The email read: “When you get to Pristina, call Jovan. He will take you around to find an apartment.” So it was, Jovan was going to be our man in Pristina.
Running back to our hotel in a late summer downpour, Laura and I were greeted by a decrepit passenger van with Jovan in the driver’s seat and his friend, who did not speak English, on the passenger’s side. Best I could tell, the friend was tasked to open the often jammed sliding door and to carry the sack of keys. Jovan said he had three apartments for us to look at. We were off.
From the get go, Jovan and his friend did not instill confidence in either Laura or myself. It took only the first apartment to confirm our initial feelings. They took us too a new building in the middle of the city. I was warned of the newer buildings, because the quality of the building was, at best, questionable. They were often built fast, not to code, and with little oversight. The unlit entry way was our first clue: where the elevator door met the floor, a chunk of building was missing. Beneath was merely a dark and poorly constructed abyss. On the plus side, the building had an inexplicably Egyptian themed elevator.
We took the elevator to the seventh floor to again be met with limited light, but a secure looking door. Jovan’s friend—he never did introduce himself—flipped the messenger bag around his waist to pull out four or five key rings with at least a dozen keys on each. He looked at us and said with a smile, “It’s a lot of keys.” I took this to mean that business was booming, as people trusted him with their apartment keys. Laura, more correctly, understood this to mean that these two hungover bros, with no labeling system, were the train wreck couple of the Pristina real estate scene.
Without rhyme and certainly no reason, they fumbled through the keys one at a time while attempting to unlock the door. Only halfway through this routine did Jovan’s herculean task double when he realized that there were two locks in need oftwo separate keys. Laura rolled her eyes; I was excited that these guys were going out of their way to write the story you are now reading.
Keys continue to be tried, dropped, and retried. At some point, one of them hit the hallway light switch to aid their struggle. The lights failed to oblige. Keys clanked against the door jam. Laura and I continued to stand in the waning day light, quietly discussing how comically bad this all was. Laura at this point was done with this amateur hour. I, on the other hand, knew that they had more creative fodder for me. They looked up, unable to unlock the door, and told us we could not see that apartment. I asked to see another.
Back outside, the friend again struggled to open the van’s door. Once they managed to get it open, they took us to Bill Clinton Boulevard to look at the second apartment. This time there was no elevator, just an unsecure stairwell with a derelict door. We climbed up the stairs in this Tito-era tenement to be greeted by a doctor from the north of the country. He was a precarious and odd, balding man who was excited to tell us, in Albanian, about the apartment. Across the street from the balcony was the statue of President Clinton; he was waving. There was no counter in the kitchen and a satin blanket on the bed. Even with the promise of Bill Clinton greeting us each morning, we were not interested.
On account of the earlier failures, we declined to see the third apartment. We rode back to our hotel in hostile silence. Jovan knew he had blown it. He no longer made small talk with us, he yelled at traffic, and quickly had us hop out of the van at the intersection nearest the hotel. Our hotel did not sit on an intersection.
Luckily for us, we had been introduced to a second real estate agent in Pristina.
Bekim runs a tight ship. A refugee during the war, basketball player, bee keeper, and ethical pharmacist, he showed us the only apartment he had not yet let. It was perfect.
We were quick to rent the apartment from Bekim. It securely sits in a three story building that is positioned next to the home of Bajram Kelmendi, a famous lawyer and human rights advocate who was killed during the war. Kelmendi was the first to bring war crimes charges at the Hague against Slobodan Milosevic in 1998. On the eve of the 1999 NATO bombings, Serb forces took Kelmendi and his two sons to a gas station outside of Pristina where they were executed. There is a marble plaque on the home’s gate celebrating Kelmendi’s sacrifice. The home’s adjoining law office still carries his name. It's an odd, twice-daily feeling to walk your dog by this reminder of the country’s not so distant and troubled past.
Seeing this apartment was accompanied by a tour of the large Germia Park on the outskirts of the city. This park has the largest concrete pool I’ve ever seen, a monkey in a cage, and a quarantined area with barbed wire and tri-lingual signs warning of landmines. Bekim took us to other locations of interest, and even helped us move in. We told him it wasn’t necessary to fuss over us, but he earnestly said that, “I owe America so much. This is the least I can do.” After a decade of very anti-American news from abroad, it is surprising and refreshing that this can be the general sentiment in Kosovo. While Europe failed to act in the Balkans in the 1990s, the U.S. was the impetus for NATO intervention, and ultimately Kosovo’s succession from Serbia. This sentiment about America is not uncommon; kids clad in American flag t-shirts and Old Glory air fresheners on taxi rear-views are a constant reminder of our recent and shared history. Every day here feels a little like the 4th of July.
Our new building is shared with a local judge and his family. We were curious to how Bekim knew the family and if they could be trusted. Broadly speaking, Kosovars have a different expectation of privacy when it comes to their renters. I’ve heard stories of the landlord’s family staying in the apartment while the renter was away. That sounds mild enough, but one specific and dreadful tale was enough to be vigilant about this question: an American woman came home one day to not only find an extended family member in her home, but also in her bathing suit. We needed to know about boundaries.
Bekim affirmed that they are a good family, not because he knows them personally, but because he has dealt with their cousins in the past. The connection to and aptitude of a cousin is treated as currency in Kosovo. This time is no different, and so far this reliance on this social capital has worked for us. While the family who owns the apartment speaks no English, they have been nothing but kind and courteous. During our first weekend in the apartment, they even made us Kosovo's equivalent of elephant ears and salty, farmers cheese to accompany it.
Thankfully Bekim appeared to—literally and figuratively—pick us up, after the earlier tragicomedy. Our time in Kosovo so far has been a whirlwind; however, with this new apartment, Kosovo is starting to feel a little like home.
Running back to our hotel in a late summer downpour, Laura and I were greeted by a decrepit passenger van with Jovan in the driver’s seat and his friend, who did not speak English, on the passenger’s side. Best I could tell, the friend was tasked to open the often jammed sliding door and to carry the sack of keys. Jovan said he had three apartments for us to look at. We were off.
From the get go, Jovan and his friend did not instill confidence in either Laura or myself. It took only the first apartment to confirm our initial feelings. They took us too a new building in the middle of the city. I was warned of the newer buildings, because the quality of the building was, at best, questionable. They were often built fast, not to code, and with little oversight. The unlit entry way was our first clue: where the elevator door met the floor, a chunk of building was missing. Beneath was merely a dark and poorly constructed abyss. On the plus side, the building had an inexplicably Egyptian themed elevator.
We took the elevator to the seventh floor to again be met with limited light, but a secure looking door. Jovan’s friend—he never did introduce himself—flipped the messenger bag around his waist to pull out four or five key rings with at least a dozen keys on each. He looked at us and said with a smile, “It’s a lot of keys.” I took this to mean that business was booming, as people trusted him with their apartment keys. Laura, more correctly, understood this to mean that these two hungover bros, with no labeling system, were the train wreck couple of the Pristina real estate scene.
Without rhyme and certainly no reason, they fumbled through the keys one at a time while attempting to unlock the door. Only halfway through this routine did Jovan’s herculean task double when he realized that there were two locks in need oftwo separate keys. Laura rolled her eyes; I was excited that these guys were going out of their way to write the story you are now reading.
Keys continue to be tried, dropped, and retried. At some point, one of them hit the hallway light switch to aid their struggle. The lights failed to oblige. Keys clanked against the door jam. Laura and I continued to stand in the waning day light, quietly discussing how comically bad this all was. Laura at this point was done with this amateur hour. I, on the other hand, knew that they had more creative fodder for me. They looked up, unable to unlock the door, and told us we could not see that apartment. I asked to see another.
Back outside, the friend again struggled to open the van’s door. Once they managed to get it open, they took us to Bill Clinton Boulevard to look at the second apartment. This time there was no elevator, just an unsecure stairwell with a derelict door. We climbed up the stairs in this Tito-era tenement to be greeted by a doctor from the north of the country. He was a precarious and odd, balding man who was excited to tell us, in Albanian, about the apartment. Across the street from the balcony was the statue of President Clinton; he was waving. There was no counter in the kitchen and a satin blanket on the bed. Even with the promise of Bill Clinton greeting us each morning, we were not interested.
On account of the earlier failures, we declined to see the third apartment. We rode back to our hotel in hostile silence. Jovan knew he had blown it. He no longer made small talk with us, he yelled at traffic, and quickly had us hop out of the van at the intersection nearest the hotel. Our hotel did not sit on an intersection.
Luckily for us, we had been introduced to a second real estate agent in Pristina.
Bekim runs a tight ship. A refugee during the war, basketball player, bee keeper, and ethical pharmacist, he showed us the only apartment he had not yet let. It was perfect.
We were quick to rent the apartment from Bekim. It securely sits in a three story building that is positioned next to the home of Bajram Kelmendi, a famous lawyer and human rights advocate who was killed during the war. Kelmendi was the first to bring war crimes charges at the Hague against Slobodan Milosevic in 1998. On the eve of the 1999 NATO bombings, Serb forces took Kelmendi and his two sons to a gas station outside of Pristina where they were executed. There is a marble plaque on the home’s gate celebrating Kelmendi’s sacrifice. The home’s adjoining law office still carries his name. It's an odd, twice-daily feeling to walk your dog by this reminder of the country’s not so distant and troubled past.
Seeing this apartment was accompanied by a tour of the large Germia Park on the outskirts of the city. This park has the largest concrete pool I’ve ever seen, a monkey in a cage, and a quarantined area with barbed wire and tri-lingual signs warning of landmines. Bekim took us to other locations of interest, and even helped us move in. We told him it wasn’t necessary to fuss over us, but he earnestly said that, “I owe America so much. This is the least I can do.” After a decade of very anti-American news from abroad, it is surprising and refreshing that this can be the general sentiment in Kosovo. While Europe failed to act in the Balkans in the 1990s, the U.S. was the impetus for NATO intervention, and ultimately Kosovo’s succession from Serbia. This sentiment about America is not uncommon; kids clad in American flag t-shirts and Old Glory air fresheners on taxi rear-views are a constant reminder of our recent and shared history. Every day here feels a little like the 4th of July.
Our new building is shared with a local judge and his family. We were curious to how Bekim knew the family and if they could be trusted. Broadly speaking, Kosovars have a different expectation of privacy when it comes to their renters. I’ve heard stories of the landlord’s family staying in the apartment while the renter was away. That sounds mild enough, but one specific and dreadful tale was enough to be vigilant about this question: an American woman came home one day to not only find an extended family member in her home, but also in her bathing suit. We needed to know about boundaries.
Bekim affirmed that they are a good family, not because he knows them personally, but because he has dealt with their cousins in the past. The connection to and aptitude of a cousin is treated as currency in Kosovo. This time is no different, and so far this reliance on this social capital has worked for us. While the family who owns the apartment speaks no English, they have been nothing but kind and courteous. During our first weekend in the apartment, they even made us Kosovo's equivalent of elephant ears and salty, farmers cheese to accompany it.
Thankfully Bekim appeared to—literally and figuratively—pick us up, after the earlier tragicomedy. Our time in Kosovo so far has been a whirlwind; however, with this new apartment, Kosovo is starting to feel a little like home.
