Shihemi

Day thirty-three, Albania. Pulling back is doing me good. I work in my room and walk on the beach when my head is full. In the afternoons I sit in the garden with Gzim, the father of Spartac, who is my host.

Gzim speaks Albanian. I speak German and English. We understand each other anyway, by opening up and looking at each other while we talk. I simply speak German and tell him about the journey and about what is moving around inside me.

Gzim nods and answers in Albanian. I listen. I catch Pogradec, paradiso, super, and I can see from his hands that he likes the company and is glad to spend the afternoon in paradise with me.

It is a small paradise, the guest house and the town. I can't put my finger on why. The house has a green front and looks like all the other houses. Pogradec is a town on a lake, and the lake is turquoise, and that is all it is.

Is it the hospitality? The way people live here, without arranging it first? I don't have to understand it. What I notice is that my confidence in people is growing back, and I had not expected that to be possible.

„Shihemi, shihemi,“ Gzim says, and makes me say it after him until I have it.

See you again.