(libby took this picture of fioralba and i.. inside of the castle)Sunday evening at 6:00 a girl whose name, 'Fioralba' could be translated as 'Albanian Flower' came to the convent looking for Libby and I. For not even being older than 15, her height and mature demeanor would lead anyone to believe she was at least, 20. Like most of the women that I've met in this country, the incredible kindness and enthusiasm for life, her home and this constant searching for things to laugh about that just shines in her eyes makes the time we spend together into something otherworldy.
We left the gates and started walking through the town we live in, passing fruit vendors and ice cream shops, stray dogs and women in heels and brightly colored skirts, carrying plastic bags full of vegetables, leaves poking out. The sky was cloudy for the first time in weeks and the streets, all pot holes and different colors of concrete like pieces of a quilt sewn together, with bricks between the gaps. There is not one working stop light in this entire town. A speed limit does not exist. No one has the right of way. It's life or death every time you cross the street. I often stand on the sidewalk, pretending to look at a sign, but only waiting for some street-savy passerby to cross so I can quickly follow behind, almost stepping on his heels.. hoping this isn't a tourist who is equally inept at stepping into traffic as i am. I'm not dead yet.
30 minutes into it and the sidewalks are getting dirtier, the buildings all hodge-podge and missmatched, as if a different architect had been hired for each structure, not letting any of the others see his plans. Old men pass us slowly, leaning on canes for support and wearing hats that had probably seen the invention of the bicycle. There are more and more people outside, standing on the sidewalks, most of the women wearing aprons and bandanas and lots of little children kicking balls between the cars and benches. They stared at us when we passed and I felt so detached and foreign, like an intruder but i didn't mean to be. Outside of the bars sat groups of men on boxes and crates and parts of broken sofas that whistled and hissed at us, saying words in Albanian. Fioralba said, "this is a dangerous part of town, but i am not afraid. you don't need to be afraid." I wasn't scared. "This is where the gypsies live," she said. The amount of political incorrectness in that statement meant nothing, because I was the one who was ignorant, naive and uninformed.
A group of kids whose thin, fading cotton outfits, covered in dirt fished through a pile of trash on the side of the road. A little boy about 4, lifted a moldy and rotting piece of cardboard over his head, letting old wrappers and banana peels fall to the ground. Stray cats followed us with their eyes as we passed. We were leaving the city.
More and more open fields began to show their faces and the sun was low, setting in the sky. Abandoned shops turned into farmhouses and we crossed onto a side road, all dirt that led up to the castle. Across the street was a small circus, ancient rides for children with rusting handles that would never pass inspection, but the music still worked. Women with huge and curly, frizzy bleached hair all different colors stood next to men watching little swings go in circles.
There were cows on the hills and the smell of pigs and chickens was everywhere. It's interesting how everywhere has a different smell, but farms seem to smell the same all over the world. It was kind of nostalgic.
The castle was in full view, high on a hill and majestic. We walked until the dirt turned into an ancient, cobblestone path that curved along the mountain and led up to the castle gate where a man, stood, collecting Lekes and allowing us in. The view from up there was incredible. I saw our town, well-manicured buildings in the center surrounded by rubble and old buildings, what we'd just walked through. The water, the mountains, the city. Our friend told us the legend of the castle because, even at 15, she is like so many of the others here, very aware of the story of her town and country.
Grass was poking up between the rocks and dotting the fields were poppies and daisies, wild. The castle brought me into another world, and I slowly started forgetting the images of the kids and garbage, and all of the eyes.
We walked back home and it felt much less shocking.
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