Corie, Corie, Corie. What have you gone and gotten yourself into this time? I consider myself to be tough, which I realize now more than ever is all relative, but for the first time since arriving in Europe, I cried the night I arrived in Albania.
That’s a good hook, right? You’re definitely going to read this entire, very long post now, aren’t you? Because really, the reason I’m here is to become a better writer. Not by having ridiculous experiences and rambling about them, but by actually learning from a real live writer at a real live writing retreat that just so happens to be in Albania.
I found out about the writer’s retreat in a roundabout way. You know the story… I wrote to a bunch of Workaways and a woman replied saying, “I see you are an aspiring writer — let’s talk!” By the end of my conversation with Shawn, I had agreed to work on their Albanian farm for three weeks in exchange to attend the writer’s retreat at the end of the month. They would be hosting a yoga retreat prior to the writing retreat that I would have to staff, but it sounded like fun. I was so excited about maybe getting some direction in my life (life coaching and “how to make it as a writer” included), that I ignored the fact that my accommodations would be in a dorm room with up to 3 other people, with the tag line, “Come play in the dirt.” I signed up for all of it.
On Tuesday morning, I hopped on the ferry from delightfully delightful Corfu and arrived in Sarandë less than an hour later. From the brief time I spent there, I can say that Sarandë is a beautiful seaside tourist town lined with a long white sand beach, and a crystal blue bay as its centerpiece. “Ah, what a lovely and quaint place this is. Albania is cake!” I thought naively.
I went to an ATM because I read that few places in Albania accept cash, got out 10,000 Lek, (about $100) and headed to the nearest cafe to wait for Shawn. I had a nice coffee and journaled because I feel like that’s what an intrepid, bohemian traveler does — and I was feeling like an intrepid, bohemian traveler.
But when does she cry?! Don’t worry, I’m getting there. Shawn picked me up and I liked her immediately. She is a pint sized firecracker who, with her husband, left a 40 year career in the entertainment industry in Los Angeles to build a farm and sanctuary in the Balkan foothills. Kind of wild, kind of crazy, but absolutely going for it. (I’m sensing a theme from Workaway hosts here.) We walked around Sarandë while Shawn ran errands and shared anecdotes that shed light on just how ridiculous and frustrating life in Albania can be.
Along the way, we stopped at a grocery store and I asked if I should pick up some groceries. “We have the staples,” she said, “except if you have to have bacon every morning. We don’t supply bacon. Or beer.” So I bought a few beers because I don’t need bacon but beer… After the errands were finished, we headed out to the farm.
It’s always a little nerve wracking to get into a stranger’s car and drive with them to an unknown location that will be my home for the next month, particularly in a foreign country, and as we drove away from the dazzling coast and up into the hills, past a gypsy camp and turned onto a dirt road, I had my first, ‘fuck, what have I gotten myself into,’ moment. But I didn’t start crying just then.
We drove for a few minutes up a gravel and pothole filled road, which then turned to dirt, and at last we had arrived at Bote farms. Shawn and I were greeted by two slobbery, barking dogs whom she assured me were big, stupid, sweethearts. The farm is kind of divided into to parts, the lower, residential part, and the upper commercial part. But it’s all dirt.
Our communal area with the very dirty shipping container kitchen in the background
The lower part consists of a building that is split between the bunk house and Shawn and Kyle’s house, a shipping container that has been sawed in two halves, one of which creates the communal kitchen and the other half full of their crap from the US. There is also a garage, and a table and chairs set up outside as a communal area.
Shawn showed me into the bunk house, which has 4 bunk beds. “You’ll be sharing this room with Ashley; it’s only the two of you. For now.” I liked the idea of sharing a room with just Ashley, but the joke was on me because while Ashley is lovely, he is a grungy British dude. Then Shawn showed me the bathrooms and shower, which she agreed were absolutely fucking disgusting. “Oh, I hope the guys will clean up around here,” she said, casually. Yeah right.
Yet, I still didn’t cry. Nor did I cry when she showed me the kitchen, which was equally as gross as the bathrooms (although thankfully in a kitchen and not bathroom way), and the “pantry” which was “stocked” with pasta, a few jars of pasta sauce, some rotting vegetables and stale bread. Well, fuck. “Ok, well if there’s anything you need, let me know. Go get settled in. I have to get back to work but I’ll make dinner for everyone tonight,” Shawn told me. She took off, and I STILL didn’t cry.
I went into the bunk house, found a bottle of bleach and went to town on the showers and toilet. There are 4 other Workawayers here and even though they’re all guys, I couldn’t imagine them being ok with the level of filth. Yet, I didn’t want to be the person who called a team meeting on my first day and complained about their lack of hygiene. For the record, if you know me, I’m not a clean freak. Like, my standards aren’t thaaat high. So for me to say all this, you know shit was bad.
A goat with evil Pete in the background, waiting for his chance to bite my thumbs off
Anyway, I cleaned the shower and bathroom, mopped the floor in the bunk house, which had a solid layer of dirt on it, and then went to walk the farm. I found Shawn and she introduced me to the goats, chickens, and Pete the donkey, who is apparently a real jerk. The other day he tried to rip the thumb off Mark, a Workawayer who worked at a donkey sanctuary prior to this farm, so it’s not like he doesn’t know how to deal with donkeys. Pete is just mean so I will steer clear.
The upper cabins. Some day this place is going to be awesome…
Shawn then showed me the cabins they’ve been building on the property. There are 6 lovely, loft style cabins, each with their own theme and all thoughtfully laid out, with all the modern conveniences. They have AC, kitchenettes, beautiful views of the mountains on the other side of the valley, and I could easily see myself being very comfortable in one. The only problem is that they aren’t done. They are all about 90% completed, but they’re not inhabitable yet, not to mention the theme that the interiors are covered in a thick layer of dust, like everything around here.
“Um, what about the yoga retreat next week?” I asked, not being able to imagine that the cabins would be done for guests to show up in a week, let alone a month. “Oh,” Shawn said. “We’re going to do a modified retreat with mostly local friends. The yoga teachers I recruited came out last week (from India!) to check out the farm, and they decided they couldn’t host a retreat here so they left. So I’m going to teach a smaller retreat.” Yeah, no shit they don’t want to host yoga classes here. It’s not ready, I thought to myself. I was bummed that the yoga retreat wasn’t happening, because what the fuck am I supposed to do here for three weeks… besides clean.
Yet, I still didn’t cry. I was glad for the beers I had bought in town because the nearest store was god knows where. I drank one as I sat in the communal area and waited with a growling stomach for some sign of dinner to be started. As they finished work for the day, the Workaway guys introduced themselves to me and were polite enough, but all went about their evenings and did their own thing. I poked around the kitchen but really the only things to eat were a jar of peanut butter, a few eggs, and cheap carbs. I was grateful Shawn was going to pull a dinner miracle out of her hat because to my eye there was no food to be had, and the kitchen was so dirty that I wouldn’t have even known where to begin to cook without getting some food borne illness.
After dark, Shawn walked into the kitchen and said, “Sorry but I have a banking emergency that I have to take care of, so I can’t make dinner tonight. You’re all on your own. But don’t eat the eggs because I will make breakfast for everyone tomorrow. Sound good?” And she walked off. It’s a good thing it was dark because that’s when I lost it.
I grabbed my beer and walked to the upper farm so I could cry alone. What the fuck had I gotten myself into? And how was I going to get myself out of it? I did what any full grown adult (who has a mom they love) does when they’re sad, I called my mom. She reminded me that I didn’t have to stay if I felt uncomfortable or unsafe. I’m definitely safe, I told her, and I’m not uncomfortable from fear, it’s just dirty and there’s no damn food. Mom helped me calm down and told me to reassess in the morning.
With a bit of perspective, I felt guilty about the somewhat harsh review I left for Giulia, realizing that the work stay with her was goddamn palatial compared to this. Give me emotional manipulation any day, so long as it comes with a spotless Italian villa, a stocked wine fridge and a kitchen full of food. But that ship sailed, and I jest — sort of. Albania is my new home, for an undetermined amount of time. I had a peanut butter, banana and a Xanax for dinner, climbed into my squeaky little bunk bed and went to sleep.
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