Land of the Eagle

There is something so perfectly melancholy about a Balkan winter, replete with rain and early dark.

I would move back there in a heartbeat. And yet it was hard: Gimli was working 12-hour days and I was with the kids 24/7. We all got sick and it rained almost every day, making it hard to get out and do things.

And it was good too – we saw so many friends, ate delicious food – I could rave on and on about the sweet fresh carrots and potatoes and leeks – it was so much fun to speak Albanian again and realize how well I remembered what I’d learned before.

We revisited old haunts, Illyria remembered a lot of places, we caught up with people.

But I don’t live there anymore. I don’t know if we ever actually will again. For now, it was enough just to be there, to see Dajti, to say “përshendetje” and “faleminderit,” to tell the kids stories about their early years (and things they don’t remember), just to be there. It was enough.

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