* I have a powerful and complicated relationship with this song. I traveled to Kosovo in 1999 to cover the immediate aftermath of the Serbian invasion and the “Great Powers” response. The writing didn’t pay much, but it was exhilarating. I had almost decided not to come back to y’all because I was thoroughly engaged in the work and was convinced I could eventually make a living off foreign reporting - a longtime ambition - but then this song came on the radio.

The coalition headed by the US military had taken control of all the Kosovar radio stations from ethnic Serbians and Albanians to avoid sparking conflicts. The lone station used an automated system, so it had no disc jockeys. I assumed that was done to avoid somebody saying something stupid on-air and causing who knows what sort of retribution and violence. The station played only American music.

* During the war, thousands of ethnic Serbs had forced out ethnic Albanians and seized their homes. I visited several houses after the Serbs were eventually pushed out and saw vicious anti-Albanian, anti-Muslim graffiti painted on the walls, put there by the now-departed Serbs.

The stories I was told and the clear evidence I saw about the Serbian occupation of Kosovo were horrific. But I also had my first up-close look at how false war atrocity rumors could spread by word of mouth for miles around in almost an instant. I canvassed an entire city block after hearing from numerous people in Pristina (including the grandmother of a friend, who said she had seen it with her own eyes) about a Kosovar being shot by allied troops in a town about 20 miles away. Everyone I talked to in that town insisted it didn’t happen. It’s a lesson I will never forget. Never automatically believe war rumors, even if a friend’s lovely grandma tells you one.

* A friend I made while driving through southeastern Europe was killed by bandits during a diamond smuggling run in neighboring Albania (yes, I know it sounds crazy, but I wasn’t involved, because if I was I wouldn’t be telling you this story today /s). Another friend I’d met on the trip (the one with the grandma) had been an ethnic Albanian fighter in Kosovo before the war. He was badly injured in that same diamond run attack and was hospitalized in a rural Albanian hospital with a 24/7 police guard, charged with my other friend’s murder. The cops justified the charge because, they concluded, he’d been driving the car when it was chased off a cliff by AK-toting bandits. He was eventually freed after arranging payment to the proper authorities.

Albania was wild back then, man. In Kosovo, military coalition members were literally everywhere. If there was a problem, you could easily find help. Albania was basically in a civil war and you couldn’t ask anyone for help. The cops were iffy at best, the militias were in league with various bandit groups and the foreign military had moved on to Kosovo. We were on our own.

* After I don’t know how many hours of driving with an ethnic Kosovar who lived in Germany and who’d offered to be my translator even though he spoke no English, I eventually found the hospital my friend had been transferred to (no ashtrays, just throw your cigarettes on the floor) with pigs grazing in the courtyard (it was a Christian hospital in an Islamic region) and very near the police station on the little town square.

Unbeknownst to me, the police station was attacked every night by armed rebels. I had parked my German rental car in front of the station, mistakenly thinking it would be a safe spot. A hospital doctor immediately grabbed my key and moved my rental car to an out of the way location after he found out what I’d done. He looked at me like I was crazy.

The doctor also insisted I stay at the hospital instead of the local hotel, which was overrun by the rebels every night. It was a certain death sentence, he warned. I complied.

* My hospital room gave me a clear view of the nightly rebels vs. police firefight, both outside my window and then inside the emergency room, which was a few feet from my room. Tracers were flying and the screaming wounded from both sides piled up in the hallway.

It sounds silly to say, but I felt relieved during the firefight that the doctor had moved my car. I had asked my mom, who was with the US Department of Defense in Germany at the time and was doing some Kosovo logistics, to vouch for me with a German rental car company. Without her word, nobody would rent me a car to drive into a war zone. She would’ve been put in a mighty sticky wicket if I had brought it back riddled with bullet holes. Never do that to your mom.

* Anyway, before I ventured into Albania, I was driving aimlessly through the Kosovo countryside grieving my murdered friend and my missing friend and my not great life back home when this tune came on the radio. I immediately pulled the car over and listened. The song convinced me to give my Illinois life one more shot and I eventually went home…

And I dreamed your dream for you and now your dream is real

I was also arrested in Serbia during that trip for illegal entry and suspicion of being an American spy. I was put on trial and expelled from the country. The story I wrote about that ordeal is not online (and probably never was), but I’ll see if I can find it in my own archives someday.

* Sorry, this post kinda got away from me. What’s up with you?