It’s week seven of PST (Pre-Service Training) and now everything is getting quite serious. Peer teaching is happening this Thursday, and Friday we receive our permanent sites: that is, where we will be for the next two years. Rumours, speculation and wild betting are definitely occurring as we all wait with nervous anticipation. I am definitely quite anxious. We can make some guesses: as I have been learning Albanian along with Macedonian, I will probably be placed somewhere in the western part of the country, possibly either in a majority Albanian or majority Macedonian place, or one that is fifty-fifty like my current training site. Otherwise, I have no clue.

Peer teaching is where two PCT (Peace Corps Trainees) co-teach some classes, whilst the counterpart observes us and gives us feedback. Next week, we will be solo teaching. I’m excited about both things, but as I have never co-taught, I am looking forward to balancing the classroom. The classes that I’ll be co-teaching are all final year students who are preparing for the ending exam called the Matura, and just like any final year of secondary school, they may be more than a little cynical and unwilling to play along. We shall see.

Autumn has FINALLY come upon us, and with it beautiful yellows and oranges. There was a hint of cold weather, but the 20s are still sticking around (20s = ~70 deg Farenheit). With the cold weather came all the wood burning stoves and a rise in air pollution. Living in a valley means that it settles on top of us like a smothering blanket. The rain has chased most of it away. Yesterday, on the 4th of November, our little valley experienced a 2.9 magnitude earthquake. Nothing was damaged: light fixtures shook and the metal blinds rattled. N Macedonia has a history of earthquake activity. Hopefully they all remain small and innocuous.

Small things of note:

• The pizza here is delicious. When I think of pizza cultures, trust me that I never would have thought of N Macedonia.
• Many of the grocery stores are run by Macedonians, even in majority Albanian parts of the city. Language switching throughout the day is exhausting, but ultimately rewarding.
• Most Macedonians that I have observed do not frequent Albanian restaurants or cafés, and Albanians do not frequent Macedonian ones. There being a distinct ethnic divide doesn’t really surprise me as a biracial person, but trying to navigate it with poor-ish language skills and a weak cultural grasp can be frustrating. My host family takes me to Albanian places, but many of the other PCTs have introduced me to Macedonian places. As a small rule of thumb that is not necessarily followed everywhere, Albanian places generally do not serve alcohol, whilst Macedonian ones do.
• I am learning standard Albanian and dialect Albanian at the same time. The grammar stays the same, but pronunciation can vary wildly. I don’t always remember the standard when I’m speaking in class.

What happens when you are a guest in someone’s home? What do they do for you? What are YOU expected to do? These are questions that one usually gives little thought to. Here in N Macedonia, there is a ritual to having guests over. In Macedonian, it’s На гости, and in Albanian it’s mysafiri. There are two different connotations to these words, but the concept is the same: you are visiting someone’s house, and you are their guest. In Macedonian, it’s to be a guest, and in Albanian, it’s to be somewhere else (assuming that you’ll be a guest there).

I have been guesting in quite a few households, both Macedonian and Albanian, since I’ve been here. The rituals are obviously different, but the feeling is the same: you must be taken care of as a guest. I visited a fellow trainee’s flat, where she lives with a busy Macedonian family. As soon as I arrived, I was given something to drink and then piles of snacks came to the table: grapes and apples, nuts and sweets. The table was pushed closer so we didn’t have to reach far. If we didn’t eat a lot, we were fussed over. I admit, I will eat all the cashews you put in front of me.

In the Albanian families, there is a set ritual, it seems. First, the tiny cups of very strong Turkish style coffee (I skip this step). Then the snacks come out. There are salty and savoury snacks, and you must eat at least a couple. The cold drinks usually come out at this step as well. There are multiple plates of the same types of snacks so nobody has to reach over anyone else. There is always soda, along with juice and water. There is also then the Turkish tea step. Turkish (or Russian) tea is brewed in a double broiler teapot: boiling water on bottom and the tea on top. The tea is brewed very strongly and then poured into a small glass that has sugar at the bottom; the boiling water is poured in to dilute it. Trust me, it needs to be diluted.

Honestly, this step is my favourite because there’s a thin slice of chocolate cake that follows. I don’t usually like chocolate cake, but this is more like a mousse. I have had it multiple times.

Of course, I, not being from this culture, usually make some gaffes. I help clear cups or try and help being coffee in, especially if, as happened recently, we are having guests where I’m living. But of course, being a guest is a very special thing. It’s the bonding that is the most important thing in a На гости or a mysafiri. It’s best to just be the guest, and enjoy the company. You’ll be there for a while, anyway.

Sometimes, when walking around my PST (Pre-Service Training) city, I feel like I’m in any European city. But then I hear the adhan (call to prayer for Muslims) and realise that there is something very different to this place. It’s hard to put your finger on it, but the sheer mix of ethnicity and culture is astounding. Western N Macedonia is heavily Albanian, and the city I find myself in has representation from all ethnicities. To best illustrate this, another PCT (Peace Corps Trainee) and I went to lunch together, and the menu was Albanian (until we got an English one). Our server was Macedonian, and they served Turkish coffee and tea to Turkish music. (Speaking of Turkish tea, it was a balm to my tea-loving soul–I have unluckily chosen another country that thrives on coffee.)

My host family is Albanian. When I say host family, I really mean host mother, as both her husband and her son are working in Germany. We live in what I would truly call a compound, houses surrounding a courtyard where we take most of our meals. She only speaks Albanian, which puts me on a bit of a back foot as I speak none of it. But I’m pretty sure I will catch on quickly and for now, charades and pointing get things done. However, my host mum does know two German words: spazieren (which means to go for a walk/a stroll) and essen (which means food). So at least I know when to eat and when to stroll about the city.

Part of a total immersion into a new and completely different culture is the ability to sit back and just let it wash over you. There are things that happen that I legitimately don’t understand, and can only describe. My host mum usually cooks dinner on a camp stove, but has two refrigerators (one for upstairs in what I call the “show kitchen” and one for downstairs in the “work kitchen”). Do I know why? No. We were warned in Orientation that we may have to negotiate for shower time because of the boiler situation (electricity is very expensive compared to the salaries); I can take showers whenever I please. My observation about having to put toilet paper in the bin in only true in my classroom now. I have a big bed and a television, and a desk at which to do my homework.

If you have ever seen Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s “The Danger of a Single Story”, you are probably thinking that my experience does not line up with what you may have heard about Peace Corps. I can hear you thinking You have running water and electricity! You have WiFi and I see BMWs in that picture up there! But it is not without hardship–the poverty of my city is palpable. There are casinos everywhere, false hope for a desperate people. A third of the population of the city is abroad, having given up this country for a bad job. You hear the scorn in young peoples’ voices when talking about it, and the wish to go anywhere else is strong: Germany, Switzerland, Italy. America is the holy grail, but one word stops a dream: ‘Visa’. A part of my job in the Peace Corps is to show host country nationals (HCNs) the beauty and worth of their own country. I hope they are infected by my enthusiasm.

NB: Sorry for all the initialisms/abbreviations. Like any federal government programme, Peace Corps is full of them. There are a few things I have to keep private (my exact location, for example), but I will never keep these secret from you.