Lost in Albania (OK, Not Quite)

I left Durres, and Abi (I hated that, knowing it would likely be months before I'd see her again) around six on a Sunday afternoon. Right after boarding the bus I realized I couldn't recall what my stop in Tirane looked like. Getting back to the Qendra Stefan had seemed easy Saturday morning, but suddenly it hit me that I was a foreigner, alone in a country where I could say little more than please and thank you, and that Tirane was a decent sized city. Worst case I could get a taxi, or just stop on every street corner and say, "Qendra Stefan?" in a loud voice. How pathetic.

Instead, I did the obvious thing, and prayed. "Please help me get there without any problems. Thanks!" Notice I didn't specify how. I really didn't care. Why limit God to my imagination in these things?

Within a minute or so, a man around my age sat down next to me. He looked like an Albanian businessman. He nodded, I nodded. That was it. I spent about half the trip writing in my journal. I write small, and most people can't read it. I suppose it's possible he saw that. I don't know. I spent the rest of it looking out the window at my second home country.

Once in Tirane, I looked up whenever we'd slow down. Eventually we got to a spot that looked familiar. Was this it? I wasn't sure. I debated walking up front and asking the driver, "Qendra Stefan?" The man next to me spoke.

"Do you know the city well?" The accent was Albanian, but his English was clear. How did he know I American?

"Not really. I'm trying to decide if this is my stop or not."

"Where are you trying to go?"

"The Qendra Stefan."

"Ah. Do not get off here. The next stop is closer. And I live near there. Come with me and I will show you."

The next stop did not look familiar. The more I thought about it, the last stop was where we had taken the bus yesterday. But he seemed like a good guy. Let's go.

The walk to the Stefan took maybe five minutes. We chatted along the way; he was a former veterinarian. Such jobs went away after the fall of communism and during the civil wars, so he now worked in a bank (I ran across several such stories of vets becoming bankers). He and his young wife and child lived in Tirane, but he worked quite a bit in Durres, and sometimes had to go down on weekends.

"There is the Qendra Stefan". It was across the street, half a block away.

"Where do you live?"

"About 200 meters that way." He pointed away from the Stefan.

I thanked him, and he assured me it was nothing. I wanted to offer something, but was sure that doing so would be insulting. He'd simply been hospitable. I realized later I should have at least let him know he was an answer to prayer, but I suspect he knew.

Maybe he was an angel. Maybe he was simply a nice guy, either perceptive or nudged by the Spirit. I really don't care. I was just happy to be back without having to make Americans look absurd, stopping on every street corner, going, "Qendra Stefan? QENDRA STEFAN? HELP!"