Paulitko Accounts

Arriving

The descent into Albania next to the Kosovan man who kept on his gigantic winter jacket the entire flight. A spectacular view of the Skanderbeg Mountains, quite sheer cliffs against the comparative billiard table below, where scattered houses boasted large, bare garden space with an unusual number of backyard fires burning away scrap. Touching down, the plane passed a row of 20^th century fighter jets next to a hanger, the look of which I recognised as having toys of when younger.

“American” said the Kosovan guy, as I took a quick photo.

Ah, no mobile data in Albania, in tune with the almost-fully-but-not-quite EU membership a few Balkan countries have. I exited past the taxi drivers (remembering from Croatia not to take one) and headed for a corner of buses. On board, a man walked through taking the ticket fees, a fat wad of notes in hand, mixtures of Euros and LET being exchanged. Roughly, 100LET = 1€.

A comfortable bus ride, I got off early and walked the rest of the way into town. Italian influence was present in advertisement and the number of tourists from there on the bus, while it became evident how much Albanians love sport, football games from all corners of Europe at every bar. I stopped for a beer and watched the 2^nd half of an Albanian league game, the waiter speaking strong English and welcoming me warmly.

Arriving at the hostel, it was simply enchanting. From the tacky hotel in Venezia Mestre to this walled-off piece of physical travel, scattered with artwork and antiques but importantly authentic, not trying hard to be charismatic. I was welcomed by Victor Newlands, a Brazilian with Scottish names yet who didn’t have any recollection of Scottish ancestry. He showed me around briefly, where I hung up my still damp clothes to finally dry off.

The more I wrote, the more involved I was in the present moment, emotionally and physically, finding the tranquil state of mind. I felt like a jigsaw piece connecting to the wider picture and therefore allowing others to join it too through me. I wanted to express myself in its entirety to the world, without reserve or fear, and watch my impact. Be a conduit for light and for goodness, making a difference through action with others.

Some residents returned from a dinner and came outside. I joined them after 10 minutes or so of further writing and listening to their conversation, the 3 girls clearly younger and less mature than the 2 guys there. I learned that all lived on the hostel and worked, and from what I could gather I was almost the only guest they had. Who’d have thought an Albanian hostel in early February wouldn’t be at full capacity?

After joining, it was all just a bit of fun to be honest. The girls had some crazy stories, all 19-20 years old, having met in Bulgaria a few months earlier before coming here. It was non-stop giggling from them, and it became pretty apparent that everything was a laugh, and any serious conversation wasn’t going to be forthcoming. The English girl didn’t know Scotland was part of the UK which was… a surprise, I suppose. Incredibly enough, through all the brainless laughing and extra effort to make it clear to all of her lack of general knowledge, she had done an apprenticeship working on tanks and was in fact very well qualified.

First Day

Happy Birthday to me.

I got up at 7:30, awakening nicely and stretching, meditating, touching solid ground, then using the precious Wi-Fi to mark on Google Maps everywhere I wanted to go. Luckily even without signal the app still works for current location so I could still use it to help me get around. The city definitely felt explorable within the day, it’s not a big place and with the turbulent nature of Albania’s history, is still a work in progress. I identified a few places further out with that I could go to via car tomorrow and marked a football game for tonight at 17:00 before going down to for a little breakfast. After a couple of minutes some other guests came down, 3 American girls, and joined the same group that had been there last night. An incredibly fake, tedious conversation ensued where everyone pretended to show an interest in what each other was doing so I left, deciding I’d had enough of travellers for a little while and hit the streets.

A few minutes walking led me to a long narrow market of stalls, where I could purchase as much Balenciaga and Gucci items as my heart desired. My heart didn’t desire, but I enjoyed looking around and soon came to an impressive Orthodox church. Albania is a predominantly Islamic country, and I was assured there wouldn’t be any churches by one of the girls last night, a load of crap as it would turn out as I walked into the sparkling white and gold building in full Sunday service. The walls contained immaculately painted murals of presumably Biblical scenes, sadly a little obscured by scaffolding and a live choir producing melancholic hymns. There was a fast-paced nature around the entrance, lots of frantic crossing and kissing one of two large portraits on arrival, many completing this custom and walking straight out again to carry on the day. I remained for a while observing the service, always at peace in churches, before leaving onto Skanderbeg square.

I sat at one of the pavilioned café’s overlooking the plaza, timely as the thunderclouds rolled in at pace and some of the heaviest rain I’ve seen soaked the place. I wrote and listened, a big fan of storms. Behind me, an American man and Albanian woman sat down, the American vocally so deeply in love and the Albanian so clearly not feeling mutual, it suggested an escort service or online meeting of some kind. I felt for both of them; the American for having so much love to give but zero social skills or filter in how to express it, and the Albanian woman for how she was clearly forcing herself through the meeting.

He asked how many men she’d slept with before, that if they got married where would she want to live, if she thought of him last night. He then mentioned how they’d met less than 24 hours earlier but how he felt she was the one. It was unfortunate as when there was normal conversation, she seemed to be genuinely interested and responsive to his queries about what she liked to do, about Albanian and European history (in which he had an astute knowledge in), general line of topics you would expect between two people meeting for the first time. Factor out the torrent of compliments and cringey declarations, it might’ve seemed okay.

I paid and moved over to a mosque on the corner and realised a little remarkably that I’d never stepped foot in one before. Eager, I entered under instruction from the doorman, who had the thankless task of shepherding us clueless tourists in and out and ensuring we took off our shoes at the correct point. He done a magnificent job and I think he secretly enjoyed himself, kind but firm and forever dealing with the next muppet trying to walk straight in.

I was handed an informative leaflet that I found perfectly balanced and detailed, offering information both interesting and welcoming for a foreigner to the religion. It talked of some values of Islam, of this mosque in particular and of the links between the three Jerusalem based religions. I felt the spiritual tranquillity as felt in the church earlier and remained for 20-30 minutes until we all had to leave in preparation for a prayer.

Upon leaving, I facetimed my younger brother to congratulate him on his new flat and on hanging up, accepted the 700LET offer for an umbrella by an opportunistic middle-aged Albanian towing a bike, front basket full of the same umbrellas I’d seen for 500LET in the market earlier. An easy decision as the heavens opened once again. I walked a while underneath my new purchase before spotting a rounded guard post outside the mayor’s office, empty of guard so available for me. I dived in and was soon joined by an elderly man, the two of us huddling beneath the shelter with excited boy-like smiles as the thunder crashed. He turned out to have a good grasp of English and a little Spanish too, so we chatted as the rain poured on.

He informed me this was the mayor’s building, giving a scornful look at the question if he was a good mayor. Huffing and shaking his head, he repeated his answer in blocks of 3; “no no no, bad bad bad”, and then pointing to the tall buildings under construction, “mafia mafia mafia, dirty money dirty money dirty money”.

He talked of how prior to the newer regimes, almost no building in Tirana was over five stories tall, but that the new motive for shaking off the unwanted reputation of the underdeveloped past involved modernising the infrastructure and encouraging business in the city. Where the money came from mattered less than the physical appearance and right enough, I was thus far impressed with the works being done to improve the area.

Moving on, he asked if I’m a tourist and what I am doing here. I told him “Well, why not?” but also spoke of the Albanian café I go to in Glasgow, how friendly they are and that they encouraged me to visit if I could. He looked a little more downtrodden and began talking of how many young Albanians leave the country for better work and pay, and that in their place come people from Bangladesh and India, looking for the same thing. His immigration numbers sounded a little far-fetched but my knowledge on the country seriously lacked beyond the general gist of its ever-changing governing structure and mindset. I marked then I’ll need to educate myself more on the subject and while writing now, I’ll make it my next book to buy.

We shook farewell as the rain subsided and I carried on walking, enroute to find a birthday lunch within the pedestrianised Tirana Castle, now full of stalls and restaurants. Choosing an authentic looking place (with WIFI), I ordered a local soup and baby goat’s legs (don’t tell my vegan hostel) and sunk into the chair outdoors next to an air heater.

I visited a few more sites but soaked through and aware I’d be out for a time again at the football, I retreated to the hostel to relax and dry off. There were some attempts at conversation from the girls but in all truth, I really wasn’t in the mood for it following a happy birthday message from my ex, and for some reason all female contact reminded me of her.

KF Tirana v Erzeni Shijak, 3^rd v 8^th at the time, and my God was it lacking quality. I’m usually pretty appreciative of all levels of football but even I became exasperated at just how many passes were misplaced, through balls played for slow target forwards and high crosses played for tiny wingers. Both teams ended up so reliant on lumbering ball-winning centre halves to provide the quality of pass, it was destined for failure.

The goal for Erzeni would be by far the highlight, the ball bouncing around the box leading to an acrobatic overhead kick from a diminutive forward to take the lead, the surprise at the sudden piece of good football making me smile. The subsequent equaliser for KF was a good goal, but as full time sounded in the near-empty stadium, it was not the spectacular advert for Albanian football I had hoped for. The officiating was a positive, quite consistent in letting a lot of things go and she kept her cards in her pocket for much of the match, 2/3 yellows coming in the final three minutes.

The English girl that didn’t know Scotland was part of the UK had taken my umbrella from the hostel, so I walked back in the torrential rain, feeling so damn happy with myself. It’s my birthday, and I’m walking about Tirana’s side streets in the dark, thunder and lightning roaring and flashing, soaked to the skin, clutching some cheap Raki and beer for the evening. I felt delighted at the craziness, pleased with myself to be somewhere else rather than at home doing the usual birthday stuff. It felt mischievous and liberating, something I wouldn’t have had the option to do until now.

I dried off once more lying on my bed, listening to football on a radio stream while messaging with some friends, sipping beer and Raki, and this is where I’d remain for the rest of my birthday evening, totally chilled out and content. I had a failed facetime call with family, the girls also came in judging that I was alone on my birthday where I politely insinuated they should f**k off and leave me in peace, but otherwise I didn’t move, and it was glorious. Pleasantly tipsy, I settled to sleep, day one complete in Tirana.

Second Day

Well bollocks, I don’t have my driver’s license.

At a loss as to what to do now, I messaged my new Belgian roommate to let her know my car hire plans had fallen through, and slowly walked on over to a café nearby to write.

The themes of this trip?

Firstly, it was the case of using my new freedom, and feeling it.

Secondly, of going back to my core foundations and where I feel most naturally me, to regain some confidence and some mental strength. The aftermath of leaving that relationship left me in a more balanced position to move forward from but also shell-shocked and lightweight, like the smallest breeze could topple me. My emotions were volatile and lacking conviction on even basic aspects of my personality so putting myself in a way of living where I feel most naturally me, the closest to my heart and most like my true purpose, it did wonders for getting me on track.

The travel helped me progress at an advanced rate down the road of moving on, as time passes differently while travelling. The act of travelling is my true calling and my truest form of living, and if you are living every single moment to it’s fullest rather than wishing it by so you can move onto something else, then you experience time differently. Hours are like days, days like weeks and weeks like months, which is why on the Camino I will say how I felt 6 months older in the 6 weeks I was there.

It therefore checks-out that the time travelling here helped me move on faster than the same time would have at home and, due to the proactivity, likely with far less suffering.

Florian (Belgian roommate) replied, happy to meet up and take a wander around. We visited a number of churches, I lit a candle for my Grandad as he was in for cancer scans that day, talked of our lives, of travels, tried some Albanian strawberries. She had such a refreshing outlook on her age, talking of the potential and pride she feels at 29 turning 30, rather than the usual doom and gloom from others of youth lost and doors closed. We ended up on Skanderbeg square, where she said she’d message after the walking tour she had booked, a thing that’s never really appealed to me but that I should probably try out some time.  

Time passed after of which I didn’t write about nor can remember, probably of walking and thinking. I was really in no mood to explore further and in all honesty, felt rather stretched with all the experience of the last 8 days or so. I felt ready to go and enact all the direction I now wanted to take back home, not really open to any further excitement or learning. The next passage I wrote was of a message from Florian some hours later inviting me to an authentic Albanian restaurant of which I really, really couldn’t be bothered going to but through mindfulness, realised it was probably a beneficial thing to do on my last night.

I left and despite getting lost multiple times, found the restaurant, where my heart was prised back open by the beautiful people met whilst travelling.

A table of roughly a dozen, all on the tour who had stayed for dinner together, of all ages and looks and origins. I sat down nervously but curiously, and the laughter and happy nature relaxed my tension into just joining in. The elderly duo to my left, from Sri Lanka and India, learned medical professionals in some field or other, the American guy to my right, a professional wrestler. Further on was Florian, a few other people and some more Belgians too. I’d unfortunately missed the dinner and as we all got up to leave, I realised this was going to be a hungry night of drinking.

The owner was warmly welcoming despite his tough Balkan demeanour, offering rounds of Raki and crackers which inexplicably came to a total bill of just 750LET all-together for the 5 of us. Valuing our experience and opinion of him and his country ahead of the opportunity to make a quick buck off some tourists, a real testament to Albanians and the hospitality I found offered to me in my time here.

The following is a hazy memory now, not written about too much. We walked to another bar, very modern and neon. Plenty Raki was ordered, and we all got to know each other better. Joe had the most beautiful love-story I think I have ever head, of the trials him and his wife faced in managing to form their life together and sacrifices both made to be together. His bravery was inspirational, and the happy ending following the risks taken could bring a tear or two. Florian talked of being stranded alone in Berlin during COVID, unable to return back home or else lose the opportunity of living and studying there. I could only imagine the trial of it, myself having spent that period still working and in a house of 6 social family members. Vince spoke of his efforts as a schoolteacher in one of Belgium’s most troubled schools, of how painful it can be to watch young kids throw their futures away, how their backgrounds and lack of direction so badly affects them and then how rewarding it is when he can make an impact or breakthrough. It was only Anouk I can’t recall mentioning anything so serious or deep, but then her laughter and energy was contribution enough. Her and Vince were good friends from Brussels, hilarious to watch together. She is blonde, very pretty, and for some reason I remember imagining that she’d be a really good dancer. We ended up quite close by the end of the night and I think I probably could have kissed her. Looking back, I felt too vulnerable to try (no prizes as to what deep subject I had chosen to talk about) and that emotional state had me nervous.

A waitress fell down some stairs with a tray of drinks, Florian kept edging an air heater closer and closer to herself, we munched on some crackers given to us by the Albanian bar owner previous to here, and that’s about all I can recall now other than laughter and fun. We walked back until differing hostels had us separate, hug goodbye, and go to bed.

Leaving

I felt impatient when getting up, a little frustrated I couldn’t spend more time with everyone from last night as they geared up to hire a car and go into the stunning Albanian countryside. I was planning on accompanying Florian and now one of the hostel girls on their way to meet the others with the car but a lot of coming and going as to when they were going to leave led me to saying a quick goodbye and going out. Perhaps a little too quick and informal a farewell to Florian considering how much I had valued her company, but I needed to start moving.

I went to the café I originally went to on the first morning to organise my thoughts and recollect from last night and more on the trip in general. Three new countries and vastly contrasting cities in nine days. I’d met more people than I could count, seen more than I could remember and said yes to just about every experience I could, open and brave with my emotions.

I sent some recommendations for the city of Sofia to Joe as he was heading there next for a wrestling competition (I believe he won a bronze medal), gave remaining LET coins to a beggar, then got my bus to the airport far too early. I walked around outside the airport by the side of the roads, found a few abandoned houses now home only to a couple of stray dogs and whatever other wildlife taking advantage of the shelter.

Tirana Airport doesn’t allow digital boarding passes, but other than the two-minute wait to get it printed, boarding the plane went without note. The plane itself was unfortunately noisy, a family of about 10 had been split at opposite sides of the plane but came up to visit each other at every opportunity. The multipacks of crisps raised one hell of a smell and mess, another man eventually successful in his incessant desire for an argument with a stewardess about seatbelt rules, a woman shouting on ‘Connor’ every five minutes to talk to him about various unimportant topics. It was pretty terrible.

Landing and being met by the cold air felt more refreshing than ever, the cheese and onion crisps smell blown from my senses. The oddity of heading west out the city rather than the Skylink bus eastwards into town stung a little bit but was forgotten about by the time I was home and chatting away to my mother about all I had experienced. I was meeting an old friend tomorrow (who had first told me about the Camino de Santiago), and that was enough for me to come back to. You have to come home again, in order to leave once more.