Looking south from my balcony over the aptly named Sunny Hill neighbourhood of Prishtina, coffee in hand, I can see the skeletal apartment buildings crowned by cranes advancing upward all across the far periphery. Beyond in the blue distance are the white peaks of the Sharri mountains, falling in line behind the mighty and prominent Mount Lybeteni.
Five years ago, on a September morning, I stood on the summit of that peak and took my first look upon the sprawling plains of Kosovo and of a hazy metropolis in the distance, without any idea that this city would one day be my home.
At that time, I was on an assignment that led to two weeks of zig-zagging on foot between the rugged borderlands of Kosovo, Albania, and North Macedonia to document an emerging long-distance hiking trail called the High Scardus.
Afterwards, when I finally made it to Prishtina that October, I instantly felt a connection to the city. It felt unique among all of the capitals of the region I had visited. Rainy days of mirror-like, worn, Yugoslav-era streets, the leaves exploding with colour and emitting that autumn glow and scent of change that imprinted upon me a strong desire to come back.
And I kept coming back over the years – firstly to document a delegation from my home state of Iowa in the US to Kosovo (they are sister states – resulting in a surprising amount of diplomatic ties and cultural exchanges between these two seemingly obscure places), and later for an analog photography workshop held in an arts centre that connected me with some of the city’s best young photographers, and a mentor who would guide me in the years to come.
I lived in Prishtina for the summer of 2023, renting a room from a trio of Germans who had made their home in Prishtina after falling in love with the city (it attracts people from all over the world – I met a Pakistani man the other night who has a restaurant in my neighbourhood). And I stayed put for the summer in advance of another visit to the High Scardus Trail with Resonate and Ethical Travel Portal, with the chance to return to the mountains that had so profoundly impacted my life.
The city naturally became a second home over the years, as I would return to reconnect with the friends I had made and soon started staying longer, with the intent of producing a long-term photographic project on the country.
And so over all of the months and years of regular visits, I found that each time I prepared to leave Prishtina, I began to feel apprehension and anxiety that I was leaving a place where I had belonged.
Back in February, I decided on a whim to contact a real estate company and find my own space to rent, which I haven’t done in more than five years of more or less nomadic living, sign a contract, and have a more or less “permanent” address.
The heating doesn’t work in my apartment, but the landlord kindly brought me a spare space heater from their home, along with spare bedding and dishes and silverware, giving the very new apartment an old, lived-in feeling. But the heater wasn’t needed, with March just around the corner, and I began to savour the sweet mornings standing on the balcony and looking out across the city to the very mountains that brought me here for the first time.
The city’s parks are full of green, and most have cafes where locals gather in throngs to enjoy the weekend, or breaks from the workday. The old centre with its cobbled alleys, mosques, and bazaar makes one feel almost in Istanbul or Sarajevo, until you come upon the ageless chai stalls with old Albanian men, each dressed in a suit and white plis (traditional Albanian felt, brimless skullcap).
The former Yugoslav-era architecture imparts another flavour of Eastern European character, and you’re never far from traditional Balkan food. There’s always a greasy, flaky burek to be had around any corner, not to mention doner and qebapa (Albanian for cevapi), bread stuffed with minced meat links and onion, with all of the above washed down with ajran or yoghurt.
Far from the feeling of oppression and war, things in Kosovo seem light and carefree on the surface. Youngsters (it’s one of the youngest countries in Europe demographically) fill the cafes and bars every evening when the weather is nice, which it most often is. But the reality is that, with the average salary being so low, many adults live with their parents well into their thirties unless they’re working multiple jobs, and for many, the dream is to move abroad and do anything that could offer a better salary.
One sees reminders of American influence everywhere: The statue of Bill Clinton is perhaps the most noteworthy, if not absurd, situated as it is on the “Bulevardi Bill Klinton” in the city centre. And around the corner from the statue adorned in pigeon droppings can be found a women’s clothing boutique named “Hillary,” and around the other corner, one “Bill Caffe,” with patrons on the terrace smoking cigarettes and drinking what is likely somewhere between their first and fifth coffee of the day.
Since moving to Prishtina, I have started taking Albanian language lessons twice weekly. It’s a difficult language, truly unlike any other, but I enjoy the slow process of growth and comprehension of the signs on buildings and the words spoken in passing around me. And the feeling of actually having a home base after so many years without invites me to slow down, deepen my connection to a country that fascinates me, and see what I can build from a firm place of residence.
