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?
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