Laç and My Pilgrimage

Outside Tirana lies a small city called Laç (Lachee). The city starts at the bottom of a hill and then melds up into the side up and over. Above the city into the canyon and continuing up the mountain is the Laç Church. The Church is like a candle and the city melts like wax down the hill pooling at the valley below.

We get into the taxi, which is a man's blue minivan. I am not excited about this particular choice as I see the driver with a cigaret between his fingers, grey smoke and flecks of ash filling the vehicle. We get in and sure enough the smoke travels back into my face. Luckily the side windows roll all the way down. As we head down the road I observe how the smoke fuming off his cigaret gets sucked out the window. He puts out the cig and looks back, "I love to speak English!"

He realized we were Americans and heard us speaking English with our Albanian friend. We begin to chant and get to know each other. He lived in northern England, in Birmingham for many years. I could tell by the way he spoke. His English accent was almost Scottish. He was a chef, worked in England and Italy. Now he works as a taxi driver supporting a wife and some children. Another man enters the van and he speaks with him up front for the rest of the drive. Our friend informs us that many cars have been stolen by people from Laç including a car from David Beckham. I was suspicious of the truthfulness of his story, but as we entered the town, I must admit, there was a sudden large number of very nice vehicles.

The city is strikingly smaller than the capital. I look up to the climb ahead of us. We trail through the city, passing markets, grandpas and grannies, and asking for directions on the way. We begin the descent as the city begins to merge into the hill. I am taken back to my mission, to the Pueblos, half finished houses, crosses, even the smell is similar. We hike up the winding streets and enter a small clearing with no more houses just foothills and pine trees, like the foothills of Morrison, in Colorado back home. We come upon a huge cemetery. I enter eager to see. Many families are buried together. the stones and words are beautiful. after a good 20 minutes of discover we head out and as we are approaching the gate I notice a fresh mound, with flowers completely covering the newly dug grave. I stop in my tracks as I suddenly feel I am now on hollowed ground. Maybe they were old, sick, or perhaps a small child, a teenager or young adult in the "best years" of their life. The flowers were beautiful. A thought came to my mind, what if we were to shower each other with this love in life like we do in death? 

The ascent was long with a plethora of stairs! The mountains were quiet except for the occasional bell ring from the cows roaming on the mountain side. As we pass the locals wish us, "May the Church and the trinity bless you and help you." 

The Church is a place of a sort of pilgrimage. Many climb to the top to solicit prayers, desires, worries, and wishes to God. Many students will climb to the top and prayer for good grades on their exams. There are not many Catholics in Albania so to experience such church and familiar tradition was surreal. Even in the town I noticed a lot of pork shops, of which are more scarce in Tirana because of the high population of Muslims.

We finally reach the church which hangs on the side of a mountain like some kind of castle out of a Cinderella movie. The rock face on the side of the road is black from candles burning. Under the church is a small cave. Inside it is as if the walls are bleeding white and red and honey brown from the innumerable candles that are lit and their wax streaming down the walls. On the floor there are many small photos of different people. I lean down and find a note. My friend translates a prayer written by a former pilgrim. She prayed for her grades, and then she begged God to help her family get papers to be able to travel to America, so they could emigrate legally. Looking around I realize there are many more notes on the floor and shoved into the cracks of the rocks, this is temple of sorts, painted by the wax and words of prayers and wishes.

The church had a small convent on the side of it. The actual chapel was quite small. It reminded me of the iglesias in Mexico. Similar saints and set up. We sat and meditated for about 15 minutes. 

Finally we reached the very top which had an enormous cross, easily 3 stories high. We stare in awe for a while at the majestic cross and the breath taking view of the whole valley and into the sea. 

"It is crazy to think," says my friend, "what it would have been like, to see the Christ on the cross." 

I find a small red candle on the ground. I pick it up and walk over the the base of the giant cross, blackened from the carbon of years of candle burning. The ground is slick with wax absorbed into the concrete. I take the little red candle and place it next to the 70 lek that an old woman had put down. I look down at my little red candle, representing my little pilgrimage, appearing tiny before the massive structure.

Are we not all pilgrims, trying to find our way?

stories

I am finishing up a book of mine and about to start another. I open the front cover of the next book and find a note a close friend had written. She tells me how thankful to God she is for having allowed our paths to meet. As I read this note I saw it as a ripple in my life. I felt tears form in my eyes as I too was so grateful to have her in my life. I thought of all the people from all over the world that I have had the privilege of being good friends with. Many of them from Peru, Mexico, Germany, Canada, China, Egypt, U.S., Costa Rica, and Albania. I feel small in thinking how they have befriended me and shown me such love. I shrink in thinking that I could have been a better friend to them. Yet, I throw a prayer to heaven in gratitude, having been allowed to come to know who I would consider some of the best blood of this world.

I am writing a book and I find that as I write, experiences come to mind. Some are mine, some are those that have been told to me, some from other books I have read. Regardless, my story will end up becoming an organized piece of artwork representing the experiences of real people. Storytelling is the art and ability to capture the human experience and give it meaning. As we live through our lives looking through the lens of our eyes, we see things like we are the main  character of a movie. When we remove ourselves from ourselves as we listen to each other, we begin to watch a different film. Through someone else's eyes we see the world in different colors, maybe even HD! We encounter different scenarios that we could never imagine. But eventually we find ourselves in a similar scene, laughing a similar laugh, shedding a similar tear, hugging a similar hug, kissing a similar kiss, and saying a similar goodbye. It is in these scenes we find ourselves. 

I more than anything, love to hear stories of others. I love to feel their emotions throughout these permanent moments in eternity. It is a rich experience to reach that moment when I see myself in them, and them in Me. Through stories we connect to each other. I am grateful to have such sweet people apart of my story that I tell, and for the countless stories they told me.

Krujë and the Castle of Skënderbej

   

Our friends offered to take us to the city of Krujë for the day. Krujë is a city outside Tirana about 30 min. I is built on a mountain side. In it is found the castle of George Castrioti, also known as Skënderbej. He was an Albanian that grew up studying with the Turks. He learned and became an expert in their military style. He knew how they fought, how they lived, who they were. He worked his way up until he was high in command in the Turkish military. He then abandoned his post and returned to his home. He rallied many tribes in Albania to come together against the Turks. His expertise in warfare kept the Turks at bay. They never were able to triumph against Skënderbej. He was able to keep the Turks from flooding into the middle of Europe. The Pope named him "defender of Christianity". When he died, a man with the last name Lek took control and for 11 more years defended against the Turks before they finally overtook the region. That is why Albania is predominantly Muslim, because of the Ottoman takeover. 

                                     

The city was beautiful. The path up to the castle was a market of souvenirs. Shops contained many Albanian flags, magnets, and the works. Others had handmade goods and some ladies were even making rugs right there in front of us! The most interesting and impressive part was the antiques and historical artifacts for sale. Many badges, weapons, apparel, and instruments from the communist age an some before! It was super interesting. I wanted to buy everything! There were some communist propaganda about the Red China when Mao was the Chairman. I want to buy some historical artifacts as well as some modern art from Albania. It was cool to see the traditional market set up. The place was perfect for tourism, however Albania still lacks the tourism it could facilitate. The Skënderbej Museum was a great experience and had a wonderful structure. I imagined crowds of people someday walking through it learning of the rich history of Albania and its hero.  

1001 Albanian Nights

Every weekend the evenings are full of outings and adventures. Albanians have a wonderful way of hanging out. Going out to get drinks with friends and just talking is their version of a good time. This is something I am planning to take home with me. Sometimes it is hard to find something to do, but what better than to get out of the house, go out for some hot chocolate or something fresh, and just chat. There is nothing like a group of souls sharing experiences, opinions, and great conversation. 

Our friend took us to the top of what we call the "sky tower," a big building with a rotating café at the top. In about 40 min you will have seen the city in every direction. But not knowing I put my things in the window thinking it would be a great place. The windows don't move, only the floor, so 10 minutes later when it is time to pay, my things have disappeared! luckily all was found.

We also had a çofta night. It is like a sausage that they put in bread kind of like a hot dog. It is quite delicious. I always enjoy spending time with the Beleshi family. They make Albania feel like home. 

This last weekend we were invited to a special restaurant. They had live music, great lighting, great food, and the ambient was incredible! 

We ordered our pizzas and began eating. I asked if they had any hot sauce (love hot sauce on pizza, learned that in Mexico). They had Tabasco which is alright. I had the daughters of the family try it. The older daughter likes spicy, the younger thought it was pretty hot, but surprisingly she kept putting more on! 

The live music started to play a traditional song and everyone began to get up and run to the space in the middle of the room. Sister Beleshi urged us to go. Eti, Anja, Brady and I got up and ran to the middle to join the dance. It was a circle dance where everyone did the same steps in the same direction. The circle ended up making a swirl. The people were so passionate and into the dance! Everyone was smiling and laughing, I couldn't help but let my mouth join. I stumbled a few times but after about 3 minutes I got the hang of the steps. After a bachata like song came on and I taught Eti to dance bachata. Later a merengue like song came on and I danced merengue with Anja. And lastly there was some free dancing and more circle dancing and Sister Beleshi joined us. She is such a fun lady! We all danced the night away! I thought Latins were the only ones who knew how to party, but these Albanians sure know how to have fun! Ladies in the table next to us were getting up on chairs and singing along to the songs. It was magical how happy everyone was. Felt like home. Dancing for me is such a deep and uplifting experience. I feel that it is a form of worship, a way to show gratitude for all the blessings received. For music, for your body, for movement, for life. Dancing is like a tap into another place, far from where you are. Everyone involved enters paradise for a time. A place full of color, melody, spirit, movement, music, and most deeply, harmony.

 pretty sure it was ladies night at this table