The cab driver throwing up his arms and yelling “Va fancullo!” as he nearly rear-ended a car on our way out of the airport was an early sign we would be having encounters with Italy, spiritual and actual, here in Albania. My travel partner and I were charmed, at ease with the theatrics. After exchanges with the driver involved repeated assertions of “bene” and “sì”, accompanied by vigorous nodding, it became clear he was limited to these two words and expletives, a kind of Potemkin Italian.
We doubled down on our Albanian. It would take five days to memorize “faleminderit” (“thank you”). We were greeted by the promise of old-world luxury at “Le Mondial”, our hotel in Tirana.
A lobby of soft lighting and wood paneling featured an ornate staircase which, in an unusual 19th-century flourish, was lined with cages full of twittering birds. More soothing décor up in the room. My friend sized it up.
“Everything seems nice, but something’s off”. She glanced at scuffs on the furniture and cautiously parted the window curtain. It exposed a gravelly lot surrounded by squat stucco buildings and faded billboards.
“It looks like Berlin meets New Delhi”. If you have never travelled to the Balkans, you may experience this disorientation. With the necessary disclaimer that the region is diverse, there are “Western” points of reference but also the hallmarks of the race to economic development.
New construction is fervent, not all of it thoughtful, whi.
