My money troubles were not over. I got to the Western Union
office early. The manager of the place and her assistant were there. They knew
I was coming and welcomed me. They asked for my passport. They sat at the
computer and began, I thought, to put through the paperwork that would get me
that precious cash.
Time
passed. The manager and the assistant engaged in an energetic conversation in
Albanian. Their body language bespoke some kind of trouble. I began to despair,
again. I read every map in the outer office of the little building that housed
WU. Then I read them again.
“This name,
Alan, this is your other name?” she asked me.
“Yes, my
middle name,” I plaintively responded.
More heated
conversation from the two ladies.
“This name,
Alan, it is not on the paperwork. It is only on your passport. I don’t think we
can give you the money.”
Fury and
frustration warred inside me. But I kept my cool. I simply gave them a pained
look.
“Let me
call Tirana,” the manager offered.
That took
ten more minutes.
Then there
was some scuffling around inside, then she called me inside again.
“There is
your money, please count it,” she said.
I was so
nervous I miscounted the first time, but she was certain she’d counted
correctly and, after my second count, I was on my way. I paid my bill at the
hostel and bounded down the hill towards downtown Berat and the bus
station. I quickly found a fourgon with “Tirana” in the windshield.
After a bit of a wait I was on my journey back to the capital.
I got lost
in Tirana, as usual (my Lonely Planet map was safely stowed in my backpack) but
this time the gods were with me. As I drifted along an unfamiliar avenue I
looked to my left and there was a vaguely familiar face. It was the guy who
checked me into the backpacker’s hostel last week. He recognized me. Soon we
had my backpack on his bicycle and we were off to another night’s lodging.
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