Tirana is a relatively new city, thrust into prominence when it was named the new country’s capital in 1920. As such it lacks much of the feel of older European cities – aside from the clock tower and mosque, and the occasional hint of Ottoman influence, most of Tirana bears the scars of the architectural scourges of Fascism and Communism. Despite that unpromising lead-in, it’s a charming city. Lively, small enough for good walking (I never needed public transportation), filled with extraordinarily beautiful women and fantastic restaurants. Tirana’s mayor has embarked on a beautification campaign– painting the drab concrete apartment blocks in vivid pastels. While the effect is odd, it’s also cheery – the multicolored Mondrianism on the building housing the prime minister’s residence is an especially nice touch. That’s not all– large parks now dominate the city center, the riverbanks have been cleared up. It’s still a mess, but it appears to be on the mend.
* * *
Kruja was my first foray outside Tirana – a mountain town that came highly recommended. It was also my first experience with the inter-city buses, a system I never quite figured out. I was told the Kruja bus left from or near Zogu I Zi in Tirana, which I figured would be easy enough. Zogu I Zi is an enormous roundabout, torn apart by construction. Buses were all over the place, so I just walked the edge of the muddy circle, finally waving down and jumping aboard the correct bus. Traffic on the way out of the capital was slowed to a crawl by congestion and construction, giving me the most revealing view yet of Albania’s poverty. The sides of the road were heavy with foot traffic, many of them Tirana workers returning to their hometowns for the weekend. Small shacks were set up to sell anything possible, many also providing housing, and the roadsides were clogged with litter.
Once there, Kruja was indeed charming, a small old city overlooked by a hilltop castle. After unpacking myself from the bus, I set off up cobbled streets, through the bazaar to the castle. Though clogged with teenagers, it’s a pleasant setting – well-kept without being sterile, with nice views of the mountains and plains beneath. The historical museum, built by Hoxha’s daughter and son-in-law, is well-done – enough so that it took me a bit to realize it was a modern addition rather than a well-preserved antique. It also showed, again, that Albanians know how to do museums. After lunch and strolling, I wandered up above the castle, to the tower (closed and locked) and the ruins of an ancient Orthodox church, which held the deteriorating remnants of a Byzantine fresco, an impressive (and judging by appearances, soon to be gone) little treasure.
* * *
I hadn’t come to Albania expecting much from the food. Previous experiences with Balkan dining were acceptable but unimpressive. But almost without fail, the food was amazing. One night, wandering around, I popped into a place with the simple sign "RESTORANT & BAR." The staff and I quickly hit upon a few problems: there was no menu, the staff spoke virtually no English, my Albanian was far less adequate, and I’d left my phrasebook at the hotel. But I had a beer in front of me and the waitresses were good-looking, so all of these problems seemed surmountable. Through hand signals and pidgin English, I encouraged my waitress to bring me whatever she liked. I did this with not a little trepidation – I’d seen brains on some menus and other sources had raved about Albania’s innards dishes. I needn’t have worried – the food was astounding. Pace Koke, pilaf, and a bunch of Birra Tiranas, all for the price of a Heineken in Atlanta. If you’re ever in Tirana, stop by the poorly-identified restaurant near the intersection of Sami Frasheri and Rruga Brigada VIII. Tell them Greg sent you, and marvel at the blank stares.
(The next night, I ate at Juvenilja, just a few doors down from the mystery restaurant. One of the five best pizzas I’ve ever had. If you’re ever in Tirana...)
* * *
The next out-of-town destination was the beach– Llazar and his wife, Mariana, took me to the area south of Durres. If there’s an Albanian renaissance it’s easy to see it centering there: lots of construction, as elsewhere, but with a focused plan– and a general feeling that you’re in an international city rather than an Albanian city.
On the way out, I saw my first examples of an Albanian legend: the bunkers. Small concrete domes scattered across the landscape, the remnants of Enver Hoxha’s defenses against an invasion that never came. Now they sit there, strange and abandoned, sometimes covered in graffiti (Hoxha would roll in his grave to see a bunker with "Inter Milan" scrawled on it). Ridiculous though they may be, apparently it wasn’t solely paranoia – Gillian Glover lays out the rationale in her excellent Bradt Guide to Albania, my constant companion on the trip. Albanians have also capitalized on the distinctive structures; some are used as mini-bars, farm buildings or squats, and there’s a thriving trade in ashtrays modeled on them (I bought one, and I’ve never smoked).
The sandy beach was quiet, still just a little too cool for sunbathers, a placid scene with a few bunkers scattered about and an unfortunate litter problem. We ate at a seafood restaurant, the brainchild of Hoxha’s personal chef, now departed. At Llazar and Mariana’s urging, I had the signature dish, delicious fish with potatoes and cheese, while we discussed Albania’s present situation and upcoming elections. They also taught me how to properly say "thank you" – faleminderit (feh-leh-meeh-deh-reet). My Albanian was obviously coming along.
