Albania Travel Reflections: The Stories We Carry Before We Arrive

I still remember her eyes.

Dark, luminous, and impossibly expressive. Even now, more than thirty years later, they remain etched in my memory.

Her head was covered by a scarf. It was a portrait of an unknown woman accompanying an appeal for donations. I believe it described Albania as the poorest country in Europe and asked for clothes or financial support. I do not remember exactly where I saw it or how old I was. What I remember are those eyes.

This was my first encounter with Albania.

Looking back, this memory must date from the early or mid-1990s, when Albania was still emerging from decades of isolation and was indeed widely considered the poorest country in Europe. Today, that description no longer fits. The country has undergone a remarkable transformation over the past three decades.

But discovering a country can never be separated from the story we already carry about it.

Before we arrive, we have usually formed an image—sometimes from news reports, sometimes from school, sometimes from a passing photograph that stayed with us for reasons we do not fully understand.

Those images are often incomplete. Sometimes they are wrong.

Before I travelled to Turkmenistan, for example, all I really knew was that it was a former Soviet republic and that, as a child, I had liked a doll dressed in traditional Turkmen clothing.

Albanian Mafia

The next time Albania entered my consciousness, it was through stories about organized crime.

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, I often hitchhiked across Europe, frequently travelling with Estonian truck drivers. During those long hours on the road, I heard countless stories about the dangers they faced.

Again and again, the conversation would turn to the Albanian mafia.

According to the drivers, these criminal groups had become far more feared than the Italian mafia that had dominated popular imagination for decades. They spoke about stolen cars that seemed to vanish without a trace, smuggling routes that stretched across Europe, and networks that appeared both powerful and untouchable.

Whether all of these stories were true, exaggerated, or somewhere in between, I could not tell.

What I do remember is the fear with which they were told.

By then, Albania had acquired a second identity in my mind. The country of the woman with the dark eyes had become, in these stories at least, a country associated with danger and organized crime.

Albanians in the Aftermath of the Kosovo Conflict

In 2000, I volunteered with Roma children in North Macedonia and spent some time in Kosovo. The Kosovo conflict had ended only recently, and ethnic divisions were still very much present. Conversations were often shaped by identity, grievances, and generalizations about different groups.

During that trip, my unease about Albanians deepened.

One evening in Skopje, a man attacked me from behind. He grabbed me tightly and covered my mouth. Fortunately, there were people not far away. Whether he heard them or simply changed his mind, I do not know, but after a few terrifying moments he let me go.

What stayed with me afterward was not only the fear, but the question of who he was.

The man spoke in a language I could not understand. At the time, I was learning Romani and could understand a little Macedonian thanks to my Russian. Because I did not recognize a single word, I assumed he must have been Albanian, one of the major ethnic communities in the region.

Looking back, I realize I never actually knew.

But certainty was not required for the experience to shape my perception.

The stories I had heard from truck drivers suddenly felt more real. What had previously been second-hand fears became connected to a frightening personal experience. Whether the man was Albanian or not, my mind linked the two together.

It would take many years—and eventually visiting Albania itself—for me to begin separating a country from the stories I had accumulated about it.

The Unspoiled Mediterranean Gem

Many years passed, and Albania barely crossed my mind.

Then, perhaps seven years ago, I started hearing about it again.

This time, it was not in connection with poverty or organized crime, but as a hidden Mediterranean gem. Several friends returned from Albania full of enthusiasm. They showed me photographs of turquoise water, dramatic mountains, and picturesque villages. They spoke of beautiful beaches where, even in summer, it was still possible to find stretches of coastline almost entirely to yourself. Albania was described as one of the last places on the Mediterranean that had not yet been overrun by mass tourism.

And then there was the price. Compared to many other Mediterranean destinations, holidays in Albania were still remarkably affordable.

When I asked about safety, my friends were quick to reassure me.

“Those stories are outdated,” they told me. “Albania feels perfectly safe.”

By then, the country in my imagination had transformed yet again. The Albania of the donation appeal and the Albania of the truck drivers’ stories were slowly being replaced by images of pristine beaches in a hidden corner of Europe.

Durrës

I finally visited Albania with my husband and our three sons in August 2021 as part of a Balkan road trip through Albania, Montenegro, and Bosnia and Herzegovina.

By then, I had already started thinking more consciously about travel and how to balance seeing the world with more sustainable choices that were still realistic for a family with young children. We flew to Tirana and rented a car there for the rest of the trip, a compromise that felt reasonable at the time.

Most of our stay was in Durrës.

It was not quite the Albania my friends had described. The pristine beaches and secluded coves they had raved about seemed to be further south. But our priorities were different. With three young boys, we were looking for infrastructure, convenience, and enough activities to make the holiday enjoyable for everyone.

Durrës was touristy, but not overcrowded, and it was exactly what our family needed at that stage of life. The beaches were child-friendly, and getting around was easy.

We also explored the town itself. In some places, the architecture reminded me of the Soviet-era buildings of my childhood. Certain structures seemed to carry traces of a past grandeur that had faded with time.

One of the highlights was visiting the Roman amphitheatre. What struck me most was how few people were there. We were almost the only visitors, a very different experience from visiting similar sites in Italy, where history often comes with crowds.

What I remember most from Durrës is not a particular monument or beach. It is sitting with my family over breakfast, eating warm byrek and drinking a kefir-like yogurt drink popular with locals. Travel often makes us chase extraordinary experiences, but years later it is frequently these small moments of ordinary life that remain.

Shkodër

On our way to Montenegro, we stopped in Shkodër.

What stood out most was the Rozafa Castle, whose ruins rise above the city and offer sweeping views of the surrounding landscape. But the place that left the strongest impression on me was the Site of Witness and Memory, a museum dedicated to the victims of Albania's communist regime.

For my husband and me, it was a fascinating opportunity to learn more about a chapter of Albanian history that was largely unfamiliar to us. What surprised me was that the museum also captured the attention of our children. Housed in a former prison, it gave them their first glimpse inside prison cells and helped make history feel tangible in a way that books rarely can.

We were also fortunate to visit during the International Film Festival for Children and Young Audiences. In the evenings, the city came alive with outdoor screenings, and our boys were delighted to watch films under the open sky.

Looking back, Shkodër felt like a place where different layers of Albania met: history and contemporary life, difficult memories and celebration, local traditions and international visitors.

Albanian People

More than anything else, it was the people who challenged my assumptions about Albania.

For years, I had carried a vague sense that Albania might not be entirely safe. The stories I had heard over the years had left their mark. Yet the Albania I encountered was very different.

Again and again, we had genuine interactions with people. There was a warmth and sincerity that felt increasingly rare in a world where so many encounters have become transactional.

I never had the impression that people were being friendly because they wanted something from us or because customer service demanded it. They seemed genuinely interested in us as people.

The feeling reminded me of places such as Turkmenistan and Kashmir, where even brief encounters can somehow touch your soul. A short conversation with a taxi driver, a few words exchanged with a shopkeeper, a smile from a stranger—small moments that stayed with me long after the trip was over.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether Albania's long period of isolation may have played a role. This is only a personal impression, but I sensed a curiosity and openness toward visitors that felt familiar.

I remember something similar from Estonia in the early 1990s. Foreigners were still relatively rare, and meeting someone from another country felt special. There was a curiosity and excitement in those encounters that I occasionally sensed again in Albania.

Whatever the reason, it was the people, more than the beaches or historical sites, that remain my strongest memory of the country.

Final Thoughts

Although Albania spent much of the twentieth century isolated from the outside world, the country I encountered felt remarkably open.

Its ties to neighboring Greece and Italy were visible everywhere—not only in the food, but also in conversations, culture, and daily life. To this day, some of the best Greek salads I have ever eaten were in Albania.

And then there was one final surprise.

During our stay in Durrës, I remember sitting in the hotel lobby and watching an unusual scene unfold. Guests were arguing at reception, wanting to know why they had to leave earlier than planned. Staff hurried through the lobby, answering questions and making phone calls. The whole hotel suddenly felt like a beehive.

It turned out that following the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan in August 2021, Albania had agreed to temporarily host Afghan evacuees at the request of the United States. Hotels and resorts along the coast, including ours, were being repurposed to accommodate families awaiting resettlement.

Fortunately, our departure date already coincided with the hotel's closure, so the change did not affect us. But the moment stayed with me.

As a humanitarian worker, I had spent years working with displaced people and refugees. Standing there in the lobby, I found myself thinking about how dramatically my image of Albania had changed over the years.

The poorest country in Europe.

The country of the Albanian mafia.

The hidden Mediterranean gem.

And now a country opening its doors to people fleeing war and persecution.

Perhaps that is what Albania taught me most. Countries, like people, are rarely captured by a single story.

And sometimes, those who once needed help become the ones offering it.