Embarking on a transformative adventure through Albania and Montenegro, Eric and I intentionally step out of our comfort zones, believing this journey will help us to embrace serendipity and a simpler way of living. This trip delivers that promise, but it does so in ways we least expect as it carves through old insecurities and fears that I thought were long buried.
Before I begin this travel diary, I encourage readers to share my story with anyone you know who struggles with debilitating anxiety, panic attacks or depression. I rarely talk about my own struggles with mental health, but our Balkans trip forced these issues out in the open and I will be openly talking about it throughout this story.
The first fissures of fear
Panic attacks begin exactly one week before our departure. I wake up in the middle of the night, unable to breathe. I can’t pinpoint any one particular thing that makes me nervous about this trip, but my heart is pounding in my chest and my normal coping tools of deep breathing and meditation are not working. After two days of this, I’m secretly considering canceling the entire trip. I haven’t felt this level of fear in over 20 years. It was the same type of panic I felt throughout my youth, always triggered by a new school, a new job, a new life.
Which is how I know I can’t cancel this trip.
I’ve worked hard to overcome anxiety and depression, to give in now would be undoing all that hard work. I chose this trip for the sole purpose of helping me to become comfortable with the unknown and loss of control. We are traveling with Travel Twitch, a tour agency that we’ve never used, using an itinerary they’ve created specifically for us. Our journey will last 36 days and take us through northern Albania, all over Montenegro and end with a relaxing week in Italy. We know we’re staying in humble homestays for most of the trip and that we’ll be hiking with guides. What those hikes will entail, we have no clue, and that’s probably one of the reasons I’m so nervous.
A rough beginning
We have a rough start to the trip, a storm over Iceland produces some of the worst turbulence we’ve ever experienced. We arrive at the Frankfurt airport exhausted from the 11-hr flight in economy seats, crammed in like sardines and bones aching. Our connecting flight to Tirana is delayed over an hour but finding the bus once we arrive in Albania is easier than we expected. Unfortunately, the bus ride to Tirana’s city center takes 1.5 hours (instead of the usual 30 minutes). Welcome to Albanian public transit!
First impressions of Albania
As we fly into Albania, I can’t help but notice the mountains. They are magnificent and they run north and south as far as the eye can see, with the only break being the Adriatic. During our bus ride from the airport, those mountains are pushed into the background as dry fields, old automobiles and a hodgepodge of abandoned buildings and bunkers intermingle with concrete homes. Amidst my anxiety is a sense of excitement that we’re seeing something entirely new to us.
As we get closer to the city, I see discarded cigarette boxes and Red Bull cans littering the streets and overpasses. So far, this is not a pretty city. Traffic is what I describe as “relaxed chaos,” drivers making their own rules, every now and then our bus driver issues a short honk but there is no yelling or cursing.
Finding our apartment is somewhat tricky since it’s tucked away on a narrow alley within a busy block of buildings, but the instructions that Travel Twitch gave us include a photo of the entrance and we quickly find it. The apartment manager is waiting for us and leads us to our upstairs apartment. It’s clean and small, with ample closets, a large bathroom including a bidet (fairly common in Albanian cities), and twin beds with the hardest mattresses we’ve ever slept on. The pillows are so flat that we pull out a blanket from the closet to use as a pillow.
I feel like shit. My anxiety levels are so high that I’m sick to my stomach and can’t eat and because I haven’t eaten I feel lightheaded and dizzy. I hate that I feel so bad, because this is one of the easiest cities to walk around and find food. I should not be anxious here. I feel safe, we have everything we need and I have a local contact to call if we need help with anything. And that’s the most frustrating, demoralizing part of this – to be paralyzed by anxiety when there’s no logical reason to be anxious.
I came on this trip to sit with my discomfort, I just didn’t expect that discomfort to come from my own psyche.
Warming up to Tirana
Despite feeling awful, we enjoy some sweet moments in the city. Sitting in the Youth Park, eating our pastries for breakfast and watching a man training dogs. One dog entertains us with his acrobatic feats, leaping up to catch a string from the tree and at one point running full throttle up the tree. This is a true city, it feels like it never sleeps. They are up all night, walking and eating and laughing. One would think when we wake up early in the morning and go walking that there would only be a few people out, but that’s not the case. I think all these people do is walk and eat and drink coffee – my kind of people.
Like all cities, people seem to be in a hurry. People are breathing down our necks while buying bananas and water at the local market. Water is not drinkable in Albania’s cities but it’s easy to find bottled water everywhere, as is finding fresh produce. The open air market on Shemsi Haka is bursting with dried fruit, nuts, honey, smoking pipes and tobacco, colorful rugs and fresh fruits and vegetables. The vendors are friendly and patient with us as we communicate by pointing and holding up fingers for quantity. We hand over our Albanian lek which we just converted from euros at an Iliria’98 (the exchange shop recommended by our local contact).
On Qamal Stafa, shop fronts in much need of repair are crammed tightly together with shopkeepers sitting in front with feet propped up, barefoot and waiting for customers. Books are sold everywhere, used and new, and it’s fascinating to see which American titles take center stage in the displays. President Obama and Elon Musk are apparently high interest figures here. In the park, I watch an older man carefully line up his collection of used books perfectly in a row along the curb. We see him both days, meticulously stacking and laying them out just like a librarian.
We eat a late lunch at an outdoor cafe near the market. As we wait for our food, we’re approached by children asking for money or food. I’m not naive about the conditions here in Albania, I expected to see poverty, but that knowledge doesn’t prepare me to look in the eyes of a desperately hungry child who is covered in dirt. I don’t know the customs here, I hesitate to do anything because I’m quite certain pulling out cash in this situation would be a bad idea. Thankfully an Italian family next to us saves me from the awkward moment. They’ve just finished their meal and offer the children their leftovers. The cook gives them bread and a bag to carry the food and sends them on their way. No one seems bothered by the children or angry at them for disturbing the customers. While poverty is ugly, it’s beautifully refreshing to see it out in the open and not hidden away or blindly ignored.
By the end of our second day in Tirana, my anxiety has eased into something that is manageable. The barrage of traffic noise, cigarette smoke and trash is counterbalanced by the meditational sounds of the mosque’s call to prayer, constant cafe chatter and the exotic sounds of the Albanian language. I can breathe again. When our scheduled taxi doesn’t arrive to pick us up for the next leg of our journey, I don’t panic. We simply cross the street to hail a cab and hope the driver gets us to Shkoder in one piece. Masterfully winding through roads, parking lots, sidewalks and one way streets (the wrong way), our taxi driver does just that.
At Home in Shkoder
I’ve texted Ersid, our local contact in Shkoder, and he meets us shortly after the taxi drops us off. He’s an app developer who speaks excellent English and we feel instantly at ease with him. As Ersid leads us across the street, past overflowing trash bins, down an alley and into a tall stark building, I wonder how I will describe this place to readers back home. Our apartment seems pretty typical of an Albanian residence, it’s a tall Communist-era building with shops on the bottom floor. We have a nail salon, hookah lounge, dentist, pizza shop and coffee bar. Our travels have taught us that old buildings with crumbling walls, dirty hallways and overflowing trash doesn’t equal a dangerous neighborhood or dingy lodging. Our apartment is clean and spacious. I see young women walking confidently by themselves, children playing with little to no adult supervision, laundry hanging from clotheslines at every balcony. This is a family neighborhood and I feel completely safe here, even though it looks nothing like my home.
Dinner is just a few feet away from our apartment. At Ersid’s suggestion, we find delicious seafood at Fish Art, where Eric converses enthusiastically with the fish whisperer (our waiter) who lets Eric pick our fish and explains with hand gestures how it will be cooked. I’m happy just to have some leafy vegetables but the fish is absolute perfection. Our waiter calls it gjuhez and it tastes like sole. We’ve chosen to dine downstairs, which is their casual dining area, and they’re not busy so our waiter has time to converse with us. He never lets the language barrier deter him from conversing, which further endears me to him and this town. So often people ignore those who speak a different language, we are equally as guilty of it, so it’s priceless when we encounter those who embrace the opportunity rather than fearing it.
In Shkoder, we hone our skills at market shopping. Produce is a little tricky. Our first attempt is buying bananas and I feel sorry for the man because I think he got frustrated by us and just gave us a good deal to get us out of his way. Our second attempt goes much better, we hold up how much lek we are willing to pay and the young woman tells us to fill the bag full of grapes until we reach the right weight. We end up with a lot of grapes! The grapes remind me of a wild muscadine, similar to what my family grew when I was young. I bite into it and the pulp shoots out of the skin, perfect for someone like me who hates the peeling.
Eric and I stand amazed at the market streets of Shkoder, where shoes and everything else enjoy a second life. You can buy anything on these streets. Produce, underwear, ovens, fresh fish, Barbie shirts, tobacco by the kilo, fabric, and so much more. It’s the Amazon of used or repurposed goods all centered within a few blocks. Tucked between and all around the outdoor shopping are bakeries and coffee bars.
We enjoy our first byrek, a popular street food that dates back to the Ottomans. Ours is filled with what tastes like caramelized onions. I look up and see apartments with windows open, giving us a glimpse of an old woman who smiles at me and a young woman oblivious to the crowd below as she is absorbed by whatever is on her phone.
Cats and dogs roam freely, something we see throughout Albania and Montenegro. Children roam freely as well and there are some who beg in the street. Not many but even those few are heartbreaking, as is the mother sitting in the street bare-breasted nursing her infant. Her face speaks of years of hardship and very little hope. It’s easy to see how this country birthed someone like Mother Teresa – living here would compel anyone to compassion.
Falling in love with xhiro
As in Tirana, our days become timed with the sun, the mosque’s call to prayer, and the evening xhiro. This custom of walking around the main promenade of town every evening is common throughout Albania, Montenegro and Italy. Our first xhiro is enchanting. We begin our walk early before the sun sets and stop to observe groups of men playing dominoes in the park. There’s one rogue group playing chess, so I ask if I can take their photo. It takes me a moment to remember that shaking one’s head from side to side means yes in Albania. The dominoes are tiny, half the size of sets that we play with in the States, and the chess board is handmade and in two pieces so it can be easily carried.
The sun has nearly disappeared and families of all ages are out and about enjoying life during the cooler evening hours. Groups of young girls kick a ball our way so I kick it back. People walk hand in hand or with linked arms. Women dressed for attention glare when passing their competition. Men huddle together at tables avidly watching the women. Young and old, rich and poor, all here to participate in social customs as ageless and universal as time.
One night we attempt a fancy dinner at Atelier. The food is fabulous, the baked potato in truffle cream melts on my tongue and their tiramisu is decadent. I feel awkward throughout, however, as it’s blazingly obvious that we are travelers living out of a suitcase. I packed very little toiletries so my hair is a hot mess, in stark contrast to the women around me who all look like Kardashians with their airbrushed makeup and impeccable hair and clothes. I feel like a frumpy country bumpkin come to town but I don’t voice this to Eric because I’m ashamed of my vanity.
The following night, we opt for the casual Puri, which offers cheap comfort food, a great music playlist and cozy vibe. Their bestselling Father’s Rice, with its heaping scoops of rice covered in gravy and a meatball, is on everyone’s table. When we tell our guide how much we liked Puri, he laughs, saying “that’s where all the young boys go when they have no money.” What can I say, sometimes we have simple tastes.
Getting to Rosafa Castle
We take a taxi to Rosafa Castle, which is the best way to do it because the taxi brings us to the entry gate. By bus we would have had to walk all the way up a steep and rough cobblestone incline. The stone paths at Rosafa Castle are worn smooth, polished and dangerous, so I’m glad to have good sturdy shoes. I see a woman in flip flops nearly break her ankle. I was prepared for heat and have my hiking sandals, but I wasn’t prepared for my feet to swell so quickly and the walk back is quite slow, as I am carefully trying to avoid blisters.
The Rosafa fortress is ancient, dating back to the 9th century BCE. As to be expected, it has a fascinating history ripe with conquests and defeats but it’s the creepy legend behind the name that has my interest. The story goes that it’s named for one of the builders’ wives, Rozafa, who was buried alive within the walls because a wise man told three brothers it was the only way to ensure their walls wouldn’t fail.
The slow walk allows us to observe every shop we pass along the way and the interactions between people. It’s Friday and the kids get off early, so there are young boys riding bikes or working in their family shops. We pop into a pastry shop to buy byrek for a quick lunch. It’s like trying to buy cannoli in Boston’s Little Italy – it requires assertive elbowing to prevent others from cutting in front. Eric adapts quickly and thankfully we’ve learned some important Albanian words, one of which is mish for meat, so he confidently orders the correct byrek. Priorities.
We stop at a market to purchase bottled water. Everyone here says the water is safe to drink but they also say no one drinks it. So we do like the locals do, purchase gallon bottles from the closest market and carry it back to our apartment. I become so comfortable in Albania after just a few days that I keep forgetting to take photos. My quest for a slow, immersive travel experience is coming to fruition!
Stay tuned for the next part of our journey as we travel to Valbone to hike the Peaks of the Balkans Trail — which nearly breaks me.
