure, I was alone, but for today I was on top of the world.

A Sight For Sore Eyes

I left Venice after a few days with a heavy heart and an even heavier stomach. But aside from the good food, spectacular architecture, and winding waterways I had already expected, there wasn't much anchoring me to the city. Sounds crazy, I know, describing this majestic city with a whirlwind of adjectives and then summon the nerve to say it wasn't good enough. But all of these things, the gondolas, the street vendors, the wave after wave of blatant tourists seemed somehow staged. As if there was nothing past the picture on the postcard. I was beginning to question whether or not that Italian magic everyone talks about really existed.

Then I headed South to Florence. There I once again dipped into the couchsurfing bank and spent the next couple of days with an Italian speaking Turkish medical student. While he was away at class, I took to the sights. Well, to be perfectly honest I sprinted from awning to awning avoiding the blistering rays from the 35 degree sun and indulged in one or two cups of flavored gelati. During one of my walk abouts I found myself at the bus station, timetable in hand, and just enough money to get to Siena and back again before night fall. So I boarded the bus and set off for a new city; one that I hoped would deliver me the little slice of Italy I had been dreaming about.

Siena was beautiful, of course. But it was a mind-numbing, what's-next-on-the-agenda kind of beautiful. I wandered through the medieval city but couldn't stop myself from checking my watch, bored. With the heat almost unbearable, I had thrown on a light cotton skirt and a white tank top before I left and could already feel the beads of sweat trickling down the backs of my legs.

I admired the Gothic architecture of Siena's cathedral before finding myself melting in a pool of my own sweat in the Palazzo Pubblico. Cafe patios were buzzing with conversation as the patrons drank their iced cappuccinos and sought refuge under the cool awnings. Still standing in the sweltering heat, I began rocking from side to side. White dots speckled my vision and I became light headed within seconds. But before I had the chance to collapse and make a complete fool of myself in this busy square, a giant gush of wind was summoned from God knows where, snapping me back to the present. I exhaled a sigh of relief before noticing all of the gawking faces that were now directed towards me. Following their horrified glares, I looked down only to notice two pasty white legs, unaccompanied by the previous mentioned cotton skirt. My cheeks flushing red I reefed the skirt down from around my waist where it sat scrunched up after the sudden gush of wind and looked around frantically for an escape route. Tourists who had stopped to watch the spectacle began giggling uncontrollably and their stifled  laughs followed me as I tried to navigate my way through the old city. When I finally reached the bus station, I collapsed on a bench, out of breathe, but relieved none-the-less. When the shock of having flashed the entire population of Siena wore off, I couldn't help but laugh at myself, bare ass and all.

I didn't find the magic of Italy in Tuscany's medieval city. But I think in a way my little fiasco in the square was a reminder that it's out there, somewhere, but it won't be giving itself up without a fight.