Cash or card?
It’s the sentence I hear more than any other during my travels in Eastern Europe. Having lived in New York, where signs were declaring ‘Cards only’ (especially after Covid), this new life dealing with pieces of paper and coins throws me. I feel like a walking Monopoly board.
‘Let me see the bill and then I’ll decide’ produces confused responses from waiters, as does my insistence on having the menu back when the waiter seems to conjure a figure out of thin air.
Cash produces smiles, because a tip is pretty much guaranteed; cards produce a frown or a sigh – usually both – until I add: ‘But I’ll give you your tip in cash.’
I have five currencies in my money drawer: lek (Albanian), lev (Bulgarian), dinar (Serbia), pounds (UK) and euros (Europe – and often in Bulgaria and Albania, too, where a handful of euros induces the kind of excitement associated with a lottery win).
Real confusion sets in when I pay cash in the local currency but receive euros as change; or, more strangely, when I pay by card but get charged more than the bill and then receive a wad of cash. One Albanian bar had a minimum spend of 2,000 lek on cards (€20) but my bill was €4, so I had a ton of Monopoly money as change. Or was it euros? I forget.
Anyway, my point is this: I now spend hours every day doing sums. Calculations relating to bar bills, flights, hotels, Airbnbs – I’m a walking exchange rate. Should anyone have been living under a rock, I can’t afford to live in the UK and am getting by in Eastern Europe, where the cost of living is mega cheap, and the weather is infinitely better.
It’s also really, really interesting. I’ve always been fascinated by history, especially the Romans who I have always admired for their building abilities, which they managed to fit in between eating grapes, shagging each other senseless, and killing each other in amphitheatres. Boy, did they know how to live. Council Tax on the Colosseum? You must be joking. Just throw the bastard who’s asking for it to the wolves.
There is immense sadness along the way, too, particularly in Albania where I was stunned to discover that the evils of the socialist regime continued until 1991. Why were we not informed about these horrors during history lessons in school? Where was the outrage when we were being force fed tedious Celtic tales from the Mabinogion?
It’s hard to keep up with who was and is on whose side. Albanians in the north don’t like Albanians in the south; Serbs don’t like Albanians but they are overly fond (in my opinion) of Russians; Romanians like Bulgarians, but then everyone seems to like the Bulgarians, who just want to move to London.
And everyone hates the Germans. And I mean, everyone.
It’s a very complex mix in this part of the world; I talk to so many people, old and young, but just want someone to tell me who are the goodies and who are the baddies.
Another stress is language. My French is pretty good, I’ve learnt a little bit of Italian and Spanish, but I haven’t picked up a word of Serbian, Bulgarian or Albanian. All three countries greet each other with ‘Ciao!’ and there’s a fair bit of Italian spoken in Albania, due to its proximity to Italy. Also, during the years of socialism in which the government limited TV to one channel for four hours each evening, people found ingenious ways of tuning into Italian stations, and that’s how many learnt the language.
Hearing such a mix of languages and dialects on a daily basis is often wearing, although I find when I return to the UK, it takes me a couple of days to adjust to what have always been familiar words and intonations.
Now, I find that everyone in the UK speaks so quickly – and loudly. With the exception of children, who scream a LOT in Eastern Europe, adults speak much more quietly than, say, Italians or Spanish, both of whom make me wish I were deafer than I actually am.
I know I have many more countries to see and experiences to absorb – and currencies to ad to my cache, but I’m enjoying it.
Navigating new streets and train timetables is challenging, but not as challenging as Ryanair, where on Sunday I was told that it was my job to speak to the parents of the unruly children running up and down the aisle, spilling drinks and disturbing passengers.
Since when am I responsible for securing the safety of an aircraft?
Next on my list are North Macedonia, Montengro and Georgia – but first, back to Albania, a country I’ve fallen rather in love with. I’m very partial to the capital, Tirana, and Sarande in the south, on the Ionian coast, with Corfu opposite and just a 36-minute boat ride away, is joyous. It will be my third trip there in six weeks.
And where I can by half a litre of wine in an upscale restaurant for under £6.
Or a little over 711 lek as we currency afficionados say.
And today it’s 26 degrees.
October 1st.
Did I mention the weather?
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