On Albania

The last great undiscovered land of Europe?

It’s been some time since I’ve traveled to a really new place that I was eager to discover more of. Like many millennials and Gen’Zers, I spent many summers in my early 20’s seeking travel, describing it as “travel”, as if it is some anthropological escapade. Instead of what it really is, as my little sister calls my ass out for and reminds me  -  it's simply vacation. But “travel” somehow makes it OK to spend money and gallivant about in countries where maybe you don’t belong and are perhaps acting as a voyeur to their culture. Even more, it makes it seem intellectual. 

I’d forgotten that sometimes traveling to a very new place can be exhausting and over stimulating. A place which requires some figuring out of things, one where you are certainly on vacation but you are also on guard. It is tiresome, and doesn’t always yield the perfect instagram image of an off the beaten path experience that turned out to be the most amazing thing you’ve ever done. What these photos miss are in the in-betweens. The stomach disease from various new microorganisms one can encounter, the language fatigue of using words you’ve never used before and won’t much again. The expenses that add up, un-announced, when mistakes happen and need to be fixed. It can take days to settle into something like this, and these days are precious as you flew across the world and spent money and some days just aren’t amazing, and some food just doesn’t blow your mind. In travel, it feels, each day and every place should be awesome. By which I literally mean awe-striking. And the fact is, with this kind of travel, uncalculated wandering, it is not. Yet, despite it all, I still prefer this to simply going to a beach resort and sitting by the pool.

Caroline and I arrived in Tirana, the main capital city of Albania, late at night. To save cash, we had bought some seriously wacky flights with long layovers on either side. We were buying them more last minute than we’d wanted. I’d met Caroline in Copenhagen a few days before, where she lives. 

We enjoyed a layover of 8 hours in Venice. I’d been here before on a study-abroad in Italy where I endured one of the worst, most hungover days of my life wandering through the canals, at points reduced to lying down on the side of the water. I had one of those hangovers where you kind of think you might die. I even threw up in the Doges Palace of all places, mortifying. Venice is beautiful and charming. It is also a shell of a former place.  You can feel the society that once belonged here, that still holds on in some ways, but has been overtaken by the tourist drive to capture and cultivate a place for its own taking. It was nice to spend just a short day here, to wander through the systems of streets, pushing through tourists, to get a delicious gelato. We found a small bar with Italian tapas and nice wine. I didn’t think we’d find something which felt like it still held a note of real Venice. We sat in little seats on the street.  A crazy thing about Venice is that there aren’t really any cars, so the streets are simply for pedestrians. We stared into the back door of a kitchen across the way. The men working here took turns going outside for a cigarette, a woman from a place down the way came over to deliver the last few strawberries from her lunch as a neighborly gift. Our place closed as we sat there, but they encouraged us to stay sitting, allowed us to use the bathroom on their mopped floor and all seemed to get along in a way I admired. Venice represents what tourism and the great travel bug of the last 20 or so years has done to once quaint and ancient places. It perfectly juxtaposes the experience I will elaborate on down below, from Albania. What happens when a place becomes a cog in the machine of tourism and capitalism, when a place that had industry whose value it was to make possible the kind of simple life we see in Italy, Greece or France and wish to bring home to America. These industries still do exist, as I saw here, but mostly become commodified in a way that we outsiders force in upon these cultures as we try to grasp at what they have and we want.

Carrying backpacks which had seemed light before we walked 7 hours with them in the heat, we took our flight to Tirana. We both fell asleep. We got cash  out at the airport.  Albanian Lek were about 100 to the dollar;  I love an easy math conversion like that. There was a bus we could take into the city that would get us close to our hostel.  We started to walk towards where it said we would need to be. A man came running over to us shouting “Tirana, Tirana!”, we looked up and saw a big bus that would hold a school group. They told us it would be 4 euro, we were confused because we’d just gotten Lek. I only had dollars so they let me give them 5, though the conversion should be the same, the man starts reaching into Caroline’s wallet to help her find hers, he grabs a quarter and a few euros. We get on the bus, do we know if this is actually going where we want? No. Do we know when to get off? No. Compared to earlier travel in my life where I had no phone and simply had to guess and check with a paper map, I was living in luxury having purchased a phone plan for this trip, so now at least I could follow the map along. We got dropped off near a square which we had to walk about 15 minutes to our hostel. I hadn’t stayed in a hostel for at least a few years. We spent a few extremely sweaty days in Tirana as a major heat wave hit most of Europe.We wandered through only a few streets and ate cold yogurt for lunch, as the days were over 100. 

The real highlight of the trip came after our days at the beach. We’d driven through beautiful green mountain landscapes, rivers flowing through. We stayed at a guest house in the hills above Lekove beach. The man who owned it only spoke Greek, and as he tried to Google translate to us, struggling at first, we waited with bated breath for the translation to come out.   When it did, we were more confused. He had assumed we were German. Being delirious we couldn’t help ourselves but giggle; luckily he found it amusing as well. 

In the beach town, we spent a few days lounging on beach chairs at this restaurant, receiving the expected attention from the mostly male crowd. We took out a kayak one evening, and swam between reading. We had been recommended by Caroline’s friend to go to this restaurant/overnight stay up in the hills a few hours away. On our way there, I wanted to stop and find one of the sort of secluded beaches you had to hike to. We drove through beautiful cliffside scenery that you usually see photos of from Italy or Greece. The drive was a little scary, but charming as heck. We arrived at a road that had a small sign signaling for the hike we were seeking. We loaded up our lunch of elephant ear type fry breads, fresh tomatoes, olives and feta, and began descending into a valley. I was overcome with this excitement that we would surely be discovering a secluded zone, having to hike this rocky terrain down into a canyon. When we got closer, we saw swarms of people, even little stands set up selling beers and ice cream. It turned out there were a few ways to get down. Nonetheless, we enjoyed the beach, people-watching and swimming in the crystal clear blue water. We did a sexy mermaid-esque photoshoot on the big rocks in the water because we had to, and I got properly awkwardly sunburnt. Towards the mid-afternoon, we climbed back a different way, then hitched a ride up to our car, needing to head out to reach our dinner destination. 

We ended up parking our car midway up the road we had been warned about. I’d been feeling confident to make it, and worn out from the sun and water of our beach day. So, driving was seeming kind of nice. But after a big bump and slight spin out, we agreed to pull to the side of the rocky road and hike the rest of the way up. We emptied our backpacks and only brought what was necessary. Wearing our dirty button ups and running shorts and hats, carrying our backpacks and our sunburns, we looked like fools for sure. The walk up was hot and sweaty, not the 45 degrees Celsius we had experienced in the city, but nothing like a sunburn to build the heat as well. It was like we were walking in the hills of The Sound of Music. Desert-like, rocky and wildflower-y, but dry. We passed by orchards, groves of olive trees, we looked down on the valley of the small village and, in the distance, a bit of sea. We saw cows grazing through the fields of the hills, as well as goats. We thought, we really couldn’t make this up. It was ridiculous how eerily beautiful and still this moment was.

We arrived at the turn off for their land, we could see the hay-roofed round huts where we would be sleeping. We walked up through the gate where a cow’s skull hung on one pillar. The garden to the left held a mess of flowers, tangled together in a very un-landscaped way making them all the more appealing. Sitting on the porch of a simple red brick and wooden roofed home, a woman wearing an apron, two younger women, and two older men. They greeted us with what sounded like Italian. We’d been noticing throughout the country little blurbs of Italian splattered throughout the Albanian language. We must have looked rougher than we felt, because they all looked upon us with slight concern, and rushed us to sit, bringing cold water. There are moments in life when water is more glorious and luxurious than you could ever imagine. In our wealthy first world nation, we have the luxury of carrying around garish water bottles everywhere we go. Ensuring there isn’t a moment of dehydration in sight; we can simply fill these at any tap nearest us. It is something people around the world often laugh at Americans for. It is only so occasionally that we are left actually thirsty. We sat under a dried-vine covered veranda where the black and white kitten that lived on the property approached us to get acquainted. 

After gathering ourselves for a few moments, we were shown to our little hut to prepare for dinner. You had to duck to get in the square wooden door. Inside they had lined the edges where the stone met hay with an LED light system that felt incredibly sleek and modern.  It gave a beautiful warm light to the whole place.  The hut fit two twin beds with crisp white sheets, and a wooden box which housed towels and toiletries. Outside our door, our hosts left two pairs of slides for us to use as bathroom shoes. We dropped our bags and took our next luxury, a shower. This wasn’t exactly the place to get dressed up as it was really just us and the people who owned this occupying the space tonight, but of course we did nonetheless. Everything was very casual. When we returned to the main area, under their swaying clean laundry line, they asked if we would like to eat. We had thought this obvious. We were served by the youngest daughter, Rosalia. A very sweet girl with (we would later discover) a sassy streak; she had the strongest English in the family. She offered red or white wine; we chose red. She covered a table in the yard with a white tablecloth and brought out plates and silverware and the wine in a glass half liter. The wine was a light, rusty red color. My natural wine inundated pretentious ass wanted it to be chilled of course. The top had a layer of what looked to be oil.  We later found out  it was in fact olive oil which they used as a natural preservative. It was nice, albeit slightly mousy. It was clearly as natural as can be, made on site in the cellar below the indoor dining area. But no note of its naturalness was made as it was delivered to us. As we sat there for a moment, the sunset starting to brighten the sky in orange, we decided - fuck it -  we needed to get the white as well.   Not slyly,  we poured our glasses back in the jug and as our food started to come, we switched to the honeyed slightly sweet, slightly floral white.  I’m not sure if it was just the moment, but neither of us had ever had a wine we liked better. 

We were brought a plate of fresh tomato, cucumber, green pepper and red onion salad all from the garden. A small plate of pickled eggplant, the texture I was unsure of until I took my first bite and shut up. A whole plate sized piece of grilled bread, in between a pita and a sourdough loaf, crispy on the outside and thicker than a pita, but flat and round. It had a yeasty flavor to it, and was smokey from the wood fired cooking. They brought three types of cheeses, two unsalted, one somewhat akin to  a creme, very creamy and smooth.  The other resembled  more a cross between feta and halloumi; a little waxy like halloumi but also crumbly. The final cheese was perhaps one of the most unique and delicious new discoveries of my life. Made by pouring fresh milk, not sure actually if it was cows or goats, into the skin lining of a goat, freshly killed from their farm. You let the milk ferment inside this skin, and later strain it. It becomes the most creamy, funky ricotta textured creation. The flavor is that of a mildly stinky cheese, but also with the hint of meat coming from being within the skin of an animal. I spread this on the bread, topped with the tomato salad and washed it down with sips of the honeyed white wine.  I'll say it folks, I was in heaven.

Next there was a borek, which is a phyllo dough pastry, similar to a baklava, yet savory. Handmade by the woman of the farm, she rolls the flaky layers out which, now having myself tried and failed miserably to make one time, I cannot express how deep my respect for this item is. It is layered with fresh greens and cheese.  Each layer received drizzles of the olive oil from their farm. On the same plate sits a savory corn-bread like delight. Made with cheese and corn and flour; crispy outside edges, a somewhat soft interior as would a classic American cornbread. Finally, a small plate of spit-roasted goat. One which we knew was as fresh as can be, given we saw the father carrying a freshly-killed and skinned one the next morning. Grotesque? Perhaps, but the reality of where our food comes from is sometimes grotesque.  Despite or because of this, the naturalness of this place felt so clean and holy. It reminded me how unattached we are in our western cities from the sources of our food and drink. This was true farm to table, which as a concept is now overwrought and SNL sketch worthy, but in a setting like this it felt pure. 

In all of this meal, we sat watching the sun set over the hills, the youngest daughter acted as our server and brought us each plate with a description of what it was and how it was made. The black and white kitten ran between our feet;  she and the roaming chicken messed with each other. 

After a deep and relaxing sleep in our hut, we woke and went to the porch to have breakfast. Fresh eggs, feta cheese, plum jam, bread, and truly the most wonderful little cappuccinos with goat milk.  I died. Our plates came with a side of dried oregano from the garden. After ordering multiple rounds of these coffees, we got a tour of the farm and chatted with Rosalia about their life and their work. They were not respected by their neighbors because everyone thought they were foolish for going after this endeavor. I thought that this country felt like it was behind, though it had access to the same technology and news of the world we lived in. The daughters used Instagram to promote the farm for their parents. Nonetheless, this country felt secluded in a way I haven’t felt in years. We know this obsession of farm to table has torn its way through the US and if this farm existed in upstate New York it would have a waiting list of 2 years probably. But here, it was still high in the hills, the local people not wanting to justify it with a visit, and foreigners not quite tuned in to the magic of this country. 

The eldest daughter in the family wanted nothing to do with this work, but Rosalia and her middle sister were here running it with their parents. They each expressed their own dreams to us. Rosalia wanted to make her way to New York and the middle daughter wanted to go to Italy for school. It made me wonder about the longevity of these types of places. The authenticity factor of this experience versus one had in somewhere like New York where tired restaurant workers from the city move out to slow down. This father was a true shepherd, herding his sheep through the hills with his flute, this family making everything just the four of them. As tourists continue to discover Albania, perhaps there will be a surge, but the modernizing cannot be denied. The girls will want to go off and do something different, not carry on this trade. In one sense I hope and think these places will continue to grow in popularity, all of us seeking something like this to juxtapose the grayness of our city lives. 

For my sake and the sake of my own sappy tale of travelers experiences, I am glad this place existed at this moment. Something natural and old world feeling to revel in away and off the grid from my own hyper modern existence. I will want to continue traveling to new places like this. To find these types of experiences that make it feel possible to live in a different way than the rushed capitalism and over exhaustion of the American society. But though I am lucky to take part in this, I can’t help but feel guilty to be a part of the stream of tourists who will cause the demise of these experiences as they enjoy them. Can you support these in a way that allows them to continue and profit while also not overexposing them and taking away the “authentic” feeling I had here? Either way, I feel like a damn cliche invoking this story in all its natural beauty. But cliches are usually true, and it was an exquisite experience.