Guest Blog

I am pleased to have, as a guest contributor to my Blog, my wife Lee, who will share her experiences traveling to and visiting me in Macedonia.

I’ll spare everyone and be brief about the first six days of, my visit this time: the jetlag; the lost luggage/no clothes because carry-on luggage was full of heavy stuff for Michael and the Peace Corps.; and the three-day flu, so vile that if it ever comes back, I will lop off my own head just to get it over with. I stared at ceiling moaning piteously day and night while Michael made excuses to all the people I had met on my last visit, many of whom expected to be first on my rounds of welcome back Na Gosti (barely translatable, means have a visitor as a guest).

Poor, poor me!

But I’m going to consider today, Oct. 11, the start of a three week visit and simply dismiss my first week here as a bad dream. It all would have happened anywhere in the world.

Except maybe the part about how I should spend five hours on various buses and an hour in a taxi to pick up my luggage at a different airport than the one I had arrived at…

Luggage balks at Balkans

I had arrived in Sofia Sunday afternoon excited to see Bulgaria, my husband and the lovely Macedonian town of Probistip, not necessarily in that order. Apparently my luggage did not share my enthusiasm and had decamped somewhere between Boston and the Balkans. Air Bulgaria would fly it to the Macedonian capital of Skopje when they found it, I was told, and I could go pick it up myself. (A clerk was unmoved by my despairing plea about the length of that journey, and the fact that by then I would be in my fifth day without a change of underwear. Apparently a long history of invading their western neighbor made any sort of ground sortie by Bulgarians onto Macedonian soil problematic).

Fortunately Michael is sophisticated in the ways of Eastern Europe by now and with the help of our Bulgarian-speaking driver (Bobbie), found someone who saw the wisdom of keeping foreign visitors happy. They would drive my luggage to the border when they found it and hand it off to Bobbie to drive it back to Probistip.

Faster, better, cheaper—the American way. This approach had apparently never occurred to them, so score another blow for international understanding.

There are grapevines, and then there are grapevines.

I continue to be amazed at how news travels in a town without a daily community newspaper, community center, phone chain or e-mail chain (there is a local TV station with local news and community happenings). Nattily attired in a pair of old slacks I had used to pad a delicate electronic device in my carry-on luggage and the most effeminate tee shirt in my husband’s wardrobe, I ventured out on day two for an espresso in the town square and the makings of dinner.

After 10 months of working and teaching in this small mountain town, Michael seems to have gotten on hailing terms with most of its residents, so just strolling to the center with him could turn into a half-day excursion. Many neighbors now wanted to stop and exchange a few words with the Amerikanski. Today was no exception.

As we made our way the few blocks from Michael’s apartment building to the café we discovered that, to a man--or woman, as the case tended to be at this time of day--each person we encountered already knew I was in town and understood precisely why I was so oddly attired. Our vegetable vendor knew. The butcher knew. The folks relaxing in the café knew.

Had someone posted a notice in the municipal building?

Staggering back home with our cloth shopping bags full we were not , of course, surprised to find that Yelitza, the tiny baba from the next building, knew all about my arrival. We’d spent hours chatting and drinking coffee in her apartment on my last visit, so she would have been considered an interested party—but how did people I’d never met know this detail of my life?

Who cares, already?

And why would anyone who did happen to know it think it was interesting enough to pass on? But Yelitza moved on quickly to news of her own: she had learned some Engliski since I last saw her.As we waited expectantly she drew herself up to her full 4’9”, thrust her thumbs up in the air and pronounced clearly: “aw-w-w-l-l-righty!” Jim Carrey’s mother would be so proud.

Back at apartment building #6 on 11 Oktombre Street, a never-before-met neighbor commiserated over the lost luggage, of course, and then chattered on to Michael for several minutes.

“She’s sorry about your luggage, but she says it will be here tonight,” Michael explained.

“You mean she hopes it comes tonight, right? You said that as if she knew,” I told him.

‘No, I meant she said it would be here tonight at 5. Bobbie left for the border an hour ago.”

And so he had, we discovered from a "missed-call' message on our cell phone a few minutes later. Even Michael doesn’t have enough command of Makadonski to find out how she came to know about my luggage before I did, but lesson learned none-the-less:

Don’t even think about doing anything in a Balkan village that you wouldn’t want every soul in town to know about.

I’m hungry (what else is new?) so I’ll sign off now and wander down to the front stoop. Someone out there is bound to know what Mikey is making for dinner tonight…