beers by the river, and so so much joy

I heard somewhere that a home is not about a place, but rather the people you share it with. I've been existing here in Çorovodë for a little over two months now. Existing: a word that I feel really sums up what it feels like to all of the sudden step off the bus into a place completely unknown and begin the work of both searching for and building a home. I'll be the first person to tell you that this work has not been easy, nor has it been quick. At some point during the last two months I forgot where I was headed, the shining goal of finally feeling at home, the work I was doing every day to get there because it had just faded into my life as an ingrained part of my daily purpose.

Meet my new best friend, Tiger, who loves me for me, and doesn't care that I had been wearing that outfit for 2 solid days, and 4 solid bus rides.

So the other day, I arrived at the office and found the door locked as my boss sometimes has early morning meetings. As usual, I smiled and moseyed on over to the library across the hall, where I am always met with friendly faces, patient conversations in my broken Shqip, a familiar chair, and a steaming cup of Turkish coffee pa sheqer, just the way I like it. I sank into my chair, my chair that I no longer have to retrieve as it has now has taken up permanent residence in the circle. I leaned against the bookcase. I sipped my coffee and listened to the conversation. All of the sudden it clicked. I knew that I was home.

I don't know when it happened, but I can tell you precisely who happened. The first people that I met in Çorovodë have become a sort of surrogate family for me. I spend my free time whiling away the hours at their coffee shop, chatting with the regulars, and helping out whenever things get a little crazy. I honestly can't express to you how much I appreciate the hours spent sitting with that family, but perhaps this story can shed a bit of light. A few weeks ago the button on my jeans was lost to the depths of a Turkish toilet. Panicked and sporting a lovely gaping jean situation, I ran to Bartha, and I stood in the middle of her crowded coffee shop while she literally pinned me back into my pants. How lucky I am to know where to go, and who will know what to do, when I am at my worst.

0.7 seconds after this picture, the first thunder roared through the canyon, and we flat out sprinted through the storm back to the car in sandals.

Then there are the people who just refuse to give up on me, and let me fall by the wayside when they notice the blank stare on my face that means I don't understand, and I am falling into my own little world inside my head. It is so easy, so tempting to give up and walk away from a conversation with someone who speaks at a solid 0.2 miles per hour, only to backtrack to self-correct, all the while going in the complete opposite direction as expected. These are the people who are both endlessly patient and endlessly forgiving, but perhaps what I appreciate most about them is their incredible curiosity and caring about me as a person. Sitting at coffee with his mother, Niku looked at me, and this incredible gaze of understanding came across his face. He turned to his mother and simply said, "Just watch her face". A strange command really, but what he was telling his mother was that, she could talk to me, I could do it, but that she just needed to be in that moment with me and give me grace. So we sipped our coffee and chatted, and 2 hours later, I walked into her father's house, was met with a tentative glance, and heard Niku's mother say, "Just watch her face".

I asked Niku if he was afraid of heights, and he said no. His reaction to this bridge would say otherwise.

So then there's the people who never let me feel alone. You know those moments in life where you walk into a party where you are so painfully clearly the odd one out? You begin your casual stroll, which is really just a disguise for the frantic search for other oddballs, then find them, and become unlikely friends brought together by mere circumstance, but eternally thankful for their oddball presence nonetheless. That is quite literally my entire life here. I'm the eternal oddball, searching for other oddballs, and knowing that no one is quite as odd as I am. So my coping mechanism for this is to always take my camera to events. That way, at least in my mind, I look like I have a reason for walking around by myself. I'm doing a job. Still, being an oddball sucks. Last week we had an event, so as usual I grabbed my camera, and went along my way. Then, I was informed that I needed to be at a restaurant for lunch that followed. Oh no. I can't hide behind a camera while sitting at a table. Somehow, some way, in the midst of him actually having a job at big events and having little to no time to waste chatting with my wide-eyed self, Aurel just showed up to where I was standing, panicking, and attempting to ready myself to walk into the restaurant. He became my fellow oddball on the sidelines so that regardless of my oddball standing, all of the sudden I had a place. The thing is, he is not an oddball. He had a place in the thick of it all, but he chose to become an oddball so that I could find mine.

So this picture is badly timed... I swear he just gave me that chocolate, I'm not stealing food from the birthday boy.

So then there are the people who make my time here feel worth it. The little successes, and the relationships built along the way, that prove to me that my time here hasn't been worthless, and won't be forgotten. Really, these are the things that tell me that I belong here. For the past three months, I have been tutoring with English and helping students prepare for tests. One of the people I work with the most is Iva. Every day I go there after work for 3, sometimes 4 hours, to help her prepare for an exam. Over the past months, I have come to know and love the entire family that lives under that roof. The grandparents who often pick particularly beautiful and sweet-smelling flowers for me, Iva's husband, who speaks English, but is shy about it, and Iva's son, who just turned 3 last week. I just got the call I have been waiting for for two weeks that the test results were in, and she did it. All of the hours spent poring over books, papers, and running dry pen after pen have finally paid off. She did it. But what I love most in this moment is that, last week, before we got the results, I walked into Eni's birthday party. He heard my voice from his room, and starting screaming "Joy!", his name for me. "Joy!", my favorite thing to hear when I'm out walking down the street, because I know that when I look up, I will see a kid, breaking away from his parents, and running full speed ahead into my arms.

So there's an old communist bunker in Gjirokaster that makes a superb dancefloor.

So this is my life, and this is my home. The thing is, none of the actions that these people do every day are extraordinary. In fact, these things are particularly ordinary. What's important though is that these people have made a point to include me, to give me a place, to make me feel like I have a right to be here, with them, doing life. Perhaps without even realizing it, they make me feel like my presence is also, particularly ordinary.

So today after work, I will change into my swimsuit and head off to the river, I'll pass by Besniku, laugh, and take the beer he holds out to me, and I'll take up my favorite spot under an old tree, thankful that I have it.