Foreword: Perfect Albania
It all began with a moment of sheer whimsy. I was at a café in Paris, flipping through a glossy magazine, when an image of Albania’s Blue Eye Spring caught my attention. “Syri i Kaltër,” the caption read, “a natural wonder where the water is so clear, you’d think Neptune himself has his swimming hole there.” Intrigued, I decided that Albania, this small country I’d heard so little about, would be my next adventure.
When I told my Albanian friends in New York about my plan, their reactions were a mix of pride and amusement. “Albania is paradise—but paradise with potholes,” one said. Another warned, “Watch out for raki. You’ll think it’s water, but two sips in, and you’re negotiating with your soul.”
Arrival in Tirana: Chaos and Charm
Touching down in Tirana, Albania’s capital, I was greeted by the sight of a neon “Welcome to Albania” sign perched on a slightly lopsided roof at the airport. The air smelled of wild herbs and diesel, and the taxi ride into the city was a thrilling introduction to Albanian driving—a ballet of near-misses, honking horns, and miraculous avoidance of collision.
“Albanian drivers are philosophers,” my driver, Arjan, explained with a grin. “We trust the road, the other car, and God—not necessarily in that order.”
Tirana itself was a riot of color. The once-drab communist-era buildings had been painted in bright stripes, polka dots, and kaleidoscopic murals. In Skanderbeg Square, locals gathered to sip espresso under the watchful gaze of a statue of Albania’s national hero, Gjergj Kastrioti Skanderbeg, astride his horse. I joined the crowd at a café and ordered a macchiato. It was strong enough to wake the dead but smooth enough to make me consider a second cup.
The Albanian Riviera: Heaven with a Side of Humor
The next leg of my journey took me to the Albanian Riviera, a stretch of coastline that locals insisted was “better than Greece, cheaper than Italy.” The road to the coast wound through the Llogara Pass, where the mountains seemed to fold into the sea like a rumpled quilt. At one point, my rental car gave up the climb, so I found myself hitching a ride with a shepherd named Bledi and his flock of goats.
“This is Albania,” Bledi said, gesturing to the view as his goats bleated in agreement. “The mountains, the sea, the goats—it’s all here.”
In the village of Himara, I rented a room from a woman named Teuta, who spoke five languages but insisted on teaching me Albanian phrases. “Say ‘mirëmëngjes’ for good morning,” she instructed, “and always eat byrek with your coffee.”
Byrek, as I soon discovered, was Albania’s answer to pie: flaky, buttery layers of pastry filled with cheese, spinach, or meat. I devoured it with the enthusiasm of someone who had just discovered heaven baked into a pastry sheet.
Butrint and the Timelessness of Albania
From the coast, I ventured to Butrint, an ancient city and UNESCO World Heritage Site. A guide named Drita walked me through its Roman amphitheater, Venetian tower, and Byzantine basilica, all nestled in a lush landscape of cypress trees and shimmering water.
“Albania is like a time machine,” Drita said. “You walk through history in every step. Illyrians, Romans, Byzantines, Ottomans—they all left their footprints here.”
As we wandered, I stumbled upon a small turtle crossing the path. “See?” Drita laughed. “Even the turtles take their time in Albania.”
The Land of Unexpected Hospitality
In Gjirokastër, the “City of Stone,” I stayed in a guesthouse run by a family who treated me as if I were their long-lost cousin. Every meal was a feast: slow-cooked lamb, fresh yogurt, roasted peppers, and endless rounds of raki.
“You’re not drinking enough,” said my host, Fatmir, as he poured me another glass. “In Albania, raki is not just a drink; it’s a handshake.”
Over dinner, Fatmir regaled me with tales of Enver Hoxha’s bunkers, the concrete domes that dot the country like oversized mushrooms. “They say there are 700,000 of them,” he said. “Enough for every Albanian to hide in, even the goats. But now, some of us turn them into wine cellars or chicken coops. We are a practical people.”
The Accursed Mountains and the Albanian Spirit
For my final adventure, I headed to the Accursed Mountains, a name so dramatic I couldn’t resist. These rugged peaks, part of the Albanian Alps, seemed to rise straight out of a fairy tale. I joined a group of hikers led by a guide named Luli, whose optimism was as boundless as the mountains themselves.
As we trekked through alpine meadows and crossed crystal-clear streams, Luli shared stories of Kanun, the traditional Albanian code of law. “In the mountains, hospitality is sacred,” he said. “If a stranger comes to your home, you must protect them, even if they are your enemy.”
That night, under a blanket of stars, I experienced this hospitality firsthand when a shepherd offered our group a place to sleep in his hut. Over a fire, we shared bread, cheese, and wild honey. The shepherd, a man of few words, raised his glass of raki and simply said, “Mirë se vini”—welcome.
A Perfect Albania
As my journey came to an end, I realized that what makes Albania “perfect” isn’t perfection at all. It’s the chaos of its roads, the boldness of its coffee, the warmth of its people, and the humor with which they approach life. Albania is a place where stories are shared over glasses of raki, where history is alive in every village, and where even the potholes feel like part of the charm.
On my last night in Tirana, I sat in Blloku, the once-forbidden neighborhood where Albania’s communist elite had lived. Now, it was the city’s liveliest quarter, filled with bars, restaurants, and laughter. I raised a final toast to this remarkable country: “To Albania, the land of miracles and mismatched road signs. May it always remain beautifully, perfectly imperfect.”
And with that, I knew I’d be back. Because in Albania, every pothole hides a story, every glass of raki promises a laugh, and every stranger feels like a friend.
Disclaimer: This story is a fictionalized vision of a ‘Perfect Albania,’ inspired by the nation’s rich culture, resilience, and heritage. While based on research and anecdotal insights, it is a creative interpretation and not a firsthand account. The aim is to celebrate Albania’s potential and invite diverse voices to share their real stories and perspectives about the country.