"Hello," says Jenny. Then, pointing at herself, she says, "Emri im është Jenny" (My name is Jenny). "Ju?"
"Sarah," I say.
"Ah, Sarah," she says. She grins and the tops of her false teeth press into her gums. "Here, Tirana," she points at the floor. Ju?"
"I'm from America," I say.
"Ahh, America." Then, "I love you." Kiss on both cheeks.
A man wanders by, smoking a cigarette. He never sits down, walks up the stairs, out into the yard, onto the street, back again. His teeth are missing, and I don't know his name.
Etem takes our laundry. Through a series of gestures, and through the Italian he speaks, he makes it understood that he will do our laundry for us. "Benissimo!" He says proudly, as in, that's what your laundry will look like.
"Hello, Emri im është Jenny," says Jenny. "Ju?"
"Sarah," I say, shaking her hand.
"Ahh, Sarah. Good," says Jenny. "Here, Tirana. Ju?"
"America," I say. It goes on like that.
Four hours later our laundry is still washing in Etem's machine. "Piano, Piano," he says, adding more water into the soap loader. "Benissimo." He points at his undershirt, which I must say is quite white.
Welcome to Residence Kuka, a house for elderly people who don't have a home. We ended up here through a series of cancellations, and it isn't really in desperate need of volunteers. At least so it seems. Hysni Kuka is the man in charge, and he chain smokes Marlboro cigarettes and comes and goes from his job at the ministry. He has six brothers, and they all live in the same neighborhood in Tirana, the capital of Albania. Hysni speaks absolutely no other language besides Albanian. Some words we have in common are "system", "no problem" and "d'accord." (Ok, in French). Luckily, one brother emigrated to Germany, and is visiting with his family, so the teenage sons translate from Albanian to German, which Michal understands. I'm mostly in the dark.
"Jenny," Hysni sighs. He makes a sign at his head to indicate that she's crazy. So far, she has managed to take my phone charger and a skirt from my bag and hide them in her cupboard.
"Jenny has Alzeheimers" says Argi, the older man who speaks English. He was a professor of law and lived for years with his daughter in Istanbul until she went to study in America. Now he mostly watches TV. "When there is something missing in the house, we go and look at Jenny's room."
Hysni has three young kids and his brothers all have kids. There is a cafe connected to the house, a store, a classroom for homeless Gypsies. People pile through at different intervals, some related some not.
This morning, after we were served our breakfast in the dark little cafe of warm milk and bread (you rip up the bread into little pieces and eat it like cereal in the milk.) we went upstairs to sit with the really old folks. There are men on the third floor who look like breathing is an exercise. One man has one closed eye and then one that is far too open. He sat with his back to us, spinning a hard boiled egg on the table. The other guys told us they were 85 and 65, even though I would have guessed 95 and 75, respectively. Gena, a young nurse and teacher takes care of them. She is blond and pretty, with Cleopatra eyeliner and wears a white lab coat. When we wake up, she is cleaning the bathroom, and when we eat breakfast she is cleaning the old folks. "Do you need help?" we ask her. "No, no," She smiles.
Today a boy from Hungary is supposed to arrive, and on Sunday a girl from Austria. Michal has regaled me with volunteering stories from Montenegro and Germany through similar organizations, but this one is different. "What can we do to help this afternoon?" We ask Hysni. "Oh," he says, mumbling and shrugging and then invites us to his house where there are visitors eating fruit. "You can stay here, relax and watch tv," he has his nephew translate.
Hard work happening here in Tirana.
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