Fire Dept, Madrid, our apartment, 6-26-26

Edi Rama protests, Tirane, Albania, 6-27-26

~

On the morning of June 26^th—literally the day before we were going to move to Albania after 15 months living in Madrid, Spain—things went badly wrong.

Let me set the scene here.

We were to fly the following day to Tirane, Albania, a three hour flight, with a ton of luggage and our three precious cats. We were also scheduled to meet our landlady, who we’d never met in person and had had only texting contact with, at 10:30am the following morning so she could check out the apartment with us. She was coming all the way from central Africa to do this. We were nervous.

Anyway, back to June 26. Around 11am. Britney was cleaning the apartment. I was moving stuff outdoors which we couldn’t take such as our giant cat towers. I’d in fact ten minutes prior moved one such cat tower from the office. This cat tower, I had failed to realize in my sweaty buzzing activity, had been holding up the bed frame and mattress vertically up against the wall. The reason for the bed being up against the wall was that I’d been using this small room as my writing office. Ergo I had long before shoved the bed up against the wall and used the heavy, large cat tower to hold it there. Meanwhile I had my desk on the other side of the room underneath two windows.

Fast-forward to ten minutes after I’d removed the cat tower.

Britney was cleaning, as I said. I was—this is TMI but increases the dark humor—standing above the toilet having just finished going #2.

Suddenly we heard a loud, hardcore crashing sound from the office.

Within seconds Britney started yelling and panicking. This is her style. She panics. She catastrophizes. I am generally the more calm one. I had no idea at this point, mind you, what the crash had been from or what had happened or why Britney was panicking. I would momentarily find out it was because she knew from the instant she heard the crash what had happened and what it meant.

I remained calm. I squirted soap onto my hands and started rubbing, washing my hands. I hadn’t had to time to pull of my shorts so they were down at my ankles.

Britney started yelling and so I fled the bathroom—shorts at ankles, soap still on hands—and she was desperately trying to get the office door open. She could not get it open.

“Ok, ok, calm down, it’s ok, we’ll figure it out,” I said. I thought she was overreacting and it would be fine. But again: She knew intrinsically what it took me longer to figure out. This is common with us. She almost always knows first. Inherent, intuitive wisdom, I guess.

I walked back into the bathroom, rinsed my hands, tugged my shorts up, dried my hands, and, thinking myself a prideful, strong, red-blooded American male, I proceeded to try to get the office door open.

The thing wouldn’t budge. I was still ok…until I realized something.

Lucius, my fucking cat, who is like my actual son (I’ve had him for a decade and he’s lived everywhere with me, from the Bay Area to NYC to Santa Barbara to Lompoc to Portland to Madrid) was trapped inside the office.

I tried as hard as I could to get the door open.

Nada. Not even close.

I realized what had happened: The bed had obviously come crashing down, and it was now edged tightly between the door and my desk. I had no idea if Lucius was ok, but my mind started fearing the worst. I worried he’d been hurt or even crushed to death by one of the big wooden bed stands.

Unsure what to do, I ran down the three flights of stairs and asked the apartment doorman, Ricardo, a gregarious man who speaks not one word of English, to come up and “ayudar” (help.”). He came up with me and we translated using Google on our phones. He is a thick, burly man with a football linebacker’s body. He tried to open the door. Nada.

We decided to call the fire department. We figured they could get a ladder and come up into the office through the window. We’re on the 4^th floor.

Keep in mind we’re supposed to be cleaning the apartment. It’s literally our last day in Madrid. We’re meeting the landlady at 10:30am the next morning.

And every minute that ticks by I am more and more worried about Lucius. My mind started fearing the worst, planning for him being dead. It was all very surreal. Out of body. Rational thought tried to tell me Lucius was too fast for him to have been crushed…but my irrational fear won out.

Ricardo called Los Bomberos (fire dept). They didn’t answer. Then they did…but halfway through the frantic back and forth Spanish they hung up…or the line simply went dead. He called back again. No one picked up. He called the police. No one answered.

Finally Ricardo and I walked together the half mile to the nearest fire dept. How had things gotten to this level? It was bizarre. Forty-five minutes prior we’d been having a normal morning. We had a day of cleaning planned and then we’d get an early sleep for the long day tomorrow.

But now we were in this situation. Amazing how quickly things can change. It was all my fault. I hadn’t paid attention. I’d made a dumb mistake. Britney had panicked and I hadn’t at first but now I was panicked too.

There was only one fireman and he and Ricardo talked in fast Spanish for a few minutes. He had said that all the other firemen were out on a job. He recommended calling again. Ricardo and I, irritated, stomped back the half mile again to the apartment. On the way he called again and this time they picked up and said they’d be there in half an hour or less.

Back in our apartment Ricardo called the fire dept again just to make sure they were coming; as he was on the phone with them we got a knock on the door and half a dozen or more firemen stood outside our apartment like a miracle. It was quite odd and humorous: These guys were all roughly 6’3 wearing the thick blue and yellow pants with blue shirts that said Bomberos on them, with massive thick black boots, helmets and huge gear boxes and tools.

The firemen came in and instantly started trying to shove the door open. One tried, then two, then three, then all together.

Nada.

Ricardo told them the story again. I explained to be careful because of “el gato.” They kept trying to get the door open. It was useless. One fireman spoke English. We asked him about a ladder; he said they simply did not have a ladder that high. He said the only option was to saw the door in half.

Two thoughts ran through my mind: One, Lucius can’t possibly be alive. Two, If this were America they’d have a fucking ladder.

Fuck me. Do it, we said.

I was concerned about everything, of course; the door, the apartment, the office specifically. But my main concern was Lucius. My beloved furry son. I would DIE if he was seriously hurt or dead. DIE.

They got the saw out and slowly cut horizontally across the middle of the door; the guy shoved the top of the now-free door. It splintered and creaked open. The harsh stench of freshly sawed wood and the electric saw rose up brutally. Then a fireman jumped onto the lower half of the door, perched for a moment like a man in the rubble of 9/11, and then leapt onto the bed. He quickly lifted the bed up and shoved it vertically up against the wall as it had originally been. He said something and the other firemen nodded and they gave me the thumbs-up about “el gato.”

My heart sighed.

When they opened the bottom half of the door Lucius instantly dashed in a wild, mad, Hunter S. Thompson sprint out of the room, hilariously crashing into the gigantic Redwood trees that were the firemen’s boots and pants, and escaped across the desert of the hallway into the safety of the bedroom.

Oh thank fucking God.

Now smiling, Britney and I shook the hands of the firemen and I actually hugged Ricardo (we later gave him a thank you card with 100 Euros) and I wrote down my passport number and telephone and name for the firemen and they left and then Ricardo left and suddenly it was all over.

After checking on Lucius—he was fine but terrified—and giving him a treat we scuttled back into the living room and decided, after a few minutes of calm breathing, to call the landlady. We did. She was very sweet, kind and good about the whole thing. She said she was mostly just glad that we and our cats were all ok and that we’d figure everything out. Obviously we have to pay for everything. We’re trying not to think too much about that at the moment.

After we got off the phone we shrugged and kept cleaning, with the smell of the buzzsaw still rich in the air all day. It was a long, exhausting day.

The next morning we had the place looking as clean as possible—minus the cut-in-half door!—and we were all packed with an absurd amount of luggage and our three cats crated. We met the landlady. She was very sweet. It was fine.

~

At Madrid Bajaras Airport—which we have flown out of and into countless times over the past 15 months—we used two big suitcase dolly carriers and found the desk and checked everything except the cats and a handbag. We were to meet the airport guy with the cats by the pharmacy at 2pm.

We walked to a restaurant in the airport and got food, water, tea, cappuccino, etc. We had about two hours to kill. I thought about how sad I’d unexpectedly felt when delivering our cats’ cat towers to the trash cans, where I stood them next to the trash thinking people might want them. (They were snatched within half an hour.) Our poor babies. We were taking their things and giving them away. It felt vaguely tragic. All the cats but especially Lucius has had to move too many times now. At least they had 15 months straight in Madrid.

We don’t yet know our exact plan in Albania. Americans can stay there for a year visa-free and it’s outside the European Schengen Zone which is required for us now after 15 months in Europe and this was why we chose it. That and it’s been growing in popularity and is expected to join the EU in the next 3-5 years.

I’d also felt a little emotional leaving Madrid. A year and three months. I was surprised how attached I’d become. My regular little daytime and evening walks. Strolling around the parks. The Prado. The gorgeous architecture. Speaking basic Spanish with locals. The Royal Palace and Sabatini Gardens. I was going to miss it. And the late dinners and kind people of Madrid.

And yet, I was also very much ready to leave, too. I wanted out of Madrid and out of the big cities. I felt ready for change and for something new. We’re going to stay one week in Tirane and then several months in Korce and then Vlore. Britney and I have had a sort of healthy push and pull over whether to return to the United States are try to stay abroad. She has voted for the USA; I could stay abroad forever. Albania for 6-12 months and then the USA (likely New England) was the plan…but now that we’re here in Albania she already loves it so: Maybe we’ll try to get a visa and stay! We’ll see. We’ve only been here two days.

Anyway, returning to the flight, we met the guy at 2pm in the Madrid airport and handed over Kitty Bear, our Siamese, to the people who would put him in the hold. He was too big for the cabin and we could only take two in the cabin anyway. Poor buckaroo. When we flew in April 2025 from America to Madrid all three cats went into the hold. Pros and cons to both approaches. The airport experience was pretty easy this time. A lot of walking but that was ok. Then we flew and when we were descending to land we saw the gorgeous lakes and mountains of Albania. Wow. It felt surreal actually being here after months of talking about this place, a place which, just like Madrid before we moved there, neither of us had ever stepped foot on. (We did, as with Madrid, a ton of research.)

We got out and, after going through passport control and getting our luggage and two luggage carts, we stepped over to animal control. We’d done a TON of work in Spain to get the damn pet permits and all their documents; I’d had to go way out of the city to get this special paperwork stamped and signed, etc. But in Tirane, they laughed and said they didn’t need to see anything; they didn’t care. We shrugged and got our taxi.

Driving the half an hour from the airport to the air BnB (right in the center of town) we passed incredible, massive mountains, thick green foliage, insane drivers on the highway (freaky since we’re renting a car starting July 1) and we passed dozens of dilapidated third-world-like apartment complexes which were reminiscent of sections of Nairobi, Tanzania, Morocco, even Mexico. But there were interspersed also nice apartment buildings and big beautiful luxury buildings. We had the windows down; it was hot but cooling and mildly humid; a little before dusk. It felt surreal and magical.

We were dropped off at the Air BnB. Tiny with two rooms; just what we need. We’re only here for a week and then we move to Korce. Everywhere we move and do within Albania and nearby Balkan countries will be via rental car so thankfully no more flying for the cats at least for a while. (Hopefully several years!) I wouldn’t mind missing Trump’s last two-ish years.

After dropping everything off we let the cats free inside the apartment (which is a little rough but fine) and walked to a nearby pet store where we bought them supplies. We returned, set up their litter boxes, and then we headed out for food. It was 10pm and we were starving. Our Air BnB is in a bit of an edgier area but safe and the main drag is down the block. There are young people everywhere. Young men in particular are flashy, strutting about like peacocks, driving loud fast cars and gassing their motorcycles as they race by on the road. It felt a little like Naples. We found a nice Italian place and sat outside. We ordered water and pizza.

Not 20 minutes later, sitting on stools at our little round table on the sidewalk several feet from the main road, we heard the loud noises. It turned out to be the protests! The massive ones going on right now wanting to take down Albania’s prime minister Edi Rama, a corrupt socialist in power since 2013, who is making a deal to develop luxury apartments on one of Albania’s pristine islands by none other than Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump. (If the Trump family or its ilk smell money it doesn’t matter where it is.) The people are pissed. Because there are flamingos on the island it’s being called The Flamingo Revolution by the global media.

First we saw news vans filming and then thousands and thousands and thousands of marchers, smiling, chanting, waving Albanian flags, cheering, trying to get us all involved, singing, clapping. It reminded me of my early involvement in Occupy Oakland circa 2012…before it got violent (that first Oakland march which I was in had 50,000 strong). It was a fascinating, magical moment. We sat in awe watching, by then eating our pizza, clapping and raising our hands in solidarity. The marchers, unlike young spoiled American progressives, seemed actually proud of their country and also angry at the government…the two can happen at the same time.

Finally the march ended, more news vans trailing. These protests have been going for weeks now, every single day. It was truly inspiring. National pride. (I Googled Edi Rama; it seems like he has done a lot of good for Albania, but has also become really corrupt.)

We chatted with a few locals, including a lot with our server at the restaurant: Everyone seems to love Americans, even as they dislike Trump. We feel so far very welcome.

We went back to the apartment, I finally took a shower, we cleaned up a bit, I had some mint tea, and then we crawled into bed and passed out.

This morning we went out and got tea/coffee and then food. Tasty food, good coffee/tea, and we love the vibe of the city. It’s a little edgy but not scary. Low crime. Friendly locals. Most people speak English. Many tourists around. Rising humidity. Lot of outdoor food places. Euro vibes but with a slight Morocco feel to it. We talked to a young man who owned his coffee shop. Sat outside his place at a tiny table in tiny chairs and watched the people. An old Albanian man stopped and smiled and taught us how to say something in Albanian. He gave us a big smile and a thumbs up.