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Sunday, 28 October 2012

My Favorite Albanian Breast - Page 2

Written by Amy McMahon
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I should pause at this moment to mention that throughout our roadtrip I had developed a reputation for taking pictures of just about anything: bugs, walls, bushes, clouds, broken pavement, burning garbage, telephone poles, you name it.  I had the camera constantly in my hand and clicking away.  My Albanian friends found it quite entertaining the things I chose to photograph.  I ignored their jibes and continued to snap at anything that moved, and most of what didn’t.  

At this very moment, as my intrepid friend explained our curiosity for his skin art, the sweaty chest quickly straightened and slammed itself up against the side of the car, firmly and centrally placing the tattoo smack in the middle of the open window.  Between the thud of body meeting metal and the collective lurch backward of the car’s occupants, we drew the attention of even the neighboring tourists.  

For a few awkward moments we all stared silently with bulging eyes at the breast filled window, until one of my friends composed herself enough to utter an appreciation for the detail of the work and thanked the young man for sharing.  Quite pleased with himself he strutted back to his own companions who greeted him with high fives and hoots.  

Back in the car, all eyes, including my own, slowly turned to the camera in my hand.  It was aimed and focused on the window, with my normally trigger-happy finger at the ready.  Curses and laughter erupted simultaneously as we realized that I had not managed to click a single shot.

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A few minutes later our turn for the ferry arrived.  Still shell-shocked we got the car into place, and as we floated slowly away from the impromptu and blunt display of bravado we tried to refocus our thoughts on the ancient.  Once on site we explored ruins from Roman on through Ottoman times.  We wandered through thousands of years worth of history and wooded beauty, attempting to honor the generations who toiled and defended and lived and died on the mound.  But allas, it was not to be.  For the rest of our journey, we constantly referred to that location by the action we had witnessed.  Citidels and bathhouses, monasteries and ramparts all crumble eventually, but the memory of that breast in the window will always and forevermore be emblazoned on my mind.  No photographs needed. 

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© Amy McMahon

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(Page 2 of 2)
Last modified on Sunday, 16 December 2012

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