It finally stroke - homesickness

Yesterday we celebrated Thanksgiving by having lunch in a fish restaurant Trofta in Istog. Before that, I woke up to a freeeeezzzzzzzing morning. It was cold. It was humid. It rained outside. I really didn't want to get up, only to stay under the blanket. Having even just the head outside the only warm thing in my house, the blanket, was too much. And then there is an ice-cold bathroom, with an ice-cold toilet seat and even colder bathtub. Kitchen instead- it feels like a huge fridge but it's not, because temperature in fridge should be lower than elsewhere and my whole downstairs is like one big cold beer - at least temperature and humidity match. Which means that if I want to cook something that takes longer than a few minutes I need to wear gloves.

And the worst is that outside it's not even below zero. I'm not sure of inside. This kills me. In Finland they had new records for coldest November weather, up to (or should I say down to) -33 C. Inside it's still pleasant +22 C. Or knowing my father, up to +25 C when he heats the fireplace.

I miss proper insulation. I miss proper heating. I miss big fireplaces that store the heat and keep the house warm the next day. And then it hit - So I started to actually to miss home. I started really missing home. I miss snow. I miss cold but dry weather. I miss skiing. I miss my friends. I miss supermarkets with wide selection of food. I miss easy cooking. I miss Finnish coffee. I miss candy. Christmas songs and decorations that start already in October. I miss driving a car. I miss reading newspapers and magazines. Sauna. PlayStation. Family. Ballet. Movie theaters. Did I mention coffee already?

So when we were going to the restaurant my mood equaled with cloudy and rainy, grey weather. (Oh, forgot to mention, I miss boneless fish dishes, yogurt, cheese, milk, salads, feta-spinach pie etc.) Coming back towards Peja, clouds gave way to sunshine and revealed the mountains that had been covered in snow. I hadn't seen them for a few days because of rainy weather. They were so beautiful, untouched. My miserable mood changed to smile. An easy life - didn't I try to escape that? What's there to complain anyway? A little suffering won't kill anyone. Next time, I need to bring my skis here.

Boys boys boys

They are raised to be kings of the city, if not the world. They are let to do whatever they want, and even encouraged to do stupid things. They are spoiled, they are wayward, they are sons. They are loved. More than daughters.

Within a week I have twice stopped a bunch of boys tormenting a stray kitten. Last time yesterday. A kitten was running under a car, three boys following and trying to kick it. I flipped out (in my mind) and angrily compelling them to stop. I got some weird faces but didn't care. Finally boys ran away and the kitten was safe for a while at least.

The other day we were having a walk with my friend. In one hour timeline two random boys tried to kick or hit us. And what do parents do? They laugh. Boys are boys.

Here, a family concept is different. A new wife moves to her husband's home after the wedding. And I mean home-home. With a mother-in-law, and other brothers' families. She goes to visit her own family once a month for a week or so. In her new home, under the eye of the mother-in-law, the newest bride serves everyone. She stands up whenever someone comes of goes to the room. She brings coffee to guests. This continues until she gives birth to a son. Daughters don't count. Sons do. Oh, and only the sons inherit, too.

What is this patriarchal society? Raised to believe in equality, I find it really hard to accept such things. Today, (I would say luckily) more and more city girls share my thoughts. But village girls - this is their dream. To get married to a wealthy family. To get a son. Because they are so precious. They are kings of the city.

-Do you miss home? -No. -Why? -Because I'm already there.

Flashbacks – Slovenia. How great team of young Albanians I had! I received so many kisses, I-love-you's accompanied by looking straight to my eyes, hugs ans smiles from so many, just for the sake of seeing me.

And summer camps. This nine years old boy, before learning to say “I love you“ in English, came to me, smiled widely and said “te dua”. (Well then he learned some English and started to ask me if I'm crazy).

This (as well as many other things) made me think. How hard is it to open your mouth and talk about feelings? Extremely hard. Have I ever told my family that I love them? Not that I recall. Would I loose anything if I did that? No. Did I have to go 2200 km away to realize that? Apparently. Should I do something to fix this? How hard can it really be?