The lighter side of Albania

Through a twist of fate and the willingness of a tiny school in Albania to once again host over 40 middle school students from all over Europe, the Kielbasa Chronicle made a return trip to Tirana this year. I remember last year, tearing the four pages out of my tattered Eastern Europe guidebook, thinking I would only have to research Albanian words, food, and directions once in my life. After all, this tiny bunker-strewn wasteland is not exactly known as a tourist hot-spot. The food is great, the weather is mild this time of year, but clean and orderly it is definitely not.

Despite having made the same trip last year, five of the twelve kids on the cross country team made the return voyage, so they must have had a good time. We also brought along the czar of CEESA athletics and our athletic director, Jim Matter. My assistant coach from last year, Rachel, could not make the trip since she had a baby a few months ago, so the new addition to the coaching staff, who absolutely loved the trip, was Barbara, our middle school German teacher.

After four years, and missing it by a whisker a couple times, the boys’ team brought home the championship trophy, and their coach couldn’t have been prouder. The great thing about working with kids this age is that they have almost no experience to draw upon, so there is also little fear of failure. Just go out and run for the fun of it. Being on the trip is reward enough. It’s certainly a far cry from the days of coaching high school cross country where the season started Aug. 12 and ended the last weekend in October, with the kids running six days a week. We needed to employ all kinds of strategies, from bowling nights to camp-outs, just to keep the kids engaged. I have many good memories of those years, but don’t miss the level of commitment required.

It was a stress-free trip with a great bunch of kids who were so much fun to travel with. Sometimes teenagers have tendency to whine when things aren’t so entertaining, but this group was complaint free. The adults were also, and we even found time to rent a bus for an afternoon on the Albanian coast. After driving many air-condition deprived miles down potholed roads and passing through countryside which probably hadn’t changed in 50 years, we arrived at a remote beach, inhabited by only us foreigners and the staff of a tiny restaurant & seaside cabana rental. The fresh seafood dinner was phenomenal, as we enjoyed the company of our fellow coaches from Budapest, Moscow, Prague, and Zagreb. We all had to agree that middle school cross country was by far the most relaxing sport to coach.

Oktoberfest in Munich!

If you aren’t paying attention at Oktoberfest, you will get your ass kicked. It’s not because of anything you did to provoke somebody’s wrath. You can just be standing in the beer tent enjoying the festivities, drinking in both the suds and the atmosphere, and you will first hear a warning. This comes in the form of a whistle. Not the kind you hear at a rock concert or sporting event, but an actual whistle. The referee kind. If you do not heed the warning and get out of the way in a timely manner, you will receive the foot of a sturdy but mature-looking German woman right between your butt cheeks.

This happened to me at the Paulaner tent on a sun-drenched Saturday afternoon. I don’t blame her for doing this. After all, she needed to deliver a flock of broasted chickens to some hungry festival goers and I was oblivious to the urgency of the situation. I’m sure I was not the first ass she kicked that day and there would undoubtedly be many more to come as the crowd became increasingly lubricated.

The tents. Paulaner. Haufbrauhaus. Augustiner. Lowenbrau and a score of others I can’t remotely pronounce. If I tried, it would sound like an attack of bronchitis. They are set out in succession along the back row of the festival grounds, gleaming temples devoted to the art of brewing and the ritual of imbibing. Each holds around 10,000 from around the world, some having reserved their place at the long wooden tables over a year in advance. If you are lucky enough to gain entrance sans reservation, you will be treated to a spectacle that can only be found annually for two autumnal weeks in Munich.

The beer is why they have made their pilgrimage. The natives, in all shapes and sizes, sporting lederhosen passed down from generation to generation for just this occasion. Australians with their yellow “Fanatics” t-shirts. The Brits, Scots, and Irish clad in their rugby jerseys. Americans in their university hoodies. and the Italians looking . . . Italian. Gelled, slicked back hair, high-priced T’s stamped with designer names, and gold-plated chains around their necks, ready to throw themselves at anything in a traditional dress.

The dirndl. Some are born to wear it, with their ample curves almost spilling forth from the bodice. Others look just a bit too ample for the form-fitting corset. But that doesn’t stop them from trying to squeeze into one for a few days while swilling beers and noshing on the cornucopia of pork products to be found around every corner of the legendary grounds. My traveling companion, despite looking fetching in her budget costume, felt a bit out of place since hers was cut comparatively high, eliciting more than a few stares and catcalls. Feeling self conscious and a bit allergenic, the dress lasted a few hours before being jettisoned, but the pictures were worth the price.

The weekend went by fast, a blur of hoisted beer steins and the ooompah of brass polka bands. This was one trip I won't soon forget. Hope to be there in 2010!