A Traveler in the Foreign Service: Ciao macho man (or how to help Albanian breakdancers win a grammy)

I was standing on a stage in an auditorium in front of about 500 people frozen in terror at Nota Fest, which is like the Grammy awards for Macedonia’s ethnic-Albanian community. The organizers of the event had invited our Ambassador, Larry Butler, to present a lifetime achievement award and when he, and several other more important people at the embassy declined, the duty was punted down to me, a lowly first tour diplomat.

Attending b and c list events in host countries is a big part of life in the Foreign Service and the more junior you are, the more likely you’ll end up at Tajikistan’s national day (think warm, generic cola and greasy mutton) instead of Italy’s. (think prosciutto and fine wine). It was a command performance but I was assured that I wasn’t going to have to say anything in Albanian.

“All you have to do is get up on stage, smile, and hand someone an award,” said Lindita, a charming local employee from the embassy who probably could convince the Taliban’s Mullah Omar to muster “you go girl” enthusiasm for the Ellen DeGeneris Show.

I had only been in the country for a few weeks and was still feeling insecure about speaking Albanian one-on-one, let alone in front of an audience of hundreds of people, so not speaking was a key point in the negotiations.

After sitting through three hours of live performances, many of them shockingly bad, with nary an alcoholic beverage in sight, I was finally called up on the stage, ostensibly to present the lifetime achievement award. Immediately the jazzily dressed hostess handed me a microphone, sending a wave of panic straight up my spine. Please do not ask me a question, I thought.

Suddenly a torrent of Albanian words filled the air and my mind raced to understand what was being said. I froze as the sold-out crowd waited to hear my response. But what the hell was the question? I didn’t understand it, so I made some general remark about what a great evening it was, in Albanian. She repeated the question and on the second go-around I realized that she was asking me for an opinion on what had been the best performance of the night. Good grief.

The only two redeeming acts of the night were folk groups that I couldn’t conjure the names of for the life of me. In that instant of panic, the only song I could recall the name of was a ridiculous little ditty called Ciao Macho Man. The number featured a slutty-looking, bleach blond, Spice girl wannabe, nicknamed “Tuna,” bopping around the stage encircled by about 7 or 8 break dancing (yes break dancing) teenage boys wearing wife beaters and auto mechanic costumes. It was more or less akin to Billy Joel’s Uptown Girl video, only there was break dancing rather than singing into wrenches.The hostess and five hundred impatient Albanians demanded to know my opinion on the best song of the night, so I said, in Albanian, “Maybe it was Ciao Macho Man,” to a hearty round of applause. This seemed to satisfy the hostess and, thankfully, I was allowed to leave the stage.

I made a beeline for Lindita, who was accompanied by Rita, another one of our colleagues.

“I am so embarrassed,” she said, before I could speak.

“What the hell happened?” I asked.

“The person who was supposed to get the award didn’t show up, so she was ad libbing,” Lindita explained.

“Well, please don’t tell me that Ciao Macho Man is going to get the award on my account,” I said.

Moments later, the hostess reappeared on stage and announced that Ciao Macho Man had indeed won the award for best performance. The three of us fled into a taxi as snowflakes began to fall all over the macho men and women of Skopje. Rita got a phone call and then gave me some comforting news.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I just found out that Ciao Macho Man won because one of the Albanian political parties here fixed the contest, not because you said they should win.”

I felt momentarily relieved that Macedonia’s pervasive corruption, rather than my linguistic ineptitude had won the day for the macho men, but then my phone went off. It was Marija, one of the local employees I supervised at the embassy.

“Hey, macho man, I am so proud of you,” she said.

“Wow, word travels fast, how did you hear about it already?” I asked, totally confused.

“I didn’t hear about it, I just saw you on T.V.” she said.

Apparently I had just expressed a preference for Ciao Macho Man on live national television. I should have been ashamed but the beauty of living in a foreign country is that you can make a complete fool of yourself on television and feel safe in the knowledge that none of your friends and relatives will ever know about it. That is, unless you write about it, ten years later on a blog.

Read more from a Traveler in the Foreign Service here.

Image via flickr user Tibchris.

A Traveler in the Foreign Service: Escape from a rock-star elevator in Skopje

Trapped in a private, “rock-star” elevator in a seemingly half-finished apartment building on my first day in Macedonia, I turned, in desperation, to a phrase book. I had spent the previous six months in language training at the Foreign Service Institute, studying full time in a class of two, to prepare for an assignment at the American embassy in Skopje. But I didn’t know how to say, “HELP!”

I was the lone member of the embassy trained in the country’s minority language- Albanian- which is somewhat akin to posting a diplomat in Washington, D.C. with only Spanish training and no English. I lived in a part of town where Albanian was useless and, at this moment, was happy to have found the word for “help” in Macedonian in a phrasebook I had fortuitously stuffed in my backpack before leaving my apartment.

“U-Poh-MOSH!” I yelled. “U-POH-MOSH!”

I’d later learn that I shared my “rock-star” elevator with 3 apartments beneath me, but these other residences were all under construction. I had heard someone hammering just outside the elevator and the noise ceased for a minute after I let out my cry.

There was silence for a moment and then I heard a most unwelcome sound: laughter. I considered the fact that I was pronouncing the word wrong, so I tried various other iterations of the word. Eventually the laughter ceased and the workman started talking to me, in Macedonian. I had no clue what he was saying.

“Please, just get me the hell out of here!” I yelled.

But the man seemed either powerless or disinterested. After about a half hour trapped in the elevator I started to feel claustrophobic and short of breath. It finally dawned on me that I had the cell phone number of my new boss, whom I’d met at the airport just an hour before. We had only exchanged pleasantries and now I had to call her, at the start of a three-day weekend, to bail me out of an elevator. Only in the fishbowl world of the Foreign Service could such an uncomfortable supervisor-subordinate introduction take place.

“Hi Karen, it’s Dave Seminara, we just met at the airport,” I said, making my very first call on a new mobile phone I’d been given.

“I seem to be stuck in an elevator at my apartment building.”

“Stuck in an elevator?” she asked, incredulous. “Well are you sure you hit the right buttons?”I was 29 years old and, by that point in my life, felt reasonably certain that I knew how to go up and down in elevators. But given the circumstances, I refrained from making a sarcastic response and my new boss said she’d make some phone calls to try to get me out.
I sat down on the floor of the small elevator box, and listened to the workman’s music as he ignored my occasional ravings. After about twenty more minutes, I felt a sudden jolt and I was hurdling down, presumably towards the lobby, at top speed.

I stepped out of the elevator, feeling very much like a released prisoner, and Karen was standing there looking concerned, alongside an attractive, nearly six-foot tall young woman named Saska, a local employee at the embassy who also lived in the building. They were both nice to me but I think they suspected that my elevator mishap was somehow my own fault.

After they left, I took a long, depressing walk down Vasil Gyorgov, the street my apartment was located on in Skopje’s Kapistec neighborhood. The sidewalks were filled with parked cars so I had to walk in the street. I kept getting splashed by demented Yugo drivers who targeted me, the lone fool out for a walk in a city of some 500,000 inhabitants.

I passed row after row of shabby Soviet-era apartment blocks before coming upon what looked like an oasis: The Beverly Hills Shopping Center. I walked in and meandered up to a pizza kiosk. Teenagers were taking turns unloading the contents of a ketchup bottle onto slices of pizza that looked hard enough to knock rabid dogs unconscious.

There were cafés with names like Prestige and Trend and a whole host of dark, drafty little shops selling burned cd’s and software. The higher-end shops were selling pirated cd’s that had photocopied liner notes, but a few others were simply selling what appeared to be burned copies of their own personal collections. I bought a homemade cd of Nirvana’s Greatest Hits for 100 denars, a bit less than $2, and returned to my apartment. I took the stairs.

That night, my embassy social sponsors, Blake and Adrianna, took me out for pizza and a brief tour of the downtown. The highlights were the country’s only working A.T.M. machine (or so they claimed), the two best pubs- creatively called the Irish Pub and the English Pub, one on each side of the Vardar River- and the Gradski Trgovski Mall, which offered a slightly better selection of burned CD’s and pirated software than the Beverly Hills Mall.

We met up with a young, local, married couple, and when I told them that part of my duties at the embassy would include interviewing visa applicants, the young woman concluded, “You’re going to be the most popular guy in Macedonia.” Or perhaps the least popular, I thought.

The following day, Blake offered to take me hunting, and when I declined, he seemed put out. The three day weekend passed slowly and on my first day at work at the embassy, I was already famous. Over and over again I heard the same thing.

“You’re the guy who got stuck in the elevator, right?”

It was a perfect introduction to the Foreign Service- a peculiar little world where there are no secrets. The local employees in the consular section asked me to recount the story and all gathered around me in rapt attention. They howled in delight; it was as though my debacle was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. I liked them immediately.

I would spend the next two years of my life living and working in this fishbowl. I never socialized with Blake again, Saska’s husband became a good friend, and I never ventured back into my rock-star elevator.

Next: Ciao Macho Man

Read more from A Traveler in the Foreign Service here.

Budget Vacation Guide 2012: Macedonia

Since the dissolution of Yugoslavia, Macedonia has hidden beneath the radar. While Croatia and Montenegro receive sustained coverage for their coastlines and Slovenia pops up here and there as a budget-friendly alternative to pricey Switzerland, landlocked Macedonia has received short shrift.

The country remains shut out of major Europe-wide organizations over its very name, which the Greek government contests as a stealthy move toward an eventual invasion of the northern Greek region of Macedonia. It’s a ludicrous proposition, and it has kept Macedonia far more isolated than it should be.

Macedonia’s reputation as a tourist destination has slowly grown over the last few years, and with good reason. The country offers amazingly good value for money. Transportation, accommodation, food, and tourist attractions are all inexpensive. The country’s chief draws are Lake Ohrid, which Macedonia shares with Albania, and its scattered monasteries. Lake Ohrid is starkly beautiful, great for swimming and water sports. It’s anchored by the city of Ohrid, itself spilling over with churches, fortresses, and other objects of historical interest.

Monasteries abound in Macedonia. One of these, Treskavec, is located near the town of Prilep in the south. There are marked hiking trails winding up hills to the monastery. At the top, you’ll find accommodation for the cost of a small donation. A simple dinner is even included in the deal.

If Macedonian tourism taps into its treasures the right way, this country should see its current trickle of tourists become a modest stream.

[flickr image via Rilind Hoxha]

A Traveler in the Foreign Service: My rock-star elevator in Skopje

The first thing I noticed about Macedonia was the Marlboro man and a group of short men smoking cheap alternatives. Six months after being handed the country’s distinctive yellow and red flag, signifying a two year assignment to the American Embassy in Skopje, I’d finally landed in the city’s forlorn little airport.

I was standing by the lone baggage carousel, looking at the Marlboro billboard and the smokers ignoring the no-smoking signs in the smoke-filled terminal. A tall, reed thin man with a receding hairline and a chest full of dangling badges approached me. He had no sign, but it was pretty obvious that I was the American on the flight he was looking for.

“The name’s Zoran, but everybody calls me ‘Ninja,” the embassy driver said, by way of introduction.

I’d soon learn that half the men in Macedonia are named Zoran or Goran, so nicknames come in handy.

Outside the terminal, we had to push our way through an unruly scrum of cabbies and people waiting for friends or relatives. At the time, only departing passengers were allowed inside the airport, so everyone else waited outside. My new boss and my social sponsors, Blake and Adrianna, were waiting just behind the mob to greet me.

The boss introduced herself and left in her own car, but Blake and Adrianna piled in a van with Ninja and I as we sped off to my new home. Blake was a heavyset, baby faced, thirty- something with an air of self-importance. Adrianna was an attractive Salvadoran with an endearing accent. They met and married on Blake’s previous tour in San Salvador.

“I understand you work in the political section,” I said to Blake.

“Actually, I’m the head of the political section,” he said, correcting me.

There were only two Americans in the political section, but it was an important distinction for him.

Skopje circa 2002 was a homely place, not elephant-man ugly, but shabby, unkempt and dreary, particularly on a rainy day. We passed a strip of shops called “Plastic Alley” where Roma sold seemingly identical collections of cheap garbage cans, pots and pans and knickknacks. Dilapidated Yugos shared the unmarked streets with stray dogs and Roma steering horse drawn carriages. I made a mental note to take an alternate route from the airport when my wife arrived in the country in a few months time.

We passed row after row of dilapidated Soviet apartment blocks, most with peeling paint and overflowing garbage bins. It was a Friday afternoon before a three-day weekend. I was lucky to have three days to settle in before reporting to work at the embassy. Foreign Service Officers are expected to get right off the plane and drive straight in to work the first day, jet-lag and all.

Ninja pulled up in front of the newest, spiffiest apartment building I’d seen during the twenty minute ride. The place seemed half-finished though- there was no grass in front- just a big pile of mud we had to wade through with my bags to get to the front door.

“Mr. David, you have your own private elevator- like a rock-star,” said Ninja, who was a karate champion and law school graduate, in addition to being a driver at the embassy. The four of us jammed shoulder to shoulder into an elevator that whisked us straight up into my fourth floor apartment.

It was a bit odd- we stepped out of the elevator and were in my new foyer/coat closet area, which had two bullet proof doors to the left and another one to the right. Ninja handed me a set of massive set of keys (I later counted 18, 13 of which seemed unnecessary) and we took a look around my new two bedroom apartment.

I couldn’t help but take stock of how surreal it is to arrive at a new post in the Foreign Service. Someone picks you up at the airport and drives you to your new home. Your preferences and tastes are irrelevant, but the rent is free. My new place was quite satisfactory, but looked like the kind of space where one of Tony Soprano’s junior level lieutenants would have felt right at home.

The centerpiece of the living room was a gigantic, twenty foot long, empty, gilded, golden picture frame covering the entire wall. It was so gaudy and ornate, that it would have been too fancy for Michelangelo’s The Last Supper. I also had some very complex kitchen appliances, a hot tub, two bidets, ornately tiled bathrooms, and a view of a church and a gigantic, illuminated cross which sits atop Mt. Vodno overlooking the city.

There were two kinds of people in Skopje who could afford such an apartment: a gangster or a diplomat. All the fixtures were fit for a gangster, but in the Foreign Service, you get the same insipid Drexel Heritage furniture everywhere, so my place was half Sopranos and half Leave it to Beaver.

Still, it was a step up from the drafty $600 per month, 1 bedroom apartment we lived in on the northwest side of Chicago. With some time to kill before Blake and Adrianna returned to take me out to dinner, I decided to examine my new neighborhood. I got into my private little elevator, pushed the button, went down for a few seconds and then jolted to a noisy, screeching halt.

A few minutes passed before I realized that I was stuck in a rock-star elevator on my first day in Macedonia.

Next: Escape from a rock-star elevator

Read more from A Traveler in the Foreign Service here.

[flickr image via bogenfreund]

European low-cost airlines fail to enforce charges and fees

Flying around Europe on low-cost airlines over the last few months has taught me a few things. Among the most useful lessons I’ve picked up: Baggage and check-in fees and charges are enforced quite unevenly.

European low-cost carriers present their customers with a frightening thicket of charges and fees. These charges, which serve as a revenue stream for the airlines, are less readily enforced by contract agents who are not direct employees of the airlines in question, though bona fide airline employees also appear to enforce them inconsistently.

Some anecdotes from the last few months follow.

In Tel Aviv in March I tried to inform the easyJet check-in agent–clearly not an employee of easyJet–that, having failed to pay to check a bag online, I would need to cough up some shekels to do so. Not only did she refuse to take money to check my duffel bag but she clearly had no idea that I was supposed to be charged to check by bag in the first place.

Flying airBaltic between London and Finland last month, I was made to weigh my carry-on en route to Finland by an airBaltic agent. Returning, the contract employee in Oulu didn’t ask me to weigh my bag, which, at 9 kilos, was right at the weight limit.

Three events, arguably, serve as a representative sample. I flew WizzAir last week to and from the Balkans. WizzAir demands that its customers’ carry-on bags not exceed ten kilos, but neither the agent at Luton nor the at Dubrovnik on my return weighed my bag to see if it had exceeded the limit. In both cases I was very likely just over the baggage weight limit.

This is a case not so much of lessons learned than of a pattern observed. Contract check-in agents don’t appear to have been taught about the intricacies of their employers’ rules and regulations, first off. Secondly, and just possibly, if your carry-on bag looks diminutive, you may be able to get away with a few extra kilos.

That said, this is not an official Gadling recommendation to start to think of these charges and fees as inconsequential. They’re imposed to make money and they succeed in doing so for their airlines. To some degree, I’m sure I was simply lucky in these instances. But clearly the fees and charges are not being enforced as fully as they were designed to be.

[Image: Flickr | jenny-bee]