Such a modern looking bridge! Lovely night lights.

Now look at this photograph.

These are the instructions on how to cross the bridge.

This bridge with the festive blue lights is the divide between the Serbs and the Albanians. Where the UN soldier died.

This bridge is one of the most dangerous spots in this part of the world right now.

Not so pretty anymore, is it?

I'm to meet with the mayor (Albanian former PM of Kosovo) and a rep from the Serbian side.

Not at the same time, obviously.

I am taking my camera.

I will insist on heading to the bridge.

I am feeling more than a little out of my league and nervous, but a good nervous.

This is going to be simpler than trying to order salad with dressing on the side.

What does one wear to this sort of thing?

INITIAL REPORT FOLLOWS...

Did you know that if you drink four litres of Diet Coke, eat four blueberry muffins and a tomato sandwich, and do not move from your desk for more than a total of eight hours out of forty-eight, you can more or less produce a paper by yourself?

Well, not entirely true -- without help from a very clever friend in Canada, it would not have come together at all.

In my eight hours off I shuffled down the hall and collapsed in the child's single bed that I have been given to sleep in. Can someone please send me a hammock?

The down side to this rather modest accomplishment is that my eyes sting, I can't remember certain words, and have forgotten how to spell rhetorical (had spell check fix that).

I am also cranky, moody, and generally pissed off. I do not react well to being stuck at a desk for hours on end.

Newspapering is such a glamorous life, reminds me of working in film. However, while being taken advantage of and overworked in film, I was fed great food, and got to look at Denzel Washington and Jean Renault.

I need to vent so here is some of the not so great stuff.

This city is full of men, and I mean full of men. Foreign men, local men, old men, young men, handsome men, scruffy men. There are about five men for every woman here.

They loiter (45 percent unemployment here) and chat pleasantly. They are not generally aggressive but some of them are, and the ones who are, really are.

I have discovered, upon recommendation, that only one thing dissuades a street stalker in Kosovo. And it is these 3 letters:

C. I. A.

The instant I mutter those letters or mention American police, the stalkers stop dead in their tracks, eyes wide, sincere apologies (I assume) are uttered, and they scamper off in the other direction as quickly as they possible can, casting terrified glances over their shoulders.

It's kinda fun.

I have to say, as a Canadian, I never thought I would fake being American.

But whatever it takes for a bit of peace.

The publisher I work for is a lovely guy -- 45 years old, Costa Rican, and this paper is a toy for him.

: That attitude can drive me crazy when I am killing myself to get work done and he wants me to go shopping with him. He claims that his wardrobe is just as important as my writing. He is only half kidding. When I refused for the 8th time yesterday he offered to buy me a dress. I just about killed him and told him if he did not leave me alone I would resort to cutting holes in the toes of his socks while he slept.

He has been better since.

The Kosovo Times office is shared by five people and is a constant whirlwind of newspapers, advertising pages, notes, and chocolate wrappers (mine).

It is nearly impossible to think, so I often end up perched on a stool by the kitchen counter where no one thinks to look for me so I can get some work done.

Meanwhile Alfonso (my boss) wanders the house singing "Baaaaaaanesssssssaaaaa? Hello? Where did she go?"

So , I may well lose my mind in the next ten weeks, and end up stuck here in a psych ward. If no one hears from me for a week, can you please call the embassy and have them look for me. I will no doubt be hiding in the kitchen.