Short first night in Tirana

The sound of children screaming as the roller-coaster swooped jolted me from my doze.  Or so I thought for a confused moment.  But actually we were all on the plane, finally taking off after a long wait on the runway at Heathrow.  It wasn't a big plane and the sound and feel of take-off were powerful and the kids screamed in delight.  They were having fun!  It started with a row in the middle and spread through the whole plane, the kids laughing and screaming with delight.  A few shushes from the parents, until they realized that the kids' fun was infecting the adults on the plane with smiles.

A promising first impression.  I had been telling my friends in San Antonio that I felt a little bit like Dorothy about to step into Oz as I contemplated my trip to Albania.  Not much seemed familiar -- history, language, currency. And then I got too busy to visualize.  But then as I walked towards the boarding gate at Gatwick curiosity perked through my trans-Atlantic fatigue.  What would my fellow passengers be like?

Mediterranean in appearance, of course.  Large families of many generations.  Elders taken care of, children indulged.  Dark clothes, or glittery.  But no head scarves.  And no huge suitcases and bags and string-tied paper-covered bundles of Western goods cramming the overhead compartments and jamming the foot space.  And most unexpected, this sense of fun.  The lively chatter continued throughout the flight -- a far cry from the staid trans-Atlantic crowd of the Dallas-Heathrow flight.  We landed with as much excitement as the take-off, with ample cheering and clapping, led by the children.  And immediately every one jumped up into the aisle, though it was clear that it would be minutes still until the doors would open.  No orderly procession by row here. No, everyone jumped into the aisle and locked into an unmovable mass.  I wish I had had my camera out -- I was sitting near the last row -- every row in front of me was completely empty -- every person and their baggage somehow squeezed into the aisle, giggling at the absurdity of tangled arms, straps, bags. They saw me sitting there, still, and created an inch of room, so that I, too, could stand in the tangle until the doors finally opened.   could not be rude and refuse.

Most of the Albania we flew over was mountains partitioned by rivers and a coast of deep and frequent indentations (bays, inlets) and the occasional plain.  Tirana's airport lies in one of these large plains -- a patchwork of green fields and modest farmsteads.  The airport is most basic: a couple of runways framing and surrounded by fields, a small terminal.  It is the kind of airport where you take a bus from the plane, though it would be just as easy to walk across the small tarmac.  I love being able to step directly into the open air.  Here it smelled just as I imagined as we were landing: of damp earth and mown fields.  We had watched the sun set into the Mediterranean as we approached for the landing and by the time the doors opened, soft night air was settling.

The terminal is obviously very new (I learned later that it was opened this spring) but already too small -- our single smallish plane load inundated the customs area and there are only two baggage carousels.  A far cry from the Dallas, Heathrow and Gatwick behemoths (sp?) I had just transited.  In scale, comparable to the Long Beach airport; for those of you who have not been there, think of the airport in the final scenes of Casablanca.  

Thank you, Katie, for having advised me to get some Euros in London.  Visa fare due upon arrival -- leks (the Albanian currency) or Euros only, and no exchange office until after one goes through customs.  But a machine in the baggage area, and I was relieved to find out that in fact my bank card works here.  

Competition among the taxi drivers was fierce and the travel-information desk was in cahoots. I chose the unofficial option and got into an ancient Mercedes with a driver who hustled.  We careened along the two-lane, no shoulder, unlit country road that leads from the national airport into Tirana.  Within 15 minutes deep country began to become city -- the road became a highway of 3 lanes each direction, first factories, then car lots, increasingly apartment blocks with more and more retail stores intermingled, and then we were in city center.  I was struck by the relative quiet and darkness -- traffic was fast and brutal, but no horns honking. And still no streetlights.  Pedestrians and pushcarts emerged suddenly from the darkness.

Auron Tare, my host, had made a reservation for me at the Hotel California (I trust that the song does not apply) -- modest, clean, just around the corner from the central square, and it has wireless!  It is so nice not to have to figure out where to stay!  I arrived at about 9:30.  Looking forward to a long sleep.  But... the bus to Sarande leaves at 6 AM.  Yes, 6 AM.  Yikes.

A quick walk to the central square.  You guessed it, dark.  But the large public buildings that bound it on two sides were lit up:  Socialist-style, big, heavy colonnaded blocks of buildings. An opera, a library, and I presume a civic building with a giant workers' mural (I need to read up on all of this in the guidebook tomorrow).  Hopefully will have time to explore this city at the end of my Albanian venture.  For now, just this quick walk and glimpse.  The paved center of the square filled with kids riding all-terrain vehicles -- apparently for rent -- and their parents sitting around the edges, watching.  At one far corner of the square, a minaret.  As I watched the kids buzzing around, the last call to prayer of the day.  

Time for me to go to bed!