TWO DAYS IN ALBANIA

Travel gets harder south of the Danube or north of Greece, depending on which way you’re coming or going, especially when your stated goal is to visit every last country, regardless of how small or insignificant. The term ‘Balkanization’ takes on new meaning. At the same time that Europe is doing something truly radical in the history of history, putting petty differences and phony nationalism aside and uniting with its neighbors on the basis of common interests and mutual protection, the Balkans are splintering into the tiniest national groups imaginable. Ironically this is in spite of the fact that most of them are of similar language and history, south Slavic by language and race, and united for most of the last fifty years as Yugoslavia, Communist and proud. Now they’re broken up into a baker’s half-dozen of currencies and policies and borders, and another’s in the works, Kosovo being shepherded through its infancy by the UN, which has apparently decided that a region can unilaterally declare independence… and get it. Cool, I might want to try that some day. While this may all be interesting politically and historically, it makes for some tricky travel to see them all, certainly more than a quick ferry over to Dubrovnik to feel like you’ve seen and done Yugoslavia.

But none of that applies to Albania, which has always been a case unto itself, but a case of what it’s not clear. Not Slavic at all but presumably descendants of the ancient Illyrians, themselves apparently the progenitors of northern Europe’s first distinctive culture at Hallstatt, modern Albania arrives on the world stage tentatively. This was a place so closed to the world for four decades under Enver Hoxha that not even other Communists were allowed to visit. Croatians in Dubrovnik are closer to Albania than to their cousins at Split, but none ever crossed over to visit in the Hoxha years. Most still haven’t. Now little of his decades-long regime remains but the one-man bunkers dotting the countryside meant to stave off an imagined foreign invasion. How they would withstand a smart-bomb from above is another question. Albania today is still struggling toward a modern economy, with the capital Tirana alight with bars and cafes while the countryside is a hazh-pazh of decrepit mines and local agriculture.

A whole neighborhood of Athens close to the Larissa train station is devoted to inter-Balkan transportation, especially buses to Albania. I was a little apprehensive when they seemed hesitant to sell me a ticket, but there was no problem, just not many backpackers to Albania! The ride from Athens to Tirana passes by through the night, only snatches of the Greek coastline visible by moonlight. The Albanian drivers seem to love the modern Greek highways, clipping along at break-neck speed only slightly moderated by the need to flick cigarette ashes out the window in a gesture of contempt for the rules, if not the actual passengers who indirectly pay their salary. Prohibitions against smoking on the bus apparently do not apply to the driver. Approaching the border we climb high into the hills finally reaching the Albanian border some time after midnight. At that point we all have to leave the bus and queue up to get our passports stamped in a ritual that goes back to time immemorial, aka Checkpoint Charlie. It’s cold, too, I’m here to testify. The superhighway on the Albania side lasts until out of sight of the border, at which point it suddenly degenerates into a country road more typical of the nation, winding through crooks and snags down lonely hillsides into more populated valleys. Thus the country’s long isolation is somehow justified as a consequence of its own geographical fences.

We disembark into the Tirana morning cool but crisp. At least it’s not raining and the sun is up, so I’ve dodged a bullet. Part of the challenge in this space in this time is dodging weather. Winters can be unpredictable even without global climate change, but this one’s been especially so, one of Europe’s worst in years, even chilling the North African coast. Night-riding is great for saving some bucks, but not good for sightseeing. For better or worse you usually have no choice over the matter, and in these parts where the riders are mostly locals, migrant workers at that, night buses are typical, fine if they arrive in daylight, not 3am, even better if they arrive at a station full of shops and coffee, not merely a streetside drop spot. Tirana has no such luxuries. It’s better than Bamako no doubt, but hardly up to modern standards of convenience. One of the main embarkation points is described by Lonely Planet as ‘the muddy spot in front of the train station.’ Mustering buses around the central train station is typically Balkan.

Of course finding a hostel with no sign is always something of a challenge, but I get there finally, with the help of my laptop perpetually open to web pages I’ll need later, fine till my battery poops out. Finding a wi-fi signal is easier then finding a place to plug in. Finding somebody who speaks English seems to be even harder. In these parts, outside of a few people in the tourist industry it’s mute barter and wishful thinking. Smile a lot; it helps. Hardest of all is using a credit card. Supposedly I guarantee all my advance ho(s)tel bookings with my credit card with the threat of being charged a night’s rent if I no-show, but I can’t believe they’d do it, not for sympathy but lack of banking savvy and tax dodging. Fortunately I find my hostel fairly easily, notable considering many such places in Eastern Europe are converted apartment flats with no clue to their existence but the name above the door buzzer. Fortunately their unofficial nature has some advantages, like early check-in, nice after an all-night bus ride.

The problem with frequent country and currency changes of course is that it makes it hard to manage your money without having too much or too little of a currency in a country you’ll only see for a day or two or three. When I realized I was not in love with Albania and had no long-term plans for the future it was a toss-up whether to change more money or make do with the $5 I changed at the border, hard to know without knowledge of local prices, and facing a long bus ride to Bulgaria. After stocking up on carrots and bread and apples, I chose the latter, deciding it’d be enough. I would’ve had cheese too, but the cheese I bought turned out to be butter. That’s different. So rather than violate my restrictions against traveling with butter I butter up an entire baguette in preparation for the trip. Fortunately it lasts me the entire day traveling, but with little variety while in Tirana itself, mostly ‘byreks’, the local version of Mediterranean oily pies. They’re cheap and pretty good, if boring after many many. I tell myself it’s olive oil.

I absolutely refuse to study the language of a country I’ll only visit a few days and which only has a few million speakers. Still I have to eat, and I don’t stay in fancy hotels with fancy English-language menus. The little bit of the language I manage to glean is interesting enough, though by necessity I’m mostly limited to those words recognizable through the Indo-European family, in this case mostly Italian. I don’t know if that’s because the country was practically annexed by Mussolini at one point, and the Italian language’s usage enforced, or because the two both borrowed heavily from Greek way back when in the formative years of Europe. Maybe but for a few accidents of history, instead of getting romantic with our lovers, we’d all be getting Illyrian, or lyrical… hey, wait a minute…whatever… So when I go to the market I start using the Italian I know, given the low level of English I’ve encountered so far. It works. Whether the words are correct or whether they think I’m Italian or whether they use Italian as lingua franca between the local dialects of Gheg and Tosk I don’t know, maybe never will. International English sucks till you need it. Anything’s better than mute barter.

Albanians seem nice enough, though hardly ‘the nicest people in the world’ as one local describes his people. At one point when I was taking a picture of a painted wall obviously commenting on the country’s previous Communist rule, one self-styled street-punk even challenges me threateningly with something like “are you Albanian?” I don’t like people getting in my face unprovoked of course, so I return his anger and up him one with something like, “Is there a problem? If so, bring it on over.” That’s what he wants, right? What’s the difference? He can’t understand me anyway, any more than I can understand him. This is just attitude vs. attitude. He doesn’t need to know that I’m ready to haul ass at a moment’s notice; maybe he is, too. Maybe I’ll call Kissinger. It passes without any further incident and I walk the streets in an anger/adrenalin buzz. If there’s one thing I hate worse than confrontation, it’s people getting in my face.

Casinos line the streets, typical in former Communist countries. Washington didn’t win the war; Las Vegas did. The petrol stations are named ‘Castrati’. I like that. Back in my room it’s mostly EmpTV in the local dialects with France’s TV5 alone among the multi-nationals, so I brush up on my French. At least I’ve got wi-fi in my room. With only $2 in local currency to buy food, I don’t have much of that. No matter, I’ll get more across the border, in Macedonia on the way to Sofia, Bulgaria. See you there.