I teamed up with a Slovenian couple and an English guy whom I met at Velania guest-house for a trip to Peja. I didn’t know at the time how important Peja was, but I learned to trust people who traveled with a guidebook. Without much planning on where to go other than Pristinia, I feel relieved to find someone who would lead me during my remaining days in Kosovo. We arrived in Peja early in the morning, had a burek breakfast and a round of espresso before setting out to explore the city. Peja is a small town; we didn’t break a sweat finding our way. All we needed to do was following the main street from the bus station toward the mountain which dominated the city landscape, passing small shops, car parks and street cigarette vendors until we arrived at the entrance to Peja’s bazaar.
I left Velania guest-house, bought two bananas and an apple at a neighborhood store and walked down to the city center through small area pathways. At the main intersection, not knowing which direction to proceed and not bother to look at the map, I grabbed a man and asked for Bill Clinton and Mother Teresa. “Bill Clinton is there, and Mother Teresa is this way.” He pointed to two different directions. “Is it far?” “Bill Clinton is further down that direction. Mother Teresa is right here. Where do you want to go?” “I want Mother Teresa.” “Come with me.” He said and directed me to cross the street.
I woke at 3.30, not able to sleep because of the light from the window. I sat up from the seat, lowered the window and looked outside to uninteresting countryside landscape. I woke up the Macedonian, my bunk-mate, an hour later to move his legs aside so I could get out and find a train conductor who was nowhere in sight. One thing about train conductors is they are everywhere when you don’t need them, interrupt you in your meditative state of being to check your train ticket and wake you up from your beauty sleep at night to do another ticket controlling. The Macedonian rose from his
I woke up at 10, had a quick wash and quietly walked downstairs. The friend was sleeping on the couch next to table-fill of beer bottles and cigarette butts. I circled the flat for a brief five minutes and came near him whispering ‘hello, hello.’ He didn’t hear and sat down on the chair on the other side of the table, waiting for him to wake up. I took out my guidebook and tried to read, if not it would look awkward when he opened his eyes and saw a stranger staring at his face praying for him to wake up. It wasn’t my fixation that rattled him up.
My name is Cindy, also rhymes with travel junkie. A friend said I was probably a gipsy in my previous life. One of my many secret missions in life is to convert you to run off every once in awhile.
