November 1999 - Flying from Rome to Pristina on a small UN plane (which would crash into a mountain four days later, killing all 24 aboard) a returning aid worker tells me post-war Kosovo seemed straightforward at first, but the longer she stayed, the less she was sure of anything: how the Albanians feel, what their future holds... lots of "complex undercurrents"...

On...
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November 1999 - Flying from Rome to Pristina on a small UN plane (which would crash into a mountain four days later, killing all 24 aboard) a returning aid worker tells me post-war Kosovo seemed straightforward at first, but the longer she stayed, the less she was sure of anything: how the Albanians feel, what their future holds... lots of "complex undercurrents"...

On arrival I meet R., an Australian with World Vision, while picking up our baggage. We push through the crush of desperate cabbies waiting outside. He deposits me at the Tito-built Grand Hotel ("not Grand, and barely a hotel" goes the saying), names a time to meet later, and here-I-am. It's raining on Pristina. Cold, intensely gray, winter right around the corner. Sad-eyed taxi drivers and brisk teenagers. Hopeless gridlock at dark intersections. Schoolkids floating by in a sing-song chorus of hellos.

Turns out my main (ok, only) contact, an NPR reporter, isn't even on the hotel register. Terrific. It's starting to get dark and I have nowhere to stay. All I can do is wait outside in the rain for R. to meet me as promised. The twilight descends into nearly full black on the wet, busy streets.

Later, as I unpack in a World Vision guest house, all the lights go out with a thud. "the grid" will become part of my vocabulary. Within seconds, the youngest son of the host family pads upstairs to my bedroom with lit candles.

From the lower floors comes a steady, soft melody on a child's piano. The line wanders, toeing a gentle Albanian mode. I rest in the dark, candlelight casting odd shadows on the ceiling.
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