Two classic moments:
"Is that Linear B?" A question asked by a seeming stranger who happened to glance at my open computer screen as I whiled away an idle moment looking through an old lecture. Who on earth would recognize the squiggles on my screen as Linear B! Not a stranger at all, but Michael Galaty, a colleague who also took the path from Bronze Age studies to Albanian archaeology. We had met once before, years ago, and neither of us recognized the other this second time until Linear B prompted the question. We went on to dinner and shared stories.
On the ferry ride home a man from Corfu who introduced himself as Alky (short for Alkinoos) struck up a conversation. The time passed quickly in interesting conversation and when we landed, he gave me a ride from the port to my hotel -- a gesture for which I was grateful because it made things so much easier for me. The hotel was posh by comparison to my rooms in Sarande and the general atmosphere in Corfu is far more sophisticated and European than the city I had just left. I went to the rooftop restaurant for dinner, watched the sun set, and thought through my Albanian experiences. In my mind's wanderings, it came to me that in Homer's telling, the true beginning of Odysseus' return home is when he reaches the island of Phaeacia, ruled by king Alkinoos, famous for his hospitality.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
A Love Letter
This will be a love letter. I am a teenager again. Albania has stolen my heart.
It started last year, my last afternoon in the country, as I strolled through streets of Tirane made still by the double whammy of August-vacation and siesta-hour. I was alone, passing time before an evening plane to London, thinking about the two weeks that had just been. My head was spinning with impressions and possibilities. I had met a shipwreck, a research team, politicians, a language, a country. The bus ride from Sarande to Tirane that morning had reminded me of how much exploration and discovery still lay ahead. My head swirled. But as I strolled, the shaded quiet of the tree-rustled neighborhood of embassies and governmental buildings behind the statue of Skenderberg quieted me. I stepped through the open door of a shadowed courtyard that advertised a restaurant within, somewhat guiltily wakened the sleepy waiter, and enjoyed a snack of cheeses and beer. I remember planning a blog entry that would describe my thoughts about the shipwreck, but also that would share something of the beauty and promise I was beginning to feel about this land.
But I left for the airport and got caught up in schedules, deadlines, other commitments. The Albania project dissolved into a list of challenging logistics and I lost touch with the happy tingle of that afternoon. Even RPM’s generous invitation, this spring, to return elicited in me an anticipation for the project, but no leap of the heart.
You know from this blog that my first weeks here were a happy reunion with the RPM Supermen — Howard, still the nicest man you’ll ever meet; Todd, life of the party; George Robb, passionate visionary and mensch — and a whirlwind of good diving experiences. Fun and exciting, but not a love story.
It was during a drive to Tirane — shared with Dr. Anastasi, George, and Kela Qendro — that I fell in love. We drove half the country’s length along the coast road: plunging cliffs, narrow-streeted villages fringed by a dancing sea, sage-filled air, Kela and Adriani telling stories of the places we passed through. They told of families and histories, music and pirates, Caesar’s armies and Hoxha’s bunkers, of exile, return, hopes, cautions. The next day I returned to Sarande by bus and the inland road. Instead of the sea’s blue backdrop, hills of yellow wildflowers, their color intensified in the goldening light of the setting sun. I sat next to Leda, whom I met only just then. I learned that she runs the orphanage in Sarande, and makes the 6-7 hour bus trip (each way) every weekend to the capital in order to earn an advanced degree in administration. With her was one of her charges, a young boy who had gone to Tirane to get his first passport, and her colleague, an orphan who now assisted in running the institution. They invited me to sit with them during the half hour break in the bus trip, at a small eatery nestled into the bend of a cold-flowing creek. Dusk turned to dark. The people in our group became shadows that occasionally flashed teeth or eye-whites; firefly-embers of burning cigarettes traced the movements of their hands. The music was of running water, insects loud in the country night, an undercurrent of murmured conversations, and points of laughter.
May I please never bury the memory of that laughter! It was shared among people who also have in common the experiences of a troubled emergence from extreme hardship within this generation. They have recent and present reasons for pessimism and cynicism. And yet my experience and impression of Albanians is of earnest optimism — tempered by realism, yes, but nevertheless fundamentally positive. This is what I hear in my memory of that laughter among the travelers and in the many, many other instances of laughter shared with my Albanian colleagues and friends.
I took these same routes last year, made these same stops, learned the outlines of the same stories and histories. Why do I love now what I only saw then? The most important reason, I think, is the individual Albanians I am coming to know:
Auron Tare, the unflinching problem-tackler; Dola with her sweet generosity, Kela with her uncompromising integrity and Naiada, all women of beauty and tremendous intelligence; 
the surprise (to me) of Dr. Adriani Anastasi’s humor and the poetic soul I now see in addition to the determined dedication I understood last year; and Dr. Ilirjan Gjiapali, a gentle man and dedicated archaeologist. 
If I am seeing Albania through rose-colored lenses, it is because these men and women have put them on my face.
Their contagious determination and can-do spirit has infected me. I have two years to figure out how to fund and run the excavation of the ship that sank 2300 years ago on its way to or from the harbor of Aeneas’ legend and Caesar and Augustus’ colonists. If you are reading this blog because you have an interest in participating in any aspect of this project (excavation, publication, Cultural Heritage Management, fund-raising) or thoughts about how to achieve this goal, please do contact me.
It started last year, my last afternoon in the country, as I strolled through streets of Tirane made still by the double whammy of August-vacation and siesta-hour. I was alone, passing time before an evening plane to London, thinking about the two weeks that had just been. My head was spinning with impressions and possibilities. I had met a shipwreck, a research team, politicians, a language, a country. The bus ride from Sarande to Tirane that morning had reminded me of how much exploration and discovery still lay ahead. My head swirled. But as I strolled, the shaded quiet of the tree-rustled neighborhood of embassies and governmental buildings behind the statue of Skenderberg quieted me. I stepped through the open door of a shadowed courtyard that advertised a restaurant within, somewhat guiltily wakened the sleepy waiter, and enjoyed a snack of cheeses and beer. I remember planning a blog entry that would describe my thoughts about the shipwreck, but also that would share something of the beauty and promise I was beginning to feel about this land.
But I left for the airport and got caught up in schedules, deadlines, other commitments. The Albania project dissolved into a list of challenging logistics and I lost touch with the happy tingle of that afternoon. Even RPM’s generous invitation, this spring, to return elicited in me an anticipation for the project, but no leap of the heart.
You know from this blog that my first weeks here were a happy reunion with the RPM Supermen — Howard, still the nicest man you’ll ever meet; Todd, life of the party; George Robb, passionate visionary and mensch — and a whirlwind of good diving experiences. Fun and exciting, but not a love story.
It was during a drive to Tirane — shared with Dr. Anastasi, George, and Kela Qendro — that I fell in love. We drove half the country’s length along the coast road: plunging cliffs, narrow-streeted villages fringed by a dancing sea, sage-filled air, Kela and Adriani telling stories of the places we passed through. They told of families and histories, music and pirates, Caesar’s armies and Hoxha’s bunkers, of exile, return, hopes, cautions. The next day I returned to Sarande by bus and the inland road. Instead of the sea’s blue backdrop, hills of yellow wildflowers, their color intensified in the goldening light of the setting sun. I sat next to Leda, whom I met only just then. I learned that she runs the orphanage in Sarande, and makes the 6-7 hour bus trip (each way) every weekend to the capital in order to earn an advanced degree in administration. With her was one of her charges, a young boy who had gone to Tirane to get his first passport, and her colleague, an orphan who now assisted in running the institution. They invited me to sit with them during the half hour break in the bus trip, at a small eatery nestled into the bend of a cold-flowing creek. Dusk turned to dark. The people in our group became shadows that occasionally flashed teeth or eye-whites; firefly-embers of burning cigarettes traced the movements of their hands. The music was of running water, insects loud in the country night, an undercurrent of murmured conversations, and points of laughter.
May I please never bury the memory of that laughter! It was shared among people who also have in common the experiences of a troubled emergence from extreme hardship within this generation. They have recent and present reasons for pessimism and cynicism. And yet my experience and impression of Albanians is of earnest optimism — tempered by realism, yes, but nevertheless fundamentally positive. This is what I hear in my memory of that laughter among the travelers and in the many, many other instances of laughter shared with my Albanian colleagues and friends.
I took these same routes last year, made these same stops, learned the outlines of the same stories and histories. Why do I love now what I only saw then? The most important reason, I think, is the individual Albanians I am coming to know:
Auron Tare, the unflinching problem-tackler; Dola with her sweet generosity, Kela with her uncompromising integrity and Naiada, all women of beauty and tremendous intelligence; 
the surprise (to me) of Dr. Adriani Anastasi’s humor and the poetic soul I now see in addition to the determined dedication I understood last year; and Dr. Ilirjan Gjiapali, a gentle man and dedicated archaeologist. 
If I am seeing Albania through rose-colored lenses, it is because these men and women have put them on my face.
Their contagious determination and can-do spirit has infected me. I have two years to figure out how to fund and run the excavation of the ship that sank 2300 years ago on its way to or from the harbor of Aeneas’ legend and Caesar and Augustus’ colonists. If you are reading this blog because you have an interest in participating in any aspect of this project (excavation, publication, Cultural Heritage Management, fund-raising) or thoughts about how to achieve this goal, please do contact me.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Here’s a blog-posting I started late on 31 May 2009, fell asleep, and never got around to finishing. I am going to include it nevertheless because I think it conveys a joy:
9:38 PM. The day ends with a final call to prayer broadcasted from the minaret. It has been a day of music. This morning – Sunday – the church bells rang us out to sea. And several times the conversation on the boat returned to the value of having music running through one’s head while diving, as a way of calming and/or focusing one’s attention away from breathing. It’s a tip I’ll try to remember in a situation where I need to think about breathing but fortunately that has not been an issue for me.
Just one week has made a big difference in my diving skills. I am much more deliberate in my actions preparing for the dive and in the water, my navigation skills are getting so much better, and so is my ability to scan the seabed. I have always felt the world drop away from me when I enter the water and I have relished my time underwater but today for the first time I had the time and ease to fall in love with my time in the blue. Working deep (120-150’) on shipwrecks, I was always too constrained by the task at hand and the limited dive time. Until today, this summer, the challenges of learning to survey dive have kept me occupied. And otherwise I have never been able to spare the money to pay for scuba-diving for fun. My only recreational dives have been the two that Faith presented me, at Sharm el-Sheikh in the Red Sea. Those were spectacular in a 4th-of-July-fireworks kind of way. Today stirred my soul. It started with a swim through: a fissure in the seabed-rock large enough for a diver, holes at the top dotted the tunnel with shafts of light, in which the bubbles of the diver in front of me danced. I swam through the deep-water sparkles and followed the lightstream out. From there we traced our way over a rockscape dotted with boulders whose …
A Sporty Life
I learned a new vocabulary word recently: “sporty” refers to seas that cause the boat to frolic. It’s the usual adjective for our ride home in the afternoon, when the winds that funnel daily through the straits of Corfu have gathered enough strength and swells to force us back to port. My favorite spot on those rides home is in the bow, watching the swells, anticipating the boat’s lift and swoop. No pictures of that! My hands are fully occupied holding on to the rails and the spray soon drenches. Once this week the winds kept us from even going out. In town was calm and hot and the waves on the beachfront here — protected by a great curve of bay — only hissed slightly against the rocky shore, but the whitecaps farther out bespoke a very sporty time and we were forced into the role of spectators.
A few days this season, equipment failures have kept us becalmed. Last week one of the pistons in the compressor (used to fill tanks) wore out. Howard has extra parts of all kinds on hand, but not this one, nor is it available in Europe. We had to wait for it to be air-expressed from the States. The wrong part arrived*!*&^%! and we had to wait again. Thank goodness for airmail and for a friend in Tirane who could expedite the packages through customs. And thank goodness, too, for Howard’s mechanical skills.
Another day, a second failure: we had to cut the engines of the boat when the batteries overheated. Luckily, Todd had stayed in with the second boat that morning and so we had towing-service for the long way home. And luckily again Todd was able to diagnose the problem and fix it that same afternoon. One thing that I always realized but that these days have emphasized: When something goes wrong with the equipment on a land excavation, there is usually a way, albeit perhaps cumbersome or laborious, around it. But when the compressor or boat fails in an underwater excavation, the whole operation grinds to a halt. These days in port were not all bad. One of my missions here this summer is to think about the logistics of excavating the shipwreck we explored last summer. Yes, I have not talked about it in this year’s blog postings, but the major purpose of my stay here this summer is to discover how to manage that excavation: everything from the logistics of excavation -- what techniques, what equipment should we use? how can we get and maintain it here? who do we need to run (fix!) it? – to those of housing and feeding and otherwise caring for the people who will participate. So I spend the “days off” getting to know what is available in and around town, considering buildings and sites and facilities, and looking for that essential local person who would help me make those many places, things, and people happen. One idea leads to another, conversations lead to other conversations and possibilities. But none of this happens without personal poking around and, although I fret at the non-diving days, they are necessary for the longer-term project.
Here is how RPM has managed some of the logistics of diving equipment: 3 containers shipped from the US hold the dive gear, the compressor & generator, and the recompression chamber:
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Daily Routine
Wed 10 June 2009
Sorry about the sporadic updates. A combo of busy-ness, fatigue, and impatience with the slow internet connections.
It occurs to me that I never explained specifically what I am doing here this summer. I think that I have already mentioned that I am participating in RPM Nautical Foundation’s survey of the coast of Albania, complementing what has been learned from multi-beam scanning and ROV exploration. But I can hear my mother shaking her head in gentle exasperation: What exactly does this mean? How do you spend your day? So, Hilde, this note is especially for you.
We start the diving day at 8AM; this allows us to get in several dives and return to the dock before the afternoon winds make the seas dance. I set my alarm for 6:45 but have fallen into the habit of waking up about 5:30 — giving me some quiet time to read before the day demands my attention. My favorite book so far has been John Hale’s just-published study of the navy and democracy in 5th-century Athens. I recommend it to anyone interested in the Athenian navy and its role in military and political strategies in the era of the Peloponnesian war.
My room is in the back of the hotel so I don’t know what the weather is until I go downstairs at 7:15’ish. The doors open to the sea and my first glance is to see whether the waves and wind are cavorting — will we dive today?
It takes me about 20 minutes to walk to the military harbor, where the RPM boats are docked. Our route is away from the center of town, through the market area and then further through a newly and quickly developing fringe area of small shops and apartment houses.
The market happens every day, though Fridays are bigger, with the opportunity to buy live chickens and a greater assortment of used shoes than on the other days. The lady who sells mussels, shelled and stuffed into an old milk bottle won’t let me take the picture I would so like to share with you. The market covers both sides of a street for a length of what would be a short block in the US and also fills a large (40 x 100’) covered building. Most of the stalls are set up and thing are just beginning to operate in full swing as I walk by.
Then two crazy intersections, each with many streets converging and with no recognizable right-of-way and certainly no light. There are really not so many cars in this small city but they all are very earnest in their determination to be first through the narrow streets.
The reward for making it across the spaghetti of street crossings is breakfast. Most days I stop at a little hole-in-the-wall grocery and pick up a small loaf of a kind of nut-bread. The loaves don’t look like much: squashed flat, about a hand in length, four fingers at their widest, two fingers in height, dark brown with crumbled nuts, clumsily wrapped in cellophane. They are fairly dry to begin with and dry out more as the week goes on. Their taste is of that European genre of aromatic dry cookies. I relish my breakfast and I like the thought of participating in some mother’s or grandmother’s personal enterprise. The experience costs me 50 cents.
I try to wait until I reach the boats to eat, but it does not usually work out that way. I walk and munch my way against a stream of elementary school and junior high children. I enjoy walking among those young voices and contagious exuberance. Their grandparents walk many of them and there is a daily parable for me in the smooth little hands trusting in the calloused palms and age-bent fingers that guide them.
All such musing disappears into the business of the day as I approach the marina. Howard and Todd have a room there and the first stop is to pick up whatever lunch supplies might be needed on the boats: sandwiches, chips, fruit or candy bars if they are available, and, of course, lots of water. Then down to the boats. They are moored in the military harbor; it is the only suitable docking in the region for the Hercules (the big ship with the multi-beam and ROV equipment) plus it gives us a secure place to set up the three containers that hold the generator and compressor (used to fill our diving tanks), the recompression chamber (a safety device that I hope never to have to explain to you, mother), and our gear and tools. I think that it is probably very unusual to have a situation where foreign civilians are allowed to set up and work independently on a military base. Of course, there is a long story of the negotiations and determination that made this possible, but the essential factor is the good will of our hosts.
A camaraderie has developed between our crew and the marines
who are stationed at this base and I pass through a series of good-morning greetings as I walk through the gate and down the hill, past the vegetable gardens for which Howard developed a sprinkler system, to the containers and the boats.
We have two boats that we use for diving, depending on how many of us go out. So far this summer, at its largest our group has numbered about a dozen. By 8 o’clock, food and gear and tanks are organized on board and we head out. The boats are fast and it is a chilly ride in the morning air to the site. We are working our way gradually along the coast but where we dive each day is determined by weather (the direction of winds and swells) but also by diving and search agendas. Right now, the ride out to the day’s site usually takes 30-45 minutes. It’s another great time of the day: humming along over the clear blue, watching mile after mile of spectacular and mostly pristine landscape, riding waves and wind, anticipating what we might find deep down today.
Most days we come up with little or nothing. But that, too, is information. And the process of getting that information is always fun. These weeks of the summer, I live to dive. On good days (when weather cooperates and the equipment holds up) we get two and occasionally three dives each.
The water is cold and the hours between 9 and 1 are a mosaic of muted cold blue and hot bright intervals. (I’ll talk more about the diving in another note; this one is getting too long.)
Inevitably, the winds pick up, the swell makes itself known, and it is time to head in. We get back to the dock sometime between 1:30 and 3 and it’s time to unload the tanks, rinse all the gear in fresh water. The heart of the team — the guys who keep everything running — spend the next couple hours filling tanks and repairing equipment, sometimes “assisted” by eager interns who do eventually, if they stick around long enough and consistently, actually help. My job is to write up a dive report for the day, collated from the notes kept on board, as we were diving. Howard (among many other things) unloads and labels the photographs shot each day and sets up the cameras for the next.
I usually stop somewhere on the walk home for a bite to eat. In spite of all the eating and no exercise other than diving, I think I am losing weight. It must be the energy exerted underwater to keep warm. I found out yesterday that pretty much everyone else on the team also eats sometime in the afternoon. I get back to my room about 4, sweaty and salty. The shower feels wonderful. And then it is really hard not to nap. I managed to resist it the first week I was here, but now I give in, though I compromise by setting an alarm.
And then there is about an hour left before the evening dive meeting and dinner. The shops open again at 5 or 5:30 so I can run errands then. At 6:30 we meet for a debriefing about the morning’s work: the divers fill in the record of the day’s observations, adding details to the briefer notes kept on board; if there were any safety or equipment or people problems, we talk about them then; we discuss whether an area is finished, where to go next.
Dinnertime!
We go out to restaurants. In this tourist town there are many and we are exploring, but often we return to proven favorites. Albanian food, insofar as we have found it in public places, is simple Mediterranean. I have not (yet) discovered anything especially “Albanian” though here in Sarande the mussels cultivated in Lake Butrint are a regional specialty. Pretty much every second or third evening the team votes for pizza. I mention again: we eat often and a lot (an entire 16” pizza per person is usual), and no one is gaining weight. A diving bonus. Check out Howard's helping of fries smeared with butter and tzatziki!
With the exception of one waiter in one restaurant, service is slow so it is 9 or 9:30 by the time we leave. The evening always ends with a stop at the ice cream stand, on the seaside promenade that takes us home.
By this time, my bed is calling, but if I have patience and any energy left, I stop off at the internet café. Tonight, I also have this message for you!
PS: A local specialty: mussels. Sold by the bucket.
Sorry about the sporadic updates. A combo of busy-ness, fatigue, and impatience with the slow internet connections.
It occurs to me that I never explained specifically what I am doing here this summer. I think that I have already mentioned that I am participating in RPM Nautical Foundation’s survey of the coast of Albania, complementing what has been learned from multi-beam scanning and ROV exploration. But I can hear my mother shaking her head in gentle exasperation: What exactly does this mean? How do you spend your day? So, Hilde, this note is especially for you.
We start the diving day at 8AM; this allows us to get in several dives and return to the dock before the afternoon winds make the seas dance. I set my alarm for 6:45 but have fallen into the habit of waking up about 5:30 — giving me some quiet time to read before the day demands my attention. My favorite book so far has been John Hale’s just-published study of the navy and democracy in 5th-century Athens. I recommend it to anyone interested in the Athenian navy and its role in military and political strategies in the era of the Peloponnesian war.
My room is in the back of the hotel so I don’t know what the weather is until I go downstairs at 7:15’ish. The doors open to the sea and my first glance is to see whether the waves and wind are cavorting — will we dive today?
It takes me about 20 minutes to walk to the military harbor, where the RPM boats are docked. Our route is away from the center of town, through the market area and then further through a newly and quickly developing fringe area of small shops and apartment houses.
The market happens every day, though Fridays are bigger, with the opportunity to buy live chickens and a greater assortment of used shoes than on the other days. The lady who sells mussels, shelled and stuffed into an old milk bottle won’t let me take the picture I would so like to share with you. The market covers both sides of a street for a length of what would be a short block in the US and also fills a large (40 x 100’) covered building. Most of the stalls are set up and thing are just beginning to operate in full swing as I walk by.
Then two crazy intersections, each with many streets converging and with no recognizable right-of-way and certainly no light. There are really not so many cars in this small city but they all are very earnest in their determination to be first through the narrow streets.
The reward for making it across the spaghetti of street crossings is breakfast. Most days I stop at a little hole-in-the-wall grocery and pick up a small loaf of a kind of nut-bread. The loaves don’t look like much: squashed flat, about a hand in length, four fingers at their widest, two fingers in height, dark brown with crumbled nuts, clumsily wrapped in cellophane. They are fairly dry to begin with and dry out more as the week goes on. Their taste is of that European genre of aromatic dry cookies. I relish my breakfast and I like the thought of participating in some mother’s or grandmother’s personal enterprise. The experience costs me 50 cents.
I try to wait until I reach the boats to eat, but it does not usually work out that way. I walk and munch my way against a stream of elementary school and junior high children. I enjoy walking among those young voices and contagious exuberance. Their grandparents walk many of them and there is a daily parable for me in the smooth little hands trusting in the calloused palms and age-bent fingers that guide them.
All such musing disappears into the business of the day as I approach the marina. Howard and Todd have a room there and the first stop is to pick up whatever lunch supplies might be needed on the boats: sandwiches, chips, fruit or candy bars if they are available, and, of course, lots of water. Then down to the boats. They are moored in the military harbor; it is the only suitable docking in the region for the Hercules (the big ship with the multi-beam and ROV equipment) plus it gives us a secure place to set up the three containers that hold the generator and compressor (used to fill our diving tanks), the recompression chamber (a safety device that I hope never to have to explain to you, mother), and our gear and tools. I think that it is probably very unusual to have a situation where foreign civilians are allowed to set up and work independently on a military base. Of course, there is a long story of the negotiations and determination that made this possible, but the essential factor is the good will of our hosts.
A camaraderie has developed between our crew and the marines
who are stationed at this base and I pass through a series of good-morning greetings as I walk through the gate and down the hill, past the vegetable gardens for which Howard developed a sprinkler system, to the containers and the boats.We have two boats that we use for diving, depending on how many of us go out. So far this summer, at its largest our group has numbered about a dozen. By 8 o’clock, food and gear and tanks are organized on board and we head out. The boats are fast and it is a chilly ride in the morning air to the site. We are working our way gradually along the coast but where we dive each day is determined by weather (the direction of winds and swells) but also by diving and search agendas. Right now, the ride out to the day’s site usually takes 30-45 minutes. It’s another great time of the day: humming along over the clear blue, watching mile after mile of spectacular and mostly pristine landscape, riding waves and wind, anticipating what we might find deep down today.
Most days we come up with little or nothing. But that, too, is information. And the process of getting that information is always fun. These weeks of the summer, I live to dive. On good days (when weather cooperates and the equipment holds up) we get two and occasionally three dives each.
The water is cold and the hours between 9 and 1 are a mosaic of muted cold blue and hot bright intervals. (I’ll talk more about the diving in another note; this one is getting too long.)Inevitably, the winds pick up, the swell makes itself known, and it is time to head in. We get back to the dock sometime between 1:30 and 3 and it’s time to unload the tanks, rinse all the gear in fresh water. The heart of the team — the guys who keep everything running — spend the next couple hours filling tanks and repairing equipment, sometimes “assisted” by eager interns who do eventually, if they stick around long enough and consistently, actually help. My job is to write up a dive report for the day, collated from the notes kept on board, as we were diving. Howard (among many other things) unloads and labels the photographs shot each day and sets up the cameras for the next.
I usually stop somewhere on the walk home for a bite to eat. In spite of all the eating and no exercise other than diving, I think I am losing weight. It must be the energy exerted underwater to keep warm. I found out yesterday that pretty much everyone else on the team also eats sometime in the afternoon. I get back to my room about 4, sweaty and salty. The shower feels wonderful. And then it is really hard not to nap. I managed to resist it the first week I was here, but now I give in, though I compromise by setting an alarm.
And then there is about an hour left before the evening dive meeting and dinner. The shops open again at 5 or 5:30 so I can run errands then. At 6:30 we meet for a debriefing about the morning’s work: the divers fill in the record of the day’s observations, adding details to the briefer notes kept on board; if there were any safety or equipment or people problems, we talk about them then; we discuss whether an area is finished, where to go next.
Dinnertime!
We go out to restaurants. In this tourist town there are many and we are exploring, but often we return to proven favorites. Albanian food, insofar as we have found it in public places, is simple Mediterranean. I have not (yet) discovered anything especially “Albanian” though here in Sarande the mussels cultivated in Lake Butrint are a regional specialty. Pretty much every second or third evening the team votes for pizza. I mention again: we eat often and a lot (an entire 16” pizza per person is usual), and no one is gaining weight. A diving bonus. Check out Howard's helping of fries smeared with butter and tzatziki!
With the exception of one waiter in one restaurant, service is slow so it is 9 or 9:30 by the time we leave. The evening always ends with a stop at the ice cream stand, on the seaside promenade that takes us home.By this time, my bed is calling, but if I have patience and any energy left, I stop off at the internet café. Tonight, I also have this message for you!
PS: A local specialty: mussels. Sold by the bucket.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Weather
Somehow the time flies, even these last two days, when we have been stuck in port due to weather. I had hoped to finish and post a few half-written entries today but it is already bedtime. Instead, here are some pictures of a waterspout that entertained us during our morning coffee. We were all entranced but I did not see a single local stop and gawk. So I figured that maybe these are common phenomena here. But later our friends who live here told us that that was absolutely not the case. Luckily, our newest team member, Jeff Emanuel, was on the ferry from Corfu and so had a close view of the phenomenon. He got some great pictures, don't you think?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)