Monday, May 15, 2017

Tirana

Tirana is intense. After sleepy Kotor, the people, the traffic, the noise exploded on us.

It started at the bus station. We had arranged a ride from Kotor to Tirana, and as we got closer to the city, Brian showed the driver the address of our hotel. He shook his head and said "no." We weren't sure what that meant - there was no hotel? there was no Tirana? And with no common language, we couldn't really ask for an explanation. But the Friday afternoon gridlock helped us understand that the bus terminal was the end of the ride - we could take a taxi to the hotel. But we had no Albanian Lek to pay for a taxi.

I left Brian on the corner with our suitcases and went looking for an ATM. I asked at a kiosk on the corner. 'Bank?' I said, and rubbed my fingers together in the universal sign for money. The lady behind the counter pointed over her shoulder. So I went around the corner and walked another two blocks to a gas station. I tired the same approach, 'bank?' The old man in the gas station walked me outside and brought me to a mechanic. They said something to each other in Albanian and the mechanic said to me in English, "the toilet is over here." I told him that what I needed was a bank, but would use the toilet anyway.
He pointed me to an ATM and asked where I was from.
"USA," I said.
"America? And you come to Albania? On vacation?"
"Yes,"
"Do you like it?"
"Yes," I said, "but I only came ten minutes ago."

There were not a lot of American tourists, or tourists at all, in Tirana. We had entered the only European capital without a McDonald's, and had left the Rick Steves tour behind.




Albania's recent history is shaped by communist dictator Enver Hoxha (pronounced hu-ja). He took power immediately following World War II and ruled until his death in 1985. Hoxha left his mark on the Albanian landscape in the form of bunkers. Fearing attacks from Russia, China or anywhere else, Hoxha's regime built 173,000 bunkers during the 1970s. Most are tiny - built for one or two people - and they still pop up in farmland, city parks and backyards. Hoxha's regime built a bunker for every 11 Albanians. In Albania's poor economy, each small bunker cost as much to build as a two-bedroom apartment.

We visited two of the largest bunker in Albania, which have been turned into museums. After some pointing and gesturing, a kind bus driver directed us to the bunker built for Hoxha and his government. It is built into the side of a hill and is enormous; the tunnels go on and on, slightly downhill in a concrete rabbit's burrow built to protect Albania's top brass. The place was equipped with oxygen, decontamination units, communication systems... there's even a hall big enough for parliament to meet in case of attack, nuclear or otherwise.

Brian on Hoxha's office phone

Me on top of a bunker in a city park

The bunkers were never needed. Nobody attacked. And they will be part of Albania for generations to come. It's a strange legacy. I'm not sure whether the bunkers are memorials of paranoia, or to a government more that could have done more for its people, or a marker of the Cold War era...

Hoxha and his government ministers lived in a downtown Tirana zone called The Block. It was completely secured and no ordinary citizens were allowed in. Now The Block has been converted to high-end bars and restaurants, where the yuppies of Tirana sip espresso and smoke cigarettes while wearing designer jeans. We went to a tiki bar there. Hoxha might be turning over in his grave.

After the striking scenery of Dubrovnik and the laid back scene in Kotor, Tirana was a gritty, noisy dose of urban life. But Tirana had one thing that was truly remarkable: a mosque, an Orthodox cathedral and a Catholic church all within a few blocks of each other. None was any larger or grander than the others. The communists enforced atheism and outlawed the call to prayer, but now Albania, at least from what I could see, had become a place where these religions could coexist. While the bunkers marked an era of fear and dictatorship, this show of tolerance gave me some hope.

Monday, May 8, 2017

Kotor

Another three hours (including 15 minutes passing through Bosnia) took us to Montenegro. The name itself sounds poetic, and reminds me of a line from The Great Gatsby. Why this sticks in my brain I cannot say. But Gatsby talks about his heroic WWI career and how he received decorations from all the allied countries, even little Montenegro.

Part of the charm is in just how small the place is - a whole country with the same population as Hannover. Like the rest of the Balkans, Montenegro was tossed between the Ottomans, the Venetians, the Austrians, the Serbians, just for starters. It is an Orthodox country, except for where it's Muslim or Catholic.


We were in Kotor, a town on the bay known as the southern-most fjord in Europe. I'm not entirely sure what that means, except that the water is deep and fjord is a fun word to say. Built on rocks, Kotor sinks a millimeter or two into the bay every year. It's easy to get lost in the winding alleys of this sinking city's old town.. and somehow end up right back where you started.

Brian and I saw Kotor best by going above it. First, we climbed the city walls (the side where you're not supposed to go) up to the old fortress. Then the hike began by climbing through one of the castle windows.
Just that phrase reminded me - this was a moment when I was as close to a fairy tale as I might ever get.




Beyond the window were some goats and a rocky switchback trail heading up and up. Montenegro is a small country only in the horizontal sense. We hiked up and up until the clouds were almost upon us. Near the top, we came across another hiker. He was from Idaho, and had been sailing around the Adriatic with friends who own a yacht (we all should have those kind of friends). A few minutes later we were discussing places he'd been in Israel and American checks and balances several thousand feet about sea level. We were even pretty far above goat level. The Idaho hiker turned around so he could make it back to the yacht and we pressed on.

The hike was supposed to lead us to an old Austro-Hungarian fort. We never quite found it, and gave up as the fog settled in on top of us. Heading back on shaky legs, we climbed back through the castle window and downhill into town.



About Me

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Thanks for coming to my blog. It started as a way to keep in touch with family and friends, and now has become an ongoing project. I'm an American living in Germany and trying to travel whenever I can. I write about my experiences as an expatriate (the interesting ones and the embarrassing ones), and about my travels. There are some recurring characters in this blog, particularly my husband Brian and several of our friends. The title comes from the idea that living in a foreign country means making a lot of mistakes. So the things you used to do easily you now have to try over and over again. Hopefully, like me, you can laugh at how idiotic it feels. If you have happened upon my blog, then welcome. Knowing that people are reading what I write makes me keep going. Feel free to write comments or suggestions for future posts.