Well, I’ve finally made it to the fabled Kosovo Institute of Journalism and Communication. Scooped up by a green and white SUV at the Grand Hotel, I was greeted by “Me KIJAC (pronounced k-eye-jack) driver” and taken several miles to the outskirts of town. The building, with a great view of the power plant, is some kind of communist-era warehouse or factory that got an IKEA treatment. But after meeting with the director, I am reasonably certain that this place exists and may be a good fit.
As for the trip itself, things are clicking after a few hiccups and a little food poisoning. I’m staying up in the hills at the home of Isa, a 50-something property investor, and his son Adiran, who works for an advertising agency.
Everybody seems to be checking me out on the street. Maybe it’s because I’m wearing the best jacket in the world. In Bulgaria, one person assumed I was skinhead. Another thought I was a “ho-mo-sexual.” Apparently, I haven’t graduated to gay skinhead yet.
How can you be a skinhead without, well, a skinhead? They’s just jealous.