T A B L E_T A L K Offer your tips to a Table Talker who plans to spend Easter in Paris with his son   ___________________ Click here for books about The Galapogas Islands at barnesandnoble.com ___________________   R E C E N T L Y Original sin By Janis Cooke Newman A culinary pilgrim in Italy succumbs to temptations far more wicked than ripe produce (03/17/99) Where the wild things are By John Fox An archaeologist explores the Galapagos on an expedition run by school kids (03/16/99) Going native By Chris Colin For American college students living abroad, the question is: How local can you get? (03/15/99) Family sanity By Phaedra Hise A mother reveals her secret on how to travel with children -- and still feel like you're on vacation (03/12/99) Michelin madness By David Downie An exclusive club of upper-crust chefs waits patiently each year to see who is added to -- or booted out of -- the fold (03/11/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		"DON'T SHOOT -- WE'RE AMERICANS!" | PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - The view from the abandoned border station was breathtaking. To the west, the mountains of Albania disappeared into the mist. Somewhere out there, I knew, was the Adriatic Sea. To the east lay Lake Ohrid, backed by the Galicia range. And to the north, looking down the ridge, was a modern-looking ranch-style building flying the Macedonian flag. We guessed that this was a Macedonian border station and didn't think much else about it. The strangeness and beauty of our location enhanced our lunch of goat cheese, bread and chocolate. Little did we know that as we ate and then posed for each other's pictures, someone in that border station was observing us through binoculars and radioing his counterparts that two suspicious men, possibly Albanians, were preparing to enter Macedonian territory. When it was time to head back to the village and our car, we were so excited about our adventure that we practically ran down through the snow. For the first time all day, probably because we were going downhill, I was in front of Steve. Suddenly I saw movement, heard loud voices and found myself staring at a soldier in camouflage, yelling something unintelligible and pointing his rifle at me. He looked angry and scared in his olive-green uniform. With the rifle, he gestured for me to get down, and I dropped to my knees, held my hands over my head and whimpered, "Please don't shoot, don't shoot." He continued to point the gun and scream. I heard Steve angrily yelling back, and I started repeating, "Americans, we're Americans, Americans." Although the other two soldiers had emerged into view, my eyes were fixed on the rifle barrel in front of me. At some point I noticed a Macedonian flag on the soldier's uniform, and I felt a vague sense of relief; Macedonians generally like Americans and I was a guest of their country. Still, I believe these guys were willing and ready to shoot. Slowly, still yelling, the soldier approached. "Please don't point that gun at me," I pleaded. Suddenly, when he was only a foot or two away, he raised the butt of the rifle as if to slam me over the head. I heard Steve's voice becoming more frantic as I ducked in preparation for the blow. When it came, it was only a light slap with the palm of his hand against the side of my head. I realized then that we probably weren't going to be shot. But we were still dealing with nervous kids with guns. They ordered us to stand and marched us up the hill, toward the border station. It was impossible to relax with loaded rifles aimed at our backs. As we got closer to the station, another contingent of soldiers came down to meet us, and their serious looks quickly turned into bemused smiles when they saw us decked out in our hiking gear. By the time we arrived at the building and they sat us down in their eating and television room to wait for the captain, they had resumed being the typical young Macedonians we knew -- kind, good-humored and curious. For the next couple of hours we sat with the soldiers, watching television and asking each other questions. They told us they had watched us from the border station and radioed a patrol to expect us on the way down. They said they encounter Albanians every day. "Have you ever had to shoot anyone?" we asked. "All the time." The only reason they hesitated with us, they said, was because we stopped, were unarmed and didn't make any sudden moves. We kept apologizing to each other, they for almost shooting us and Steve and I for putting them in that situation. Although none of them were from Skopje, Steve offered to buy them drinks should they ever come to the city. "We will drink to the fact that you are still alive," they laughed, and we chuckled along at the macabre humor. When the captain finally arrived, his easygoing manner as he filled out his report helped us to relax. We had been sitting with the soldiers for almost three hours when two policemen showed up to escort us to our car and then to the police station in Struga. They said the inspector wanted to speak with us about why we had crossed the border. Many of the same Albanian children were waiting for us when we arrived back, in police custody this time. Their confused faces mirrored for us the strangeness of the situation. All we could do was meekly wave goodbye as we drove off to meet the inspector. The station, a drab concrete building, was cold this late in the day. We were told to sit on a bench in a long hallway that had all the trappings of a bad espionage film. We half-jokingly recited the various forms of torture used in movies to extract confessions and anticipated which ones we might face. When we inquired, after a couple of hours, about why it was taking so long, a policeman told us that the inspector had to be summoned from his home. "Oh great," we thought, "he's going to be in a really good mood." After what seemed an interminable wait, we were ushered upstairs and into his office. He sat staring down into the blackness of his Turkish coffee. My heart sank when the first thing he said was "golem problem," which I knew enough to mean "big problem." Things got worse when we told him that neither of us had our passports. Everything seemed to be going against us, including the fact that Steve's middle name, Spiro, was given to him in honor of his grandfather, who came to America from the Korce region of Albania. "So you have connections to Albania then," said the inspector on learning this fact. It also didn't help that I had yet to memorize my address and could only be as specific as "near the old train station on Dame Gruev street." After 30 minutes of uncomfortable questioning, he told us to wait downstairs. We were already anticipating the possibility of spending the night in the Struga jail when he came down and told us we could go but to be more careful next time. This was unnecessary advice. The next day, back in the office in Skopje, we learned from Mentor, an ethnic Albanian from the Kosovo region of Yugoslavia, that Serbian troops had attacked Kosovar villages the day before, while we were being held in the border station. And now, when I read the daily reports of the escalating war in Kosovo and the plight of the innocent people, Serbian and Albanian, who huddle frightened in their homes as the war rages around them, I have more empathy. As an American, I carry with me an innate sense of safety and security. To have that stripped away, even for a few moments, is to see how many others, particularly in the Balkans, have to live every day. SALON | March 18, 1999 Daniel Becker lived in Macedonia from January to May of 1998 and now lives and works in Seattle. He is currently a development specialist for a community development loan fund.