A 6.30 wake up, followed by the saltiest feta cheese in existence, a 40 minute walk through the apartment blocks of Prishtine ( it is amazing how grey, Titoist apartment blocks can be made even more grey by the omnipresence of a thick, rolling, bonechilling blankets of white fog) to a deserted bus station, a short ride to the tomb of a Sultan, poking around in fields, discussions about religious harmony with an old Turkish-speaking farmwoman, hitching lifts with Kosovar teaching assistants, finding a bus to the northwest part of the territory (to Peje/Pec), tramping around a city without much to see (how dare they repair everything from the war and leave stupid tourists with nothing to point their intruding camera at?), before walking 40 minutes out of the city centre just to take a picture of semi-interesting street signs defaced by nationalists all equal the need for a suxhuk qepab washed down by Kosovar beer, ordered though it was with such an exceeding butchery of the local Albanian tongue that the restaurant's proprietor was forced to switch to English, such was my inability to do anything except motion salivatingly towards the grill in an effort to impress upon him my desire for said suxhuk. If that is not a disgustingly long run-on sentence, then who knows what is...
And the Croatian Judge Judy? That's what all of the eatery's patrons were glued to on digital TV (the writer included)...
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