The Retired Colonel from Canakkale (RCC)

The RCC arrived suddenly , in a battered Renault Megane.  He was tall and a tad overweight, but still muscular. He claimed to be a travel writer. He had written a five hundred page book on his adventures in South America, but could not find anybody that was willing to publish it. I took a look at his travel blog, and I understood why. Nobody in his right mind would publish a book from someone who was writing in broken English, or broken Spanish, let alone the fact that most of his writing  was more about explaining that he was in good company, and that he liked this or that. In short, his writings where short in describing places, faces and situations.

The day after that Eran mentioned a few things about him. He said that discussing with the RCC was very much like walking through a minefield. He said that talking to the RCC needed to be comprised by delicate manoeuvres, if one wanted to avoid a confrontation, and that there would be a harsh confrontation between Mourad and the RCC. The RCC would say something provocative, Mourad would, at one point respond accordingly, and, in the end, the RCC would kill Mourad. And then he added a few titbits of information about the RCC, and his worldview by narrating the first two phrases the RCC uttered on their first exchange of words.

"I used to think of the Serbs as traitors, but now my opinion of them has changed. I like it here"

"Turkey would be like heaven if  pseudo-intellectuals like Orhan Pamuk did not exist".

Of course after the second statement Eran set the rules of the relationship straight. No politics, we are on holidays here.

On election night the RCC was in high spirits. Was it because Erdogan had won? Or was he in good company? Looking in from the outside patio of the hostel, we could see the RCC happily pecking away, drinking his beer and socialising. Was it the good company that made him? Or the election results? Or, was he watching something extremely funny through his computer screen?

All questions about his joyous appearance where answered in the following morning. Eran momentarily dropped his policy of not-discussing-politics-with-the-RCC, and asked his opinion on the result, to get something along the lines of "fuck you" for an answer. And that, given the humiliating defeat of the Kemalist-Grey Wolve Alliance at the presidential election, was telling of the RCC's political ideas. The RCC was, at best, a Kemalist, and, in the worst case scenario, a Turkish nationalist. And he was not happy about the his side's electoral results.

If Turkey's political climate is bad for the left, right now it is not much better for a Kemalist or a Grey Wolve. It is, a bit better. They are not persecuted yet, but are involved in a fierce fighting of fractions within the Turkish establishment, with the AKP in one side, and the Grey Wolves and the Kemalists in the other. And that means that, like Eran, the RCC was also taking a break from events back home. He looked as if he was running away from trouble back home.

On another note, the meeting between Mourad and the RCC went smoothly. Mourad also proved too smart and unwilling to engage in a serious political debate with him, and the RCC, who was probably looking for company, played along...

The Turkish Left (Murat and Eran)

The Turkish Left arrived at the hostel a day later than I did. They had first met on board the flight to Belgrade, and that had proved useful to Murat, who did not speak o word of any language other than Turkish and Kurdish. Murat, according to Eran was the stereotypical Kurdish guy. Left-leaning, thin, bespectacled, bearded, and with reactions and reflexes caused by centuries of warfare and persecution. Mourat is from Konya, but is currently residing in Istanbul. Always ready to absorb any kind of information translated to him by Eran, and almost always ready to respond in a humorous way. For example, when, on the way to Zemun, our bus passed by the grounds of the Belgrade Beer Fest, he said that his lifelong dream was to organize a big beer fest in Konya, just to spite the local Islamist authorities. Mourat proved himself to be remarkably democratic, secular and ready to calmly walk any minefield in any kind of discourse, during my stay in Belgrade.

The presence of Eran, on the other hand, was quite different. Towering hight, blondeish complexion, beard and glasses, and a very good command of English. Eran has gone through a lot. Last year he was almost expelled from the University where he was doing a PhD on Law, because of  his involvement with the movement of Gezi Park. It proved to be a close call, but the political climate in Turkish Universities is, probably unfavorable for people like him. Life as a leftist scholar can be quite difficult, when the University elites are dominated by Kemalists, Grey Wolves and Islamists. But thank god, the infighting between Kemalists and Islamists, resulted in Eran and his case being put aside, for the moment. On the night of Erdogans electoral triumph, in the presidential election, he expressed a reserved feeling of defeat, especially because the leftist parties, being lead by the Kurdish parties (and their political elites), supported Erdogan. Once, the left was especially strong in Turkey, but now, many mistakes and wrong turns later, it is a shadow of its former past. And that makes people like Eran feel a bit disappointed. He kept saying that the political climate, in Turkey, was bad for him too. And he has prepared a way out, continuing his studies in Berlin, or Belgium, or the Netherlands. Nevertheless, talking to him, especially about the subject that agitates him, that being Turkish politics, can be enlightening. He has a very solid idea about most things. Gulen, the Army, the police, the Unions, the National Questions, etc. He also has a very extensive knowledge of the minorities and their cultures. And that, because, despite being Turkish, his dad comes from the Kurdish regions. At one point, when describing the contrast between Mesopotamia and Anatolia, he showed me a picture, in order to show the stark contrast between the two regions. It was the border between them. The Anatolian side hosted a dense forest, while the Mesopotamian side was just some bare, dry and rugged terrain. Turkey is full of contrasts.

Anyway both of them seemed like they wanted a way out of their everyday lives. And that because being a Kurd, or a leftist scholar who has also dabbled as a paralegal in human rights cases,  makes your life in Turkey a little harder, day by day.

In short, both of them seemed to be running away from trouble back home. Like too many a backpacker. But, on the other hand, when thy return home, reality is going to come back, slapping them across the ways, the ways that it does, especially to dedicated fighters like Eran. I seriously hope that Eran goes over his disappointment with the situation in Turkey, and stays there, so that he can bring the fight to both evils besieging the turkish working class. His sworn enemies, capitalism and political islam. The road of the fighter is a perilous one, and they have both realized that. Hope that the wisdom of the seasoned leftie prevails, and they keep on fighting in spite of bitter defeats and disappointments.

The Danes

Well if the Kiwis where the archetypes of frat-boys gone backpacking,then the Danes where something more than the Kiwis ca 2012. In a way the Danes where freaks. That,or they where well on the way to become freaks. They where very interested in skating, and their reckless way of doing it had cost f Jojo, one of their members, a fractured limb. But their recklessness was manifested in more ways. Most of them where driven by a voracious appetite for Jagerbombs, weed and sex. The only exception was the reason why they came to Belgrade. Their mate Oliver was working in the hostel where I was staying. Oliver was also the brains and the looks of the whole outfit. He was the only one currently holding a job, being one of the people working shifts at the hostel (and, in Olivers case, staying there) .  He was also madly in love with a local girl, something that probably made him think things through and try to make something better of himself, something that did not seem to register with the others. The others where not holding neither steady jobs, nor a steady relationship, let alone the will to study something.

But, nevertheless,  they where good and solid folk, always up for some good fun, especially if it involved stoner rock,drugs and the possibility to meet girls or do something stupid.

There is one rule in the art of doing stupid things. A good mischievous rogue, is the one that breaks the rules, but gets away with it, because he did it in a way in which he could not cause suspicions to arise on him. The Danes could not understand this simple concept.  Their slacker-meets-fratboy mentality did not allow them to think this way.  Let me show you one example. Night out at the splavovi (river barges that serve as bars in Belgrade) . Me , Oliver, Princess (2nd in command, goes by the name of Anders), Frederick and Jojo are having a few drinks are having a few drinks at a splav called "Freestyler", or something like this. Oliver, being the face and brains of the outfit is keeping something like a straight face. The rest of us are terminally pissed. At one point, Princess, Frederik and feel the urgent need to let the golden shower out. But we can't wait in a cue for the barge's dirty bogs, so we decide to throw the lot in the river. Frederik and Princess decide to piss from the side of the barge that was looking toward the river's bank, in full sight of both some of the other guests,and, the notorious psychopaths that work as bouncers in Belgrade. I did the same thing , but from the other side of the barge, which could not be observed by the bouncers (but could be by the rest of the revelers in the splav. They got spotted and ejected, I got away with it. Simple as that.

I do not know what happened to Princess ( the 6 stone stoner rock fan called Anders by his non-friends), Fred ( the mild mannered 6 ft 2 guy), or Jojo the skater. Probably they are back in their hometown in Denmark, doing the mundane  jobs any small-town boy sans a university degree does. But, on the other hand, after two years of roaming around the Balkans and central Europe with his sweetheart, thus June, Oliver informed his Facebook friends, on his decision to take the entry exams for University,in Denmark. Oliver,always the brains of the outfit. 

Backpacker profiles vol 1: The Kiwis

 
If I could describe the Kiwis in one way,

 I would describe them as the ultimate backpacking party animals. 

Being Single-mindedly focused on the pursuit of women, 

cheap booze and other thrills of the like,

their minds hold no space whatsoever for any grownup-related things

 such as job related anxieties,politics and so on.
 
The most prevalent character of the duo is the "Dane",

 a six ft blonde beast weighing some 110ish kilos, 

who looks like a rave-freak-turned-migration-office-clerk. 

This guy is definately looking for party going.

 H e is also desperately trying to understand the concept of

 being madly in love with someone.

 His main question toward people he meets is " Have you ever been drunk on love?".
 
His loyal sidekick is another case worth being examined by the narrator

 of the present.

 Darren, who claims that his name is an abbreviation to the greek name "Dherianous",

 is a dark skinned slim wannabe dj,

matching his mates towering hight. He also claims to be half-Greek half-Maori,

 but does not look like either of the two. 

Up until my departure from Belgrade,

I treated this as a half baked attempt to create a running joke for this trip. 
 
The Kiwis are prone to, and open to suggestions concerning, 

any shenanigans that have worked for guys like me and Hunter Thompson,

but that I would not condone. Their appetite  for craziness has landed them a few

 close encounters with the notoriously crazy reaction of the psychopathic nazi scum
that work as bouncers in Belgrade's splav bars, 

most of which ended in spectacular near misses.

 Nothing serious though. 

Needless to say they where amazed by the stories of my previous exploits 

(La Coruna,student years etc). 
 
Currently they are enjoying the good life of the backpacker in eastern europe.

Tuesday- Conclusions and disilusions

Tuesday morning came and went quickly. So quickly thaτ I could not even understand it even existed. I was busy writing and working on articles in the laptop, but I was also thinking. I was pondering on the situation in Albania and Albania society. Everyone that looks toward Albanian economics can understand that the indicators are looking “good”. This is only half trae. How good can things be in a country that has come this close to rocking bottom? How good can things be when there are so devastating social differences? How good can things be when development is dependant solely on the will and money of foreign investors and financial aid? And how good can things look when these elites head the country into a big financial Hubble, that is about to be burst in a really violent and devastating way? I tell you this is not as good as indicators show. The social contradictions are too big to ignore, and any kind of development comes and goes in pieces. Wages are very low and pensioners barely survive, with the help of their children and the imigrants of the family. A great deal of the income of most Albanian familiεs comes from members of the family that live and work abroad. In the States, Canada, Italy, Greece, the UK. Then again there is a big influx of yuppies , especially from crisis stricken sountries like Greece and Italy. Loads of executives that have moved to the country in search of an investment opportunity or a job that can provide them the comforts they will miss back home. On another note, the country is a fértile ground for any kind of profitteer. From bankers to dubious investors to mobsters and subcontractors with connections in high places, almost any kind of foreign businessman with aknack of bribing, Sterling and even killing in order to aquire the said rights. The type of businessman that Works and invests in the country, is the cut-throat sporting a bow-tie, a tuxeedo and a 500 dollar-a-piece gold plated watch. These vultures stand to gain a lot, while thw locals gain way less rights and Money. They have also given their helping hand in creating the Albanian version of a real estate bubble, by buying loads of properties along the coast and in Tirana itself, whithout caring about the consequences that the bursting of such a bubble might have on ordinary Albanians. Anyway, by noon I was in the airport, and climbing aboard the Olympic Airways Bombardier that would take me back to Athens. I was on the return of the greek yuppie trek. Yet, I wanted to see more of the country. At one point I would be back, in order to visit the “real Albania”. And that was the Albanian parto f Kosovo, with the high plateus and the towers…

Monday- Tirana (walking around and pondering on the block)

Whoever said that Tirana is a a small town, is unequivocally wrong. Tirana is quite medium sized. Two million souls live in this anarchic city. Most of them are internal immigrants from the all over Albania, but one can not rule out the occasional European or American company executive, nor the occasional Kosovar or Macedonian . The outskirts are poverty stricken, if one does not take into account the gated comunities. The case where the city erupts, though, looks like a faraway possibility. The three deaths outside the presidential palace, during demonstrations against what the opposition called an election fraud. From the looks of it what happened in Albania last spring (in the middle of the Arab spring, mind you), was not a free and fair election. It has a lot of the marks of what people in the west would call electoral fraud , and there is chit chat going around about the Americans having given a helping hand in the election of Berisha. Necvertherless Berisha and the current mayor of Tirana seem to be USA’s favourite alies in the region. Without the support of the Albanian government the operations in Kosovo could have been seriously hindered, if not deemed impossible. But Albania provided logistics and a “staging point” for the operation, let alone the help to the UCK. Anyway there I was, in the middle of a quite moist day, walking along the Central Boulevards of Tirana. Some areas are really run down, but the truth is that downtown Tirana has bee greatly modernised, and looks like a big shopping area for rich Albanians. A lot of Flagship and high end stores are there. Embassies are situated left right and centre around this area, so are important buildings like the new Cathedral built by the Greek Orthodox Archbishop of Albania, and some mosques. South Albania is dominantly Greek Orthodox, but middle-to-northern Albania is a Muslim country. That goes as far as religious people, because most Albanians are Atheists. Around Tirana one can also spot old men with bicycles. Bikes are very popular among the eldest generation, a generation that did not really get used to private cars. So, even now, in the midst of the busy streets of the capital, there is a lot of old men and women going about their day to day business on their ageing bikes. It is some sort of a picturesque scene from a generally dim urban Albania. Colours in Tirana where much dimmer in the past. But Eddi Rama, during his tenure as mayor did two things. First he tore down the shanty town that was situated in the banks of the river and along the circular road that almost goes around the city centre. The whereabouts of the residents remain unknown, though I think they got stuffed around the messy suburbs, hidden because of anachic building and no urban planning. The second thing was to paint some of the buildings in various colours, and provide full exterior lighting 24/7to all the important buildings that are situated around the area of Skenderberg Square, which is the heart of the City. Then, a massive remodelling of the square started (with use of Austrian funds), which was concluded during the tenure of the current mayor. Though it did not vastly improve living standards, the tenure of Rama as mayor was deemed rather successful. But cosmetic changes do not change a lot. Five to ten kilometres away from the well paved city centre, sidewalks are missing, there are open sewage pumps, buildings that remain in ruins, and even dirt roads. Anyway it was Monday so the National Laographic Museum of Tirana was closed. All I could do was sit down and watch the big mural on the side facing the square. This mural depicts all heroes that had taken part in the biggest wars rebellions and riots that had to do with the country, from the times of king Perrus up until the second world war. Men and women armed with all kinds of weaponry where depicted in the huge mural. Two other sights lie nearby, both on the Boulevard that starts from Skenderberg Square and ends, more or less, at the Kemalstafa Stadium. The emblematic Pyramid, a monument built to honour Emver Hoxha ( and a sign of all the “god” treatment that leaders of Stalinist states received and I am talking about Stalin, Mao Ze Dong and even Nicolae Chausescu), and the clock tower. Right across the Pyramid lies a series of ministries and, further on, the Polytechnik. And, if one takes one of the cross streets and moves to the right, (when facing the Kemalstafa end), he or she enters the biloku district, universally known as “the Block”. The history of the “Block”, is a lot like the history of modern Albania, in small scale. Like Albania, the “Block” was a secluded area during the times of Hoxha. No commoner would be able to enter this area, which was designed only for party and state officials. In a similar fashion Albania was closed to non-comrades. Then communism fell in 1991, and by then the country’s borders where open for anyone willing to visit. The same happened to the “Block”. Suddenly anyone could see where the party leaders where living. But then again the block semi-closed in later years. It became full of restaurants and bars that where a little to expensive for the average Albanian. So, now ther block is a semi-secluded area where only those who have the money hang out. Nevertheless, I could sill pay a visit to the grounds of Emver Hoxha’s residence. It was in the middle of the “Block”. A luxurous safe haven for a “communist leader” who lived in luxury while his people had to live with far less. Just like in mother Russia and China. Oligarchs and princelings are not to be taken out of the picture too. While walking around the block I spotted six Bentleys, a couple of Jaguars, loads of Mercedes and BMW cars, even some American limousines.Some of them had Kosovo plates and strange looking men and women inside. Mobsters by the looks of it. And those guys had the "don't look at me strangely, and I will not hang you by the balls" look in their eyes. Criminals that most probably had killed people in their past. And all the while, there was people begging for food in the streets. This is Albania in 2012. Loads of poor people, and a very few super rich men and women laughing in their face. Anger must be slowly boiling here. But not that much. There was an air of optimism in the air, even in the worst and most crime-ridden slum in Tirana. People had the feeling that there was still some room for more development. That I got from conversations made with people, and some conversations that caught my ear around the area. Perhaps it is because people felt they have “rocked bottom” and the only way now is up. Things could not get worse, only better. This feeling was shared by my stepfather when he came around to pick me up. We went for a drive around town, saw a few neighbourhoods, and then went back to the apartment. I had to pack, because on Tuesday I had to catch a plane back home.

Sunday- Back to Base

I had seen this village befote. It was like Las Vegas, only in Southern Albania. It was pitch black and the place was lit up like a christmas tree. We where passing by once again heading for a café outsider Gjirokaster. Djodjas said that this village was famous for its crops. Its hashish crops. The village was governed by something like a local mob. Everybody there grows drugs, and everybody there owns firearms. Like a mix of Texas with rural Crete. Weed and guns. It turns out that the guys do not have to pay any electricity Bills, because the electrical company looks the other way, for fear of violent reprisals. Even the circulation of cash is scarce there. Djodjas told us a story of him meeting an aquaintance from there, who had just bought himself a new luxurious Jeep. He asked how much it cost the guy. The answer was “Eighty kilos”. Djodjas asked again, explaining that he wanted to learn the price in cash. The acquaintance remained unfased. The answer was the same once again. Eighty kilos. The weed that is cultivated in Albania goes to the Greek market. The Albanian mob also supplies the European markets with heroin, but this is not a homegrown product. It simply passes by Albania with the help of local mobsters and lands in Italy. Same thing goes with women, cigarettes and al kinds of contraband. The Albanian mob almost always operated as clandestine busboys for the Italian and Turkish mob. Once we arrived, Djodjas greeted a suited man. This was the mayor of Gjirokaster. Djodjas is man with many acquaintances and many connections in the area. My stepfather joked that Djodjas should run for MP in the area. The café was situated on the side of a river, but in reality the setting looked like an artificial lake in-the-making. The place was clearly a restaurant for local heavy hitters, at least in the financial sense. And local celebrities can be seen there. Our next stop was within the city. It was the castle of Gjirokaster. It served as a fortress. It also served as a prison, housing political prisoners. Many Albanian resistance members and dissidents who where fighting against the King. Now its serves as a lot of different things. The interior serves as a wartime museum and an area dedicated to the resistance against the Germans. A big variety of weapons is stored there, weapons that range from medieval swords and axes to a WWII Italian tank and Chinese AK-47’s.The walls are sprayed with harrowing accounts from the prisoners. One, a member of the Greek minority wrote “I am sick and cannot move myself because of the pain and the beatings. I feel that I am going to die soon.” He was executed in days before the Nazis left Albania. Actually it is the occupation and resistance against the Nazis that unified the Greek minority with the Albanians under the banner of the revolution. After the Germans left the country, the communists took control. And a miscalculated move by the MI6 solidified the power of their leader Emver Hoxha. Actually this was the work of KGB’s most successful mole in the Circus. Kim Philby. During late 1946 MI6 hatched a plan to land saboteurs into Southern Albania in order to overthrow Hoxha. Philby, who was a high ranking officer in the Circus, learned of it and informed the KGB, who in turn tipped off their Albanian colleagues. The Albanians, in turn, ambushed the saboteurs and killed them all. The gardens and the moats of the castle serve as cafés and concert venues in the summer time. Mrs Djodjas, who loves almost everything Greek remembers Eleftheria Arvanitaki doing a memorable concert there. After this we climbed down into the old town for a small stroll and some coffee. The centre is picturesque, but also derelict. Most buildings need repairs, but still retains features of the architecture of the late 19th century and early 20th century in good condition. Noon was approaching rapidly, and we had to get back to Tirana, before nightfall. And we had to make haste because about a hundred kilometres of really rough road lay between us and the highway that leads to Tirana. That is three to four hours of driving up and down the mountains. On top of all of that, for about twenty kilometres we had to move through .works in progress, semi incomplete bridges, hard gravel roads and the ensuing traffic. The road up until Premet was in a terrible condition. It took us more than an hour to reach the city. For at least thirty five minutes we had to negotiate ourselves through seven kilometres of bad terrain and incomplete bridges. We sighed when we reached the plains, and when we reached the highway, it did not look like the four lanes with the potholes and the grass strip in the middle, but like an Italian autostrada. We where on our way home. With only one break. Throughout the whole drive, Sollace was calling us to get updates on our whereabouts. He was having fish with friends in a restaurant in Durres and had invited us there. We where trying to explain to him that we would not make it in time, so he settled for some coffee in a hotel just outside of Durres. An exclusive one. The clientele included the CEO of the Turkish Steel company (the one that owns the factory in Elbasan), whom we met on our way in, foreign dignitaries and heads of state from various areas in the world. Sollace was waiting for us in the entrance. This bespectacled man is the son of Albanian immigrants in Greece. He studied medicine, started a career in Greece, and hen Ygeia made a move towards Albania, he was the “man”. He was there with his wife, a plumb and pretty woman in her forties. They have a sixteen year old son that drives the family’s other car on his nights out, with a five Euro note in his pocket in case he gets stopped by police (the legal driving age in Albania is 18), for the ensuing little bribe. Corruption and nepotism in Albania are still rife. Bribes are widespread and there is always talk of the government being very corrupt and taking sides in business matters, to favour businesses with which members are affiliated, through the ownership of shares or any other connection. And if one comes to realise that Berisha’s crowd are Washington’s favourites in the region, well, that says it all. Nevertheless Solace himself does not seem to partake in all of this. If one does not take into account the nice house and the massive Audi, he is a man of simple pleasures. No drinking, little eating, some coffee, driving around and good company are his vices. Well, some of them are mine too. But these “vices” are harmless. Real corruption can be fatal. As usual the discussion turned to economics and politics. It seems that the situation is not that polarised in Albania nowadays. At least not as polarised as in the late nineties, the ears when the pyramid schemes collapsed and an armed riot drove Berisha out of power, and into seeking asylum. But with the construction bubble going on and crisis lurking around the corner, nobody can be too sure about the situation remaining the same. We left the hotel in the early evening, in order to go back to base. On the next day I was to walk around town and my stepfather was to go to work.

Saturday- Moving along Northern Hyperus.

It was Saturday morning. In the clear post-rain atmosphere, we could see the coast of Corfu, where I had gone camping a few Summers ago. Electricity was back on and everything seemed to be back to normal. We checked out and reached the car. Today we where two men on a misión. To reach Gjirokaster, go to a nearby village, visit a sawing industry and buy some things Essentials to my mother’s hobby. Her heirloom. The rendez-vous was at twelve in the noon, but owing to the condition of Albanian roads, especially in the region, we thought that it would be better to be early an early bird and wait, than be late. Things where better, once we where on the road. We where driving along. surprisingly well kept country road For the first time in a whole week we did not see a single pothole in thirty kilometres. Things where going very smoothly. We reached downtown Gjirokaster half an hour ahead of Schedule. That was enough time to check out the Hotels and find ourselves some suitable lodging. In the hours to come Mr Djodjas, one of my stepfather’s friends was due to arrive in town. We looked into the first hotel we could lay our eyes upon, and almost singlehandedly decided that this place was suited for our stay and business in town. Later in the night we would find out that it was “fashionable enough” to hold wedding parties, and that, in fact, the view from its café covered almost the entirety of the city. The city itself is divided in two districts. The old district is the most picturesque and the most derelict at the same time. It is the way works happen in Albania all the way around, even if the city itself is “protected” as a heritage site by UNESCO. As it seems, even there money is scarce, and both the government and the organisation are looking for money and donations alike, in order to secure funding for refurbishing the city’s magnificent buildings, buildings that date themselves from the middle ages to the forties. Meanwhile we where waiting in the parking lot outside the hotel. Our people where to arrive any minute. Despite its quite bad situation, the centre of the old town looked busy. It seems that except the two or three UNESCO restoration projects that remained active in town, people also had other kinds of business there, And, indeed, in the old town centre there still exists a variety of cafes, taverns and shops, even though the ones that attract the “fashionable” crowd have been built in the outskirts. Finaly, a grey Skoda Yeti, carrying two characters, arrived and parked next to us. Two middle aged men appeared from within it. The youngest one was a burly dark haired man in his mid fourties. The eldest of the two was a greying man, of a similar posture, who was in his late fifties. From the ensuing conversation (mind you only the elder one spoke any foreign language, that being Greek), I understood that their families where bound by some sort of wedlock, and that the elder one was the father-in-law. They asked us to follow them. We left the old town, crossed the highway and went into a narrow rural road. Ten minutes later we where reaching the only Albanian speaking (by majority) village in the area. We went into a building that double as a sawing factory, on one side, and a heirloom artifact museum on the other one.. From what it seems, they where also dieing the raw material and selling it to customers. But this is a dying business, even in Albania, and few customers actually care about handmade clothing and bedlinen, especially if they can have it through industrial production and, much cheaper, synthetic raw material. So our order of about fourteen kilos of raw sawing material up front and another fourteen kilos to be sent by mail to Tirana, was a big one that they could not have seen from individual buyers in ages. So, after the deal was closed and done , we where invited to join the owner and co at eh local taverna, for a drinking session that included tsipouro and lamb. We left four hours later, with heads about to explode from the alcohol we had consumed and went back to the hotel. We had to have a bit of a sleep, because in the afternoon we had a new round of drinking and eating with our friend Djodjas and his wife. Now Gjirokaster has a tradition of being the birthplace of important figures in Albanian literature and politics. Despite tha fact that his most notable stories have to do with Northern Albania and the traditions of the area, profilic writer Ismail Kandare was born in Gjirokaster. Two very important Albanian statesmen, former PM Fatos Nano and the former mayor of Tirana Edi Rama, both being leading figures of the Socialist party, come from nearby areas, Actually the former is being rumoured to be the new presidential candidate in the upcoming election, for the Socialist Party, despite the fact that the latter is the acting president of the party. Edi Rama has fallen in the eyes of the both the party’s elites and electorate, alter losing the municipality and making a lot of political mistakes that paved the way into Berisha’s rule in Albania, and leaving him alone with enough power in the legislature, where the SP had the potential to block decisions. .If one thinks about the soaring popularity of Rama during his tenure as mayor of Tirana, now the picture is very different. Even though Rama can still persuade some Albanians, he does not seem to have the ability to tople Berisha. Nano, on the other hand, has to face a lot of gossip that circles around his buxom and very smart younger wife. He is married to a very well known businesswoman, known for both her success in the Business sector, and her sex appeal. Djodjas is also some sort of dominating figure himself too. In fact he is some sort of a local celebrity. He was a top doctor in the local hospital, providing medical help to ill people who live in a radious of eighty kilometres from Gjirokaster, at a time when Tirana was a four hour drive away and the borders with Greece where closed. Later when the borders opened, people from the area started to visit Ioanina Univercity Hospital, which lay an hour and a half away from town. Of course proximity was the reason, especially when an ill person required to travel for more than four hours through roads that where in a bad shape, or nao shape at all.. So, nowadays most people from Gjirokaster cross the borders and finish their medical affairs in Greece, and a very very few of them opt to travel to Tirana. Djodjas was swept away by the tide. He went to Greece in order to be re-trained, and then stayed for years as an anaesthesiologist in Athens. And now he is working on patients in Tirana. Anyway Djodjas is so well known in the region that he could run for Member of the Parliament. His fame is preposterous. While walking around town and visiting the nearby areas, he would be greeted by anyone in sight. After having coffee in one of the town’s high end cafés , and then went to Prototsani to have some steaks. Prototsani is the most “fanatically greek” village in the area. Konstantinos Mitsotakis was the first Greek PM to visit the area back in the early nineties, when national tensions ran high in the area. It was a time of terror for both ends. Sali Berisha’s henchmen where constantly attacking figures of the Greek minority, while a Group sponsored by fascists within the Greek Foreign Ministry and the Greek Embassy, was trying to organise a separatist guerilla army, the actions of which could cause a war between the two countries. Mitsotakis toured Southern Albania in order to “calm things down”. As it turns out the speach he gave in the Squire, and furthermore his presence itself ,made quite an impression in the population. In fact it was such a positive impression that they named the central Squire alter him. It is a funny thing, especially if someone realises that people in the “motherland” hate his guts. People in Northern Hyperus have an, almost, undemanding love for Greece. They feel that it is their “motherland”. Not in the literal sense , but because they relieve that they and their customs are originated from Greece. We dined at a steakhouse in the southwest corner of the Squire, and went back to the hotel.

Friday- Southbound

Come Friday morning and we where on the road again. This time we where on the coastal highway, on our way to Saranda. We where to spend the weekend moving along southern Albania. The aim was to see the “Greek” areas. So we passed by familiar landscape. Agricultural land as far as the eye could see. Then, at one point we reached the coastal city of Vlore. We ventured into the port, in order to find us something to eat. But, since the city is a port of entry from Italy, we did not manage to find anything that could suit us and any restaurant that was not a “tourist attraction” . So we stayed our southbound course. In the meantime the traffic was slowly becoming worse, and the roads where gradually deteriorating. After about an hour of trying to negotiate through local traffic, we finally left the city and continued moving on the coastal road to Saranda. We reached the beach where the old submarine base used to be. We stopped at a roadside fishing tavern to make our stomachs quiet down. Our instincts proved right once again and after a rich but cheap meal we where back on our way to Saranda. This time the landscape was changing. We where slowly going up the mountains. Traffic was scarce too. It was as if nobody was using this road. We would find out a little later. For the moment we where driving with the windows down, getting the mid-spring breeze on our faces. Suddenly the freeze turned into a chill, when almost midway into our mountain climb we ran into thick fog. We could see no further than 5 metres ahead of us. Instinctively the speed lowered significantly, and we where driving with the constant fear of falling of an open cliff or something like that. As we where reaching the mountaintop, the fog was beginning to clear. Meanwhile the turns where multiplying rapidly, so where the potholes and the bumps on the road. But, once again, the Touareg prove to be a valuable and loyal companion. Despite its size, it was taking turns smoothly, and we usually did not “feel” the bumps or any other anomalies on the road. As we where descending to the sea again, the road grew wider. Its sides where also filled with nationalist slogans and UCK signs. We where into the “Greek” area, and Albanian nationalists from the north (the slogans where signed by “students from Tirana” or some similarly named organisation) definately wanted to make themselves seen in the area. This was the only sign of ethnic tension we encountered throughout the whole trip, in reality. When we reached the first villages, the majority of which was dominantly greek, the picture was different. Serene, with no provocations whatsoever. After another fourty kilometres (or so) we where reaching the outskirts of Saranda. Now, everyone of you reading this blog, might have heard that Saranda is one of the most beautiful cities in Albania. This is partly misinformation. Saranda used to be o lovely town. Until the building boom destroyed it. Now it looks like Durres surrounded by hills. Few traditional pockets still survive, in the old town, but the reality is that most of the city was taken down to make way for apartment blocks and hotels. This looked like our idea, which was later confirmed by a local restauranteur . We lodged ourselves in a cheap third rate hotel and went for an afternoon nap. In the evening we converged on the balcony (which looked over the port and most of the city), had a bit of coffee and searched for a place to eat. Once again the Albanian connection worked, and this time we landed in an uber cozy restaurant, situated just over Dekko, Albania’s biggest and most exclusive summer club. The owner, as it turned out, had a long and illustrious career in the cuisine of some of Greece’s most exclusive and famous restaurants. And that was evident in the decoration of the restaurant and the luxurious plates too. It also looked like a place for a quite select clientele. A suit from the Austrian bank, one of the bigwigs as I learned from my stepfather, was expected to dine there the next day. We where dining there that evening. Our host said that Saranda used ton look like a beautiful village. But then, showing off newly gained cash from Greece, and trying to impress the tourists took over. Soon we found out that we were the sole customers in the establishment, for the whole night. It looked as if they had had it opened just for us. The answer as to why we where the sole customers came with the food, and the bill we had to pay. As it turned out, our insightful host had missed out on a couple of things. In fact he was swept away from the way greek fashion-omics work. That means mediocre food in a luxurious environment, complete with over-the-top prices. We where paying a totally “greek” check, which means thrice as expensive as Albanian prices. Truly, the concept of value for money had missed a guy. Or he was so carried away by serving the “elite”, that he forgot about common people. Anyway, with a bit of rage in our hearts we returned to the hotel, where I started to write, only to be stopped by a city-wide blackout, caused by a storm….

Thursday-Hit the North (and come back within the day)

I wanted to see the towers. I also wanted to see the sanctuaries. I wanted to see what the areas described in the journey of Gjork Berisha, before he was killed by the Kryjekukke family. I wanted to witness all the wonders witnessed by those American scholars that where chasing after the voices of those singing Homeric narratives. But no. The plateau of Kosovo, described by the creator of all those characters, Albania’s prolific writer, Ismael Kandare, was too far away for a simple day trip. The furthest away from Tirana we could move was Shkoder. Well that could be enough too. At least for a first visit to the Albanian North, or what they called “deep Albania”. The part of the country where the tradition of prince Lek’s orders still survived. The Kanun. That is the traditional law that every Albanian must follow on just about every issue of his everyday life, from simple day-to-day matters, ‘till the settling, or continuity, of the famous Albanian blood feuds. Honour killings still exist in the north. So does the right of every family to claim vengeance over its members that where killed by a member of another family. And though these laws where banned during the Hoxha regime, they came back in the nineties, partly thanks to Sali Berisha (a northerner) turning a blind eye to the phenomenon. The road passed through a Northern Tirana suburb where “no one wants to end up” , as my stepfather’s friend Solace once said. That is because a lot of Northerners migrated there. The place looked run down and definitely is in a bad shape. Loads of traffic too. We where on our way up north where everything looked abandoned and derelict. No evidence of development here yet, except a wide array of furniture stores and some mini malls. The weather looked typical of the Albanian North. That meant that it was cloudy, moist, and pockets of rain followed out Touareg in its every step. Towns and villages passed by, even when we where, again, what looked like the typical Albanian highway. A narrow strip of grass was standing between northbound and southbound lanes. To our left and to our right, the mountain ranges that form Albania’s natural landscape where closing slowly closing in on us. All of a sudden we where off the highway and moving along the perimeter of a mountain. The weather had deteriorated and by now it was purely raining cats and dogs.. Even visibility was, at times, very limited. Thank god by the time we had reached the outskirts of Shkoder there was a break in the bad weather. The sun was shining again and we where beginning to get the feeling we could walk around town. We where fatally wrong, in this sense. First of all as soon as we entered town the stormy weather came in again. And then, there was nothing much to see in town too. It looked like the only things we could visit, the castle and the lake, where a hard catch for the day. And as we tried to negotiate the narrow road that goes around the lake and into Montenegro, the weather went from bad to much, much worse. We where mostly unable to see or spot anything from the windows, except what lay a few feet ahead of us. And again, it looked in a dreadful shape. In the following days Djodjas would tell us that this is what the weather is usually like, over there. Moist and rainy. We ate nearby, and went on our way back to Tirana. Along the way my stepfather tried to fill the Touareg’s tank with petrol for the first time in his two year stay in the country. The employee in the gas station (someplace in the middle of nowhere), did not speak any English, my Italian did not come in handy either, but my stepdad managed to explain what he wanted to him, using his limited Albanian vocabulary and some signs. A few seconds later, and while the machine was pumping in gas, he overheard me making a silly joke on the price (while the price was in Lek, there was a Euro Sign (remember the Euro to Lek rate is 1:140) painted next to the display, because the machines had been imported second-hand from Italy), understood what I was saying and laughed with us (explaining in greek that the price was in Lek). The jokes continued, and soon another car came in, the occupants of which joined in the conversation and the laughter. We met five guys who where speaking greek, in a gas station, somewhere in the middle of nowhere in Northern Albania... The people I meet in my travel never cease to amaze me. Having a full tank now, we moved down toward Tirana, to gain some early sleep time. The next morning we where starting a three-day trek along the Albanian south….

Wednesday – Around Ohrid and a small ride to Durres

After a night of really heavy rainfall, and a lot of deliberation whether the weather would allow us to continue our trip we woke up to clear blue skies. The visibility was perfect and we could see across the lake, into the FYROM side. So after big breakfast, we moved toward the border. This time I would make it across. All of the car’s papers where in order. So where our papers. We started out and within fifteen minutes of driving on a non-descript narrow road, we reached the border. We cleared both immigration control and customs with great ease. The difference between the roads in Albania and the roads in FYROM became obvious. Though the roads in both countries where equally narrow, roads in FYROM where better maintained. We spotted about two potholes in 60 kilometres. After 20 kilometres on mountainous but lakeside terrain we reached Ohrid. Ohrid is a city of roughly 100,000 inhabitants. It is home to one of the best preserved medieval towns in the balkans, and some of the most beautiful Byzantine churches in the area. It is also a popular tourist attraction for German, Austrian, Yugoslav and Russian tourists. On a clear day one can see as far as the Albanian mountains on the other side of the lake. And, guess what, there’s machine gun nests here too. Seems like Tito was afraid of his neighbours too. Thinking of all this, we where approaching the city. Within a few hours we where passing by large hotels . We where in the outskirts.of the city. After a lot of rounds around holiday apartment blocks, we finally reached the centre of the city. Ohrid, in the summer months is a busy lakeside tourist port. Small boats do daily cruises that start from here, and move along the scenic shoreline. But the real beauty of the town is its historic centre. Its old town is one of the best preserved ones in the whole region, and a lot buildings with a design owing to Turkish, neo-classical and medieval influences are scattered in it, lying between it’s paved roads . There are a lot of Byzantine churches here. Most of the are basyllikas and they are decorated in a manner that is very common around the whole region. They follow the principles of the “Macedonian school”, a group of painters that where working in Northern Greece, Southern Bulgaria, Albania, FYROM and Serbia, the whole of the historic byzantine region of Macedonia. That means that there are more bright colours in the paintings inside the church, and even some characteristics of the bodies of the people depicted are visible, contrary to typical shapeless and dimly painted pictures of the era. Notable churches aside, the city is ideal for walks and maybe late night serenades. There is a lot to see in the old town, and one can get a beautiful sunset/sunrise, if one wants to climb on higher ground around the old town. After about five hours that seemed like ten minutes we decided to resume our circle around the lake and start the return journey. We left the shoreline a few miles before the city of Struga. We then started climbing a very scenic road, that looked as if it was climbing but, in the middle of a ravine. We finally crossed the border about an hour later. But by the time we had reached Elbasan, we decided that it was still early and we could still visit Durres for some lunch before we returned to Tirana. So we avoided the curvy road going straight ahead, and decided do move south-east to Kavaje, and then straight to Durres. After leaving Elbasan the quality of the road became much worse. And to make things even more difficult, there was an endless string of lorries on the road, that where moving to Durres, in order to get to the boat to Italy. It took us a few hours to reach what looked like a real highway (in the map). But when we reached it things did not really change. Although there was some sort of barrier in the middle dividing the upward with the downward lanes, there where again the usual holes on the road, accompanied with parts where the tarmac was non existent, or where works where in progress. But even there we could not see anybody working there. As it seems they where waiting for money to come in via some sort of a relief programme, so that they could complete the highway, or even repair it. We reached Durres at around four’o’clock. The outskirts are full of high-rises, expensive-looking apartment buildings for holiday lofts and expensive hotels. Clearly there was too much money pouring into the real-estate business there. Just enough to create a real-estate bubble. The rest of the city looks like a crossover between a port city and an expensive seaside resort-neighbourhood. The seaside is full of cosy restaurants and café’s. We decided not to inform Sollace of our whereabouts, for fear of him footing the bill for us again. But my stepfather wanted to take me to a tavern where he had eaten with my sister and friends, and could not remember its name. So we called another friend, the chief anesthysiologist, a man called Djodjas. He did not remember either but offered to ask around and call us back. The next call came from Sollace telling us that we should not go to that tavern, but a restaurant lying next to it. Nothing remains a secret in Albania, for no reason whatsoever. This is a small society of a little more than two million souls. So secrets tend to leak… Gossip on relationships, dates even corruption can be heard almost anywhere. It looks like everyone knows everybody here. Anyway a huge meal of fish and tons of laughter later we left and took the only well paved highway in the country. The one that leads to the airport and Tirana. We would have an early night because the next day we would hit the north for a day trip.

Tuesday-moving toward lake Ohrid

For the first time, in a few years, I had seen something like this. We where on the highway to Elbasan, travelling on our way to Lake Ohrid. The highway, sort of speak, was a plain commercial road full of turns and lorries. The state of the tarmac showed, at times, that it was last repaired ages ago. And the state of the railroad tracks that they had not been used since the nineties (let alone the eighties). The first bumps appeared shortly after we had passed next to the gate of the Berisha residence. Up until then we where in an area where rich Albanians and government figureheads live. We passed a Greek private school, a new (huge) mall, and a tunnel which was under construction. The company undertaking this work is, which else, AKTOR A.E. owned by the Bobolas family, a family of Greek media and construction moguls. And this would be the last piece of progress we would see for the rest of the day. The rest of Albania seemed to be left awaiting its fate. So we where counting the turns and the holes in the tarmac appearing on the way to Elbasan. It took us about an hour to reach. The outskirts of the city, the second largest in Albania according to the latest statistics. The first thing to see when driving into the town are the chimneys of the steel mills.. Albania is an open ground for foreign investors and outsourcing. A lot of foreign multinational companies have set up shop here. Cheap labour and a small but financially powerful elite that can buy anything are the reason why this is happening. Low corporate taxes are another one. This steel mill is owned by a big Turkish company. Other than that, the area looks like a typical non-descript city of a country that used to belong to the East Block. Almost run-down housing projects, and derelict streets. With the help of the Touareg we march on eastward towards the lake. We pass over bridges and next to railway tunnels. Those where built in the fifties and the sixties by the Chinese and the Russians. Nowadays there is absolutely no Chinese or Russian presence in the country. Actually the presence of nationals coming from these countries was gradually suspended by the Hoxha regime, during the years. The first to invest in works in Albania where the Russians and the Yugoslavians. But when Tito and Stalin parted ways, Ho1§xha took Stalin’s side. So Yugoslavians where deemed a source of dangerous “revisionist” influence, and promptly expelled from the country. In 1953 the successors of Stalin started having a different political approach. This caused a rift between China and the USSR, and, Emver Hoxha sided with China. So, the Soviets where replaced by the Chinese. But when Mao died, another internal struggle occurred. China steered away from the Maoist Orthodoxy, and Albania decided to stay on its own, upholding the original ideas of Maoist and Stalinism. The Chinese, of course, where promptly kicked out. And when, in 1991, the government found out that the food surplus would last only six days, and Albanians started to flee the country by land or sea, suddenly the foreign inverstors came marching in. The economy became grossly unregulated, and pyramid schemes, owned by PM Sali Berisha, began to take (economically) the centre stage. But in 1997 these schemes collapsed, people took arms against the government, and ousted Berisha. He only returned to the political centre stage in the 00’s. Now he is still holding the Democratic Party with an Iron Grip, and is currently the PM. However despite these changes, there is no real change in the average Albanian’s life. The vast majority still lives in poverty. After passing a number of small towns with similar features we started to climb another mountain. And then there was the steep way down, towards the lake’s shores. It was a clear day and we could see the other side of the lake. There we came across our first machine-gun nest. The whole country is ridden with those. It seems like there was o shortage of soldiers, arms and ammunition in the country. And the nests where controlling strategic points and crossroads. Anyone found travelling without a permit was promptly arrested. Not only did the regime keep borders closed, but it also restricted movement between cities and villages. There was almost no freedom of movement in Hoxha’s Albania. The conditions on the road where deteriorating too. There was no lanes any more, just large holes and bumps on the tarmac. Along the lake there where a lot of stalls. The owners of these stalls where advertising their merchandise. It consisted of eels and perks. We stopped in downtown Pogradec to get some clean air, a view of the lake, and take a break. Our next stop would be a restaurant called St Naoumi, some seven kilometres away from town, according to a trusted friend of my father’s called Sollace. We took a walk on the lakeside. There was some empty bars in the area. Clearly it was tourist area, and clearly we had visited it during off-season. We walked the street a couple of times and left for our restaurant. Our friend proved unreliable in the matter of the distance. The place was fourteen kilometres away. But, nevertheless the food was excellent. And, to our astonishment,our friend had called the restaurant and asked to pay himself on his next trip there. Now that was a surprise. We moved on to Hoxha’s favourite holiday spot, which was a stone’s throw away from the border, where we would spend the night. After a good two hours we set off for the town. After discovering that there was nothing going on there (off-season being the reason), we decided to move to Korce, a big city about sixty kilometres to the south of Pogradec. But after an encounter with a traffic jam caused by a folded lorry, we decided to move back to our hotel. The next day we would cross the border…

Monday- First Impressions are the lasting ones (?)

For the first time after a many years, I was getting airsick. The ride in the Bombardier Q400 of Olympic Air, was one of the bumpiest rides in my life. Below me lay a mountainous and forested terrain. We where taking the one of the four five Greek yuppie trails. One was to Sofia, one towards Bucharest, one towards Istanbul, and one towards Skopje. We where travelling one the remaining one., towards Tirana. Planeloads of Greek businessmen, CEO’S, brokers and directors travel along these trails. They are working, on weekdays, in Greek companies that have branched out in the Balkans. The main way is by plane, but some also travel by car. To my left I could see the city of Elbasan, with the river flowing by its side. Watery slides where forming on the window to my right. It was raining. As the airplane was continuing its descent on to the Nene Tereza airport of Tirana, my guts where making their presence more and more noisy. When we touched down at the airport, I was totally relieved. Within minutes we where in place and disembarking, and being moved across the tarmac towards the terminal. The next step of our adventure started there. We spent about thirty minutes waiting for passport control to stamp and wave us through. The desks where seriously undermanned. This was one of the wonders of capitalism and deregulation. We took our sole baggage (a small navy bag containing two vases of jam, cleared customs with great ease, walked out to find Armando and our car. Armando works as a driver for Ygeia hospital, where my stepfather works. He took us in a big VW Touareg, and drove us up to the hospital. My stepfather (who works as a director there) finished some small-time chores and then, we moved into the Touareg, to go to his apartment, for the night.. Meanwhile the rain was continuing uninterrupted. Meanwhile, the illustrious by nature Armando, was organising, by phone, a visit to the car’s insurance agent, to gain for us a green card for the vehicle. In 2010 I had been denied entry into FYROM, because my car had no green card. But this time, we where not to be barred from entry. We where going to beat the bureaucracy and see both sides of Lake Ohrid. Thirty minutes and thirty euros later, he told us that the next morning he would have the required paper and so we would be able to drive across the border. Our first stop toward the apartment was an Albanian shopping mall. We had to buy some food items, for the times when we would not venture to town in order to eat. At a glance I realised that a lot of brands on sale at the mall (and the supermarket) where Italian. There is a strong Italian influence in Albania, dating back to the middle ages, when Albanian mercenaries where working for the Italian kingdoms. But the great push toward the good relations with Italy, came with the Italian occupation during the Second World War. The Italians built most of the surface roads and all of the rail network. And most of these roads are still in use, in various degrees of decay. The Italian influence does not end in brands. A lot of Albanians study in Italy, and there is a huge Albanian migrant community there. Most of Albanians understand Italian. A lot of them understand and speak Greek too. There is a big Italian presence in the Albanian economy. Italians have some joint ventures with Albanians, and a good trading relationship with them. Even the Camora and the Sacra Corona Unita have Albanian contacts, and they trade between each other all sorts of contraband, from cigarettes, alcohol and stolen cars, to drugs, women and immigrant labour. There are also many foreign investors working in Albania. American Universities, Turkish-owned industrial areas, Greek constructors, Greek and American private healthcare companies, Greek, Austrian, Turkish and Italian bankers, Greek financiers, even industries producing Greek brands (like Alumil) and Greek Shopping Malls. Albania is a haven for outsourcing, investments and subsidiaries for foreign companies. Another thing I noticed within hours of the arrival in Tirana was the number of Mercedes cars in the streets. It is preposterous. After a short calculation about three out of ten cars moving in Albanian roads are Mercedes cars. That has an explanation that comes from the era of Emver Hoxha. The whole fleet of state limousines was comprised of Mercedes cars. And that happened when private car ownership was prohibited in the country. When, with the coming of capitalism, private car ownership became legal. About 300,000 Mercedes cars (mainly the W124) where imported (one way or another) in Albania. The Mercedes car is a strong status symbol in Albania. As an Albanian friend of my stepfather’s put it “ I still feel like a guy willing to double-cross his perfect wife for even a total minger, when a Mercedes passes by my car, even if it is a jalopy”. And this guy drives an Audi A4 All-road Quatro. After shopping we went to the apartment. He lives at the penthouse of a guarded community, in the vicinity of the heliport. The ride is a very bumpy one, through back-roads. But even the central roads in Tirana can prove a hard ride for most cars. The area surrounding the building looks like a derelict one. Anarchic building is also a feature of the area, and the suburbs of Tirana. There was absolutely no urban planning for these neighbourhoods. Most of the homes surrounding our guarded apartment building seemed to be in quite a bad shape. Most of their inhabitants are internal immigrants from the North. It was so anarchic that the monster my stepfather was driving had great difficulty in negotiating a lot of turns and manoeuvres. Thank God for the zillion of electronic gizmos it used. The sensors saved us from near collision a lot of times. The state of the roads was no help either We went for a small nap, and then went out for a meal. Our destination was a restaurant next to Qemal Stafa Stadium. Once again I noticed the state of roads in Tirana. A huge gaping hole was in front of us, right at the intersection with the road that would lead us to Kavaja Street. We passed through it with great care, turned the street, then made a left on Kavaja street. We passed right next to “The Block”, then made a right on Skenderberg Square, passed Hoxha’s pyramid, the polytechnic, a couple of private universities (there are loads of them in Tirana) , a couple of Embassies and finaly reached the Stadium. Mind you the ride from Skenderberg Square to the Stadium did not include any potholes or bumps. The tarmac was straight, and well preserved because we where in the area where the presidential palace, a lot of ministries and foreign embassies are situated. We arrived in the restaurant, and I toom my first taste of Albanian Cuisine. It is similar to the cuisine of most of the countries in the Balkans, though it includes a lot of vegetables. That suits the Albanian vegetarians perfectly. And there are a lot of them. I had a delicious spicy sausage and a salad of red, yellow and green peppers. Just delicious. In the end we returned to the comfort of the penthouse and our beds. On the next day we where visiting lake Ohrid.

In the Shadow of Frederico

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I woke up . The landscape around the train was full of double decker wagons, filled with new cars. I realized that we were at Linares-Baeza, home to SEAT’’s biggest production line. All those new cars where ready to get transported accross Europe and the mediteranean. We left the industrial landscape and I resumed my sleep.

I continued my uncomfortable sleep through the night, only to wake up as the Andalucian sun was begining to hit the train. I pulled back the curtains and realized that we were passing through endless olive groves. Man this was Andalucia.
My Odysey began as soon as I had left the train. I started negotiating the bus system. I took the wrong bus, stopped somewhere where I from where I could do nothing but retrace my steps up until the last turn of the bus, and got lost. Adding to my problems, was the fact that I could not really understand what tha locals where telling me (Andalucian is quite the odd dialect).
Eventually crawling through a web of missconceptions and mistakes, I eventually managed to negotiate my way to the next bus. As the minibus started to crawl the hill oposite the Alhambra, I finaly got to relax. My trip was finaly ending. I got off at the right stop, managed to follow all the instructions to the end. And there I was up for the next susrprise. I was DEFINATELY in front of the right building. But it seemed to be in a mess. Everything was out of the building and noone was answering the phone. After about half an hour of waiting, an Australian appeared at the door. He informed me that the hostel had been closed due to bugs that some guy contracted in Morroco and brought with him in the building in May.
Damn! There went my 15 euro deposit and I had to look all over again! I started my long descent into the city under the hot Andalucian sun. When I was close to the bottom of the hill, I decided it was time for a small rest. I sat down facing the Alhambra. The enormous fort was just sitting there, it’s windows gaping towards my direction. It was as if it was laughing at me. Stupid Westerner being angry and stressed over all these stupid things. I should have learned to go through this kind of problems.
That was when my father called to see how things where going. I asked him if he could find me someplace to stay via internet, because the hostel was shut. He told me to give him a few minutes but, to see if I could find something myself too, before closing the phone. I continued moving towards downtown Granada. I had not seen any hotel or hostel of any sort, when my dad called. He said he found a hostal someplace under the Cathedral, and that he could book something for me. I asked him to do it and send me the details. After a few moments an adress, a name and a phone number came up on my screen. I called as I was passing through the courtyard of the Cathedral. It took me a few calls to understand what the Andalucian at the other end of the line was telling me,
So after another wave of missunderstandings and craziness, I was dislodging my belongings at yet another room which had the bare necessities. I sat on the bed under the fan, and in a few seocnds I was sound asleep.. I woke up a few hours later. It was night and all the Alhambra would not be open until the next morning. I had some ways to kill time though. Granada is a town that depends a lot on its university (one of the best and the oldest in the Hiberian Peninsula), and that could mean a lot of things about the town’s bars and restaurants. I went downtown and drove myself crazy with the tapas and the beer. The night ended with me sitting outside one bar and watching some nice looking English girls chat. Any attempt to approach them though, seemed to be repealed by a wave of denial. Truth is that they were a bit too posh for my teeth, so the only thing I could do was just watch.
I woke up the next morning and decided to get into the Alhambra. I climbed aboard a small minibus and climbed again the hills surrounding the town. This time I did it from the opposite direction. As I was starting to ascend on my way to the magnificent palace, probably the best example of arabic presence in Europe, a canvas was unfolding to my left. For the first time Icould see the old residential neighborhoods of the town as a whole, and not from the viewpoint of a tired traveller navigating their streets. When I reached the palace, I realised what the Islamophobic knitpickers have been missing the whole time. The Alhambra was creates at a time when the christian west was either chasing witches, or being tormented by never-ending wars. At a time when the Arabs where rescuing artifacts, science and philosophy, the christians where operating like cross carrying jihadis . No wonder why the Arabic scholars of the time viewed Europeans as savages. The Alhambra was an architectural masterpiece in a time when Europe was being destroyed by religious fanaticism. Even if one counts out the tactical ingenuity of its fortification and the way it contacted its network of outposts (actually the Alhambra worked more as a coordination station between some outposts and barracks than as a defencive structure itself), one can sit and just watch the decorations and the craftsmanship of the interior of the buildings, a virtue that was then possessed by a lucky few craftsmen working of tiles drawings and building in the Arabic world.
After taking a close look into the castle, I decided to take a walk along the path passing right under the Alhambra. This path (or walkway if translated correctly), was closely linked with one of the most celebrated poets of Europe, friend to Salvador Dali and Luis Bunuel, and local hero. Frederico Garcia Lorca. Under any circumstances this quiet walkway, could be a lover’s spot. But at the moment when I was walking along the path, there where only a few tourists and pensioners enjoying the quiet street. I walked and walked until I got completely lost in the forest. Then I sat down and listened to the calls of nature. It was just magnificent and I was in the middle of it. Later as I was walking bck toward town, I saw a memorial plate, similar to the ones I had spotted in Bologna. This was dedicated to Frederico Garcia Lorca. Apparently the poet liked walking along this way. One of his poems was on this plate, not his photo nor his bust.

As I was descending back to town, I felt the warm Andalucian afternoon arrive. It was warmish but not hot. I went for a change of clothes and a bath. The night was coming and suddenly I was thinking of Frederico and the other three, executed some eight kilometres away from here, by the Fascists. As the big semifinal was coming, I was feeling a great shadow being cast over the town. I felt the ghost of Lorca lurking around, waiting to see the faces of those who murdered him, taking part in all this.

As the sun was setting I was more and more in need of one last drink. So I went back to the tapas bars and sipped one beer after another, eating one tapa after another, while I was watching the Furias Rojas waltz their way into the finals of the European Championship. I left a town painted red, to get to sleep. A twentyfour-hour trip awaited me next morning, and I needed all the rest I could take. So I surrendered to the warm Andalucian night, in anticipation of my 11:00 AM Cercania to Seville.

Abyss revisited-Easter in Paros

About nine months after my summer ordeal in Paros, I followed the family once again, to a search for the true heart of Paros. This time it was in the off-peak season, during the easter holidays. The boat was half full of Greeks who where going to pass their holidays on the islands.
For better, though, easter had come early this year, so it was completely off season. That meant that we would be able to confide in the best places , with the best food and the cleanest booze in town. Also, the weather was not very promising for the yaught owning part of the crowd, a meaning that we had avoided, momentarily, the glamourus crowd.
For worse, there was still a crowd of Athenian s willing to exchange the pollution for a few days in Paros. So that meant that a bit of overpricing on things was inevitable.
And the trouth lied in-between both things. The booze was reasonably clean, the crowd waas reasonable, and with a bit of searching we were able to distinguish the few good spots for spending the holidays. The hotels also had reasonable, by greek standards, prices. But overpricing in food was difficult to avoid.
The fact that it was off-season also helped us to do a better exploration of the island and get a better idea of the in-land villages. Probably those villages where the reason why I left the island with a beter perspective, vowing to give the place a third chance before having a clearer go at the situation in the island.
Nevertheless, the weather ruined things on easter Sunday, and we had to do the picnic indoors. The result of the day did not ruin our week at all though. In the end we all had a good time. Even during lonely moments, the island looked sweet, and things were going smoothly. I would return in August to see wether this idea could stand or not.

Valencia

Run! That was the declaration of the guy at the ticket counter, as soon as he had given me my ticket to Valencia. As soon as I had it in my hands , I dashed through all checkpoints and within two minutes I was seated inside the Altaria. I was there just at the nick of time. Now that WAS a relief. It was an early morning departure. And a spectacular one , for what it’s worth.
As I was relaxing the train was speeding through a very familiar landscape. The southeastern coast of Spain. I had been there two years before, and the scene remained virtually unchanged. I saw the empty hotel complexes, I saw whatever remained of those that where being demolished in the past, but, more importantly, I saw the redevelopment of the areas between Barcelona and Tarragona, that where slowly turning into some sort of an industrial zone. Spain was changing, again. And, despite that, everything looked, almost the same. I guess tourist zones never really change.

As I reached the central train terminal in Valencia, things where changing. We had drifted from the coast to the mainland, and, now stadiums and high tech exposition venues where all the rage.. Valencia can come close to being an industrial town which has a tourist side. In fact I was staying at it’s “picturesque” zone, a hostel that was situated almost next to the historical centre..
After shacking up, I commenced a small raid on the local supermarket, and bought some food. And since getting a little bit of sleep was of the essence, I went into the dorm and took a nap until mid afternoon.
I woke up at around six. It was about time to take a walk around and see the suroundings of the hostel. I snooped around a bit before I found the local mosque. One of the few left in Spain, it is probably the best preserved Arabic religious monument in the area. But, to my great misfortune, it was being renovated and I could not enter. I was stuck with being able to see only the façade. So I decided to take one more spin. As I walked through the city I watched a married couple riding an old Citroen. Two of the onlookers commented that it was one of Franco’s favourite models. Valencia, was, at some point, the capital of Spain’s democratic government. I do not really know Franco’s ideas had any impact on the population, but it is more likely that Valencia fell because of strategic mistakes. This is what happens when Stalinists are in charge of any movement, be it a resistance movement or a revolutionary one. Franco tormented the townsfolk. The local dialect was outlawed, along with everything else that was deemed inappropriate by the regime.
I spent the night eating pizza with the roommates (two swedes and some australians before going out on the roof to enjoy a few ales under the Valencian sky.
The next day was spent walking in the sidestreets of the city. Meanwhile, the city, like the rest of Spain, was in “Furias Rojas” fever, since Spain was on its bid to the European Championship. And things were going their side. Red and yellow flags were flying everywhere and the city was in a festive mood.
Meanwhile the sidestreets where full of old men searching for sex-for-sale. Lines of street hookers where on display and old men where lining up for them. Gross, gross,gross…… I kept walking away from all this looking for something to catch my eye. Suddenly I saw a painting of Tintin appear in front of me. There was a very wide collection of Tintin related articles, from a poster for a forthcoming golf tournament to the famous demonstration strip from the famous rogue anarchist comic book Adventures of Tintin: Breaking Free.
By then night had come and a small night out was planned. We decided to go to an English-style pub, called the Picadilly. Brit-pop music, faces that where reminiscent of the “baggy” era of Madchester and a table football set, equipped with a local Ian Brown lookalike that would not leave unless someone beat him in a game. Of course, trying that was hopeless, since the guy was the local table football champ. So humiliated as we where, we retreated to a table to finish our booze.
On the final day the Valencian heat was terrible. I stayed in until almost midnight, when it was time to leave and catch the night train to Granada

Seasons in the Abyss-Paros '06

After the disaster that ruined my stay in Spain, my father decided to help me sae part of my holidays. He proposed that instead of staying alone in Athens in the midst of August, I should follow him to the island of Paros, to get a glimpse of good clean family fun once in a while. I had visited Paros after my graduation, 10 years earlier, and I had very fond memories of the whole debauchery that occurred there. Plus I remember the island as a place full of pleasure and opportunities for easy sex, with easygoing locals. And the travelling beast in me was arguing that it would be better to jump on the next ferry than stay in town
Apparently all this had changed radically in the passing years. And there I was crashing in this 65 euro-a-night room to let, which was obviously a bit too much in my eyes. The food was ranging from nice to awful, the alcohol was going quickly down the drain, the music was a bad combination of mainstream hits. Bleh! Suddenly, by the beginning of the first night, I was at a loss. I was missing something. Instead of the hippyish adventurous crowd I met in my travels to Spain, I came across something completely different. Most of the crowd was among the kind of the social climbers. Most of the youth looked like Mykonos wash-outs, trendy kids and socialites that can’t afford Santorini.All of a sudden I had sunk in a different kind of swamp. Barcelona might be a city of vice, but Paros and all these wee islands in the vicinity of Athens are a totally different animal.
Within the last few years, aros had emerged into a must for all semi-well-to-do summer escapees from Athens, catering for the needs of a crowd that needed to sow off. Hence, the island is dominated by overpriced services aimed at rich Europeans and Greeks that have some extra money to spend. At the time a week in Paros cost as much as three weeks of roaming around Spain. Do the math. The truth is that Paros turned out as a place not meant for budget holidaymakers. The contrary. In the Cyclades, at the time, the term value-for-money was unknown. Even though some terms of traditional beuty survived (like the winemakers in Naousa, the architecture), the evil truth is that the island has surrendered to capitalism altogether. Most beaches with easy access are full of umbrellas and seats for rent (as much as five euros an hour-do the math), and the golden sands of the island are full people. In some of the most crowded beaches, finding space is unpossible by all means.
The night activities wre different in a similar fashion. There was no bar whatsoever that was playing any decent music at all. Even the idea of organising a botellon , seemed like something different altogether.The idea of going out here, certainly differs from the idea present in other parts of the world. Fashionable clubs with spiked drinks are all the way. And I could not even think of searching for any drugs, this would definitely be beyond my wallet.
Within that week I had travelled clockwise around the island, and I had found one-all-evident truth. Paros was definately not the island Greek poets were talking about, no more.. But then again, I was in a bitter mood after the end of my travels in Spain, and I was probably unfair to the place… I would visit it in some niche period, a few months later.

Barcelona again (chasing ghosts of voyages past)

By sundown I had reached the Estacion Franca, and was in the process of searching for the hostel. Once again I was lost. The hours past and I was becoming more and more disoriented. Yet Barcelona still mistyfied me. I was still looking for a way to join in the decadant and vibrant atmosphere of the town. Barcelona still sinks to a mindboggling beat. After seemingly hours of searching, I found some metro station and started following directions to the hostel. Upon my arrival another problem appeared. I had booked a bed, but from the next day and on. Finaly I managed to get a bed for the night, and left my belongings in there. I was just into my clean clothes and looking for something to eat, when one of the German students staying in the hostel barged in through the reception and said something about a nude guy appearing in the deli nextdoor. I went in and watched the commotion. In reality nobody was reacting. This is Barcelona, anyway. Someone can get into an establishment of any sort, butt-naked, without anyone even blinking an eye. Locals tend to be very open about a lot of things.

I wrote about Barcelona’s unique architectural style in previous posts. But in fact, I had not seen even half of the city’s monuments. I had to do the rounds once more. After all this was my reason for being in town, Barcelona was not a pit stop this time. It was something more. And while I was still chasing away memories of my previous stay there, I had my mind set on visiting whatever I had missed out previously.
So the first place to visit that was in the stay’s orders, was Park Guel. One of Antoni Gaudi’s masterpieces. Comissioned by wealthy count Eusebi Guell, the park is divided in two sections. The botanic section, wich is the biggest one and offers a splendid view of the city and a quiet walk for people who want to wind up, and the monument section, which is the focus point for all tourist groups. Inspired by the Garden City movement, Lewis Carol’s “Alice in Wonderland”, and the sea, full of cave-like arks and recycled elements from an older housing estates. And all these seem strange if one takes into consideration the fact that Gaudi himself was very religious. His house, is a simple structure, the only decoration of wich, is a portrait of the pope opposite to Gaudi’s bed.
The exploration of the Park, continued for the best part of my day. At some part of the walk around I saw a very familiar scene. An anarchist squat. The anarchist movement has a great tradition in the Peninsula and especially around Catalunya, since the beginning of the 20th century. I will not comment on the history of the anarchist movement, but I saw a banner that got me thinking. “Tourists Go Home” , it wrote. I think this is very contradictory. How can one wjo envisages a world with no borders and free mobility of people, tell some foreigner (even a tourist) to go? Is this for real? On the other hand this seems to reflect on the attitude of some of the locals. La Rambla is full of tourists, thieves,dirt,drugs. Only the sea of neon lights could be missing. But then again, this is Barcelona, and all this can still be overlooked. In the mean time, the night of Sant Joan is approaching, and I hear homemade fireworks everywhere.
The night is a big party that concludes with the burning of the huge statue of Sant Joan somewhere near Barceloneta. Before that, the statue is being moved through the city streets, accompanied by runners, cyclists and marching bands. The night is long and uneventful.

The next day was dedicated to sports. Sort of. I had decided to pay a visit to the hills. Montjouik the hill of Jews in ancient Catalan. The area houses the biggest park in the metropolitan area of Barcelona, a 17th century castle overseeing the port, a big part of the 1992 Olympic Complex, the Miro Museum and the Palau Nacional. Probably it is the perfect example of Barcelona’s mix and match architectural style. The architecture of the castle (wich was a prison for political prisoners including the infamous Salvador Puig Antich, during Franco’s rule), is combined with the Belle Epoque Styled Palau Nacional, and Santiago Calatrava’s Olympic ring are all situated within a 3 mile radius. The castle can be reached via monorail (the Funicular) or, if you are into walking-cycling, through the local streets (which used to be the Montjuic Street Circuit, until the mid seventies). It took me 15 minutes to reach the castle with the funicular, and some 20 minutes downhill to reach the Miro Museum wich was close to the start of the Funicular. I gave about twenty euros to what seemed to me the most lifeless and boring museum ever, wich gave me no feeling of the era when Miro operated, even though the collection was a really good assortment of his work, wich expanded from architecture to painting and modern sculpture. Miro was one of Barcelona’s profilic architects, though overshadowed by the mighty Gaudi, and certainly one of its grandest painters. Mind you though, the museum doesn’t serve him right.
The following night I followed a lone Quaker to a local pub. He was good company and turned out to be a good conversationalist for a 19 year old American. Looks like Quakers can be very liberal. By the end of the night I was kinda wasted, and falling a victim of the mugger patrol. Thank god I found out fast enough and chased the thief’s away screaming things about chopping their heads of in Spanish and various nice things I would do to their families if they did not leave my wallet. In the end I was just some thirty five euros short, and they had left my wallet and cashcards there. The end of the night had come. And the end of my last day in town. I had spent some nights in Barcelona, and emerged unharmed and able to continue my quest. Gosts chased away, and nightmares run over, I was ready to move to Valencia.

Things to do in Barcelona when you're broke

hBeing tired and weary I was roaming the streets of Barcelona looking for a cheap way to eat and contact my parents. And as I was sitting in front of a computer screen at the local Subway trying to email my father for more cash, my wallet disappeared. Somebody had managed to pull it away from my eyesight within a few seconds. So I sent a second email with instructions for my father to send me money via Western Union. Bad choice, since WU is a ripoff, but I could not choose anything better than that. And I was very lucky, because I had stashed my passport and plane ticket at another pocket.
So, in a few words, there I was stranded, tired, weary and broke in Barcelona, trying to find my way around things. The situation looked grimm, and the probabilities of me having to return home early due to lack of cash, where really high, and I had no attention of turning back. In the meantime I was sitting at a sports bar, charging my phone and waiting for confirmation that everything was in its right place, and hoping to find my wallet, with my cashcard. Evil, evil town Barcelona. Petty crime and prostitution are rife. Barcelona is slowly sinking to the beat of moral decay, and enjoying the ride. But this ride is really rough when it comes to the poor of the city.
Local and federal police are gentle when they deal with tourists, but this is not the case with immigrants, prostitutes and junkies. Police violence and arrests are a common sight in La Rambla. Pickpockets are the most common criminals here, especially in parts of La Rambla where there is some traffic and congestion, but also around coffeeshops and restaurants in the area.
Meanwhile the call has come in, and I am stocked with money for the remainder of the week. So I head to a hostal (something like a cheap rooms to let thing, not to be confused with hostels), and spend my last five days in Spain, trying to find the wallet and keep up my hopes concerning my stay in Spain. I spend my days wandering around Barri Gottik, pacing around La Rambla sidestreets trying to find my wallet (which is not in any police lost and found) , and spending my evenings around the areas of the Barceloneta.
The Barceloneta has been fully refurbished into an artificial beach, and the city’s meat packing district. There you will find an interesting mix of characters, from dealers trying to sell you a fix, to street musicians, to undercover police officers, to political activists, and action-thirsty American tourists. Barcelona is a haven for all these guys, since a great deal of everything, from every sort of alternative scene happens there. Reggae, ska, punk and hip hop top the bill, with Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra headlining a gig at the Palau Musica, to local heroes Ojos de Brujo playing for free at a street party in their Barrio.
Money of course was scarce. So whatever I could do apart from walking around was very limited. Buying “stuff” was out of the question, I could not afford that. Food was coming from supermarkets and street vendors. A few beers from the kiosk or the Chinese guys had to do the drinking job, and street artists where the only entertainment. Anyway, whatever works, so be it. Come the fifth day, and I was becoming accustomed to the idea of returning to Greece. Oblivious to what was happening in the UK, I was getting ready to board the train to Madrid.

Ουτρέχτη 03:28

Η ταπετσαρία στον τοίχο που είχα προσέξει από το πρωί πως πάει να ξεφλουδιστεί, ξετυλίγεται τώρα προς το μέρος μου, στην αρχή απειλητικά και μετά σαν φιλόξενο σεντόνι που με αγκαλιάζει ενώ περιστρέφομαι. Μόλις είχα γυρίσει από τη μεγάλη βόλτα και είχα νιώσει το πεζοδρόμιο να λιώνει κάτω από τα πόδια μου, τις άπειρες δυνατότητες κίνησης μέσα στο χώρο και τα αόριστα χάχανα των περαστικών που ανεβοκατεβαίνουν σαν σε ράγες τον κεντρικό δρόμο. 

Από το διπλανό δωμάτιο ακούγεται ένας υγρός ρυθμός, στακάτος που με αφήνει να χαθώ μέσα του, ενώ στο ταβάνι έχουν ήδη αρχίσει να διαγράφονται τα σχήματα αυτού του ταξιδιού. Μία σειρά ρόμβων που εγκιβωτίζονται, κάποιες κουβέντες από εφηβικούς έρωτες και διάθεση απογείωσης.

Οι σταγόνες στο νεροχύτη έχουν γίνει κρότοι και με καλούν. 

Αύριο θα δω ξανά την πόλη.