Journey to Albania[1]

Part Two

Photo-text by our correspondent Lamberti Sorrentino

Tirana, December.

The airplane vibrated irregularly, plunged into emptiness, and swerved; under the wing, tilted at a 45-degree angle, Tirana, illuminated in patches by a pale sun, stood still in the dark embrace of the mountainous basin. We departed at nine in the morning and arrived at eleven. Just two hours separate the two capitals, the same time it takes between Rome and Milan. This proximity speaks in favor of unity.

Stretched across the military airport, twenty warplanes lined up, strangely aggressive under their camouflage paint. And soon after, the wheels of our aircraft touched down; this is the usual Ala Littoria airport, an imperial organization comfortably settled in every part of the world, functioning silently, like all serious enterprises with a clear purpose.

I was the last to disembark; the others were already absorbed into the crowd that awaited. I only needed a porter, a tall, lean Albanian with a thick mustache that undoubtedly smelled of tobacco and rakì. His clothing was a patchwork: pants mended at the knee, a jacket that looked like a vest, open over a frayed wool sweater, with short sleeves revealing a knobby wrist and two bony, strong hands, deformed by labor, brick-colored, with long fingers. His feet were clad in mud-stained shoes. His posture was free and agile. He gazed at me steadily. A poor man, with the dignity in his eyes typical of strong races. Large, black eyes that command respect. On his head was a crumpled, greasy white fez. That fez and those eyes were my first encounter with Albania: a meeting that would repeat itself daily, dozens of times a day.

Tirana is a charming city, situated 120 meters above sea level; it was founded at the beginning of the 17th century, and wealthy Albanian families settled there. Later, it became the seat of foreign consulates, which moved from Durres due to its unhealthy climate. Tirana is an important road hub and was chosen by Zog as the capital of the Kingdom.

The Albanian is a unique type of man. The Spanish have a specific adjective for certain faces: they say "sufrido", meaning someone who has suffered, who is sensitive and hopeful, who has been disillusioned. This man is a living testament to the struggles between East and West. He kept the way open for the West in its conquests against the East, and he defended, resisted, and halted the East when that world fixed its eyes on Belgrade and Vienna, attempting revenge and invasion. He stopped it, but suffered the great calamities that spared the rest of Europe. For four centuries, he endured the Turks; here, the cross and crescent collided and coexisted as they did in Spain before the year 1000. The cross and crescent blended, forced to live together and in agreement. These two different worldviews weighed heavily on the conscience of the Albanians, who, preoccupied with what came from outside, couldn't fully define what would come from within. That shaping never occurred.

"Albanian cigarette?" the porter asks before taking the luggage. I'd never encountered a porter offering a smoke before; he presents a box with only two cigarettes left—an act full of respect and dignity. He lights one for me, pleased with my approval: "It’s good." Then he lights one for himself. This gesture, the offering of a cigarette, would accompany me throughout my journey in Albania; the “shqiptar” is hospitable, offering what he has. His wealth lies in giving.

Tirana is the most Western of Albanian cities, as it is the most modern. However, there are distinctive architectural styles and ornamental details that reflect the various periods of domination.

The porter barely glanced at the tip, refusing to count it. He loaded the luggage into the car and greeted me with a host-like smile. He works to make a living, but if the tip was his goal, his enjoyment and satisfaction came from giving our brief encounter a civilized tone.

In London, Paris, Berlin, Milan, Buenos Aires, porters at ports and stations only pocket tips, preferably large ones. They don’t have faces. But here in Tirana, in carrying my bags, this man managed to establish and define a connection: between him, an Albanian, and me, an Italian. Neither of us was displeased.

There are no vacant rooms in Tirana; the hotels are full. I wanted to arrive as a tourist, without prior notice, and I was wrong. "And you’ll be wrong everywhere in Albania if you show up like that," concluded a friend, offering me a couch in his living room.

"This console belonged to the furniture of the Princesses," he added, gesturing toward a pretentious, gilded, and lacquered piece of furniture that serves no purpose. I can’t even place my typewriter on it. It seems the three sisters of King Zog had a house that was lavish, overly so, and they were bored inside it; unable to live completely in a Western style as their domestic arrangements required, they couldn’t let go of traditional habits inherited from their Muslim faith. Regarding court etiquette, it’s worth noting that the rules were followed only when convenient. This applies to all etiquette. People still talk about Zog’s family: from the chauffeur, the driver, and the officer who arrived with the first troops, they speak of Zog—crafty and inconsistent, of the three “colonels” who traveled the world at the state's expense, and of Geraldine. These comments, made with disdain, come from those who believe they will intrigue the Italian journalist.

These are curious rumors, stemming from that peculiar tactile, instinctual curiosity found in all crowds given the chance to rummage through the remnants of royalty. Occasionally, you hear kinder judgments, especially about Geraldine and the true love Zog had for her. Then there’s the now repetitive and conventional tale of the monarchy’s flight: crates of gold, silverware, precious tableware, essentially the entire treasury, loaded onto trucks that climbed the mountains of Korçë. These stories no longer interest anyone; they are outdated, belonging to a world that seems petty compared to present realities. The whole drama of King Zog has been reduced to small-town gossip. And the fact that he had a fondness for young girls is a detail that doesn’t even matter to certain French magazines specializing in racy stories and illustrations. All of this is so true that my friend never explained, and I never asked, during a week spent together, how the gilded and feathered "console" ended up in his apartment.

Here is the next unemployed man: the water carrier. The aqueduct, inaugurated by Count Ciano in August, distributes potable water to all districts of the city.

My friend told me that there’s a housing crisis throughout Albania. The Albanian traffic arteries, which had dried up and fallen into disuse during Zog’s time, are now swollen and bursting after the arrival of the Italians. This is the new reality of Albanian history. Foreigners who set foot in Albania previously confined themselves to taking positions of power; they were satisfied with the center, neglecting the periphery.

The Italians, on the other hand, spread everywhere, reaching the most distant villages, across swampy valleys, up the bald and rugged mountains, and into the forests of the north. In a country of one million inhabitants, the arrival of one hundred thousand Italians—both military and civilians—filled every available accommodation; there was a race for apartments and hotel rooms. The new arrivals, armed with Napoleons and gold francs, competed for housing with those who had arrived before them. Housing became a business; old buildings were renovated, and new ones were built. Tirana is bustling with lime, bricks, and pozzolana. Two workers are busy in my host's garden as well, a somewhat neglected garden, like many of the others around. Vegetables grow alongside flowers and weeds, while enormous geese and well-fed chickens wander through it. The fact is, the house was built in a Western style but maintained in an Eastern manner.

Looking at this neighborhood from the outside, it seems like a town in southern Italy; but once you step inside, walking through the gardens, atriums, rooms, and corridors, you sense that we are on the edge of the East. The impression is intensified by a scattered fragrance, a strong scent of rich cooking oils mixed with raw essences; a basic and diverse smell, a mix of insecticide, amber oil, stew of mutton, and rose extract lavishly sprinkled on skin and hair. You only notice it the day you arrive, this breath that marks a boundary around what is vaguely called the Western world. Afterward, you no longer sense it; it seeps into your clothes, your skin, becoming part of you: the first step toward adapting.

Albanians are strong coffee and tea drinkers; the average Albanian drinks about twenty cups of coffee a day, especially those in the city, who enjoy sitting at tables for hours. There is also a national liquor called “rakì,” similar to grappa.

Even the streets, especially the inner ones, the alleys, are reminiscent of the East; when it rains, everything turns into a swamp: white stones emerge from the mud, and you have to leap from one to another to cross the paths that lead to the main street, where there’s asphalt. All the major streets in Tirana are paved: like the large square of the ministers, with a sunken garden in the middle that resembles a pool. The sleek, harmonious silhouette of a mosque stands against the sky, darkened by a flow of clouds. When the sun peeks through, everything changes; perspectives deepen, and the city becomes clear. The streets fill with lively, bustling traffic: long American cars, Fiats of all sizes, a few Lancias, trucks, and buses. It's a movement with nothing artificial about it. For every car, there are at least three carriages, larger than ours, with rubber-tired wheels, as they used to be. The driver seems lost in thoughts unrelated to the journey; he moves slowly, not disturbing the horse, which is more absorbed than he is. Inside, you see officers of every rank, non-commissioned officers, soldiers, women who reveal their Italian origin through their clothing and gestures, and elderly ladies who smile; if you meet their eyes, they return a subtle acknowledgment, as if greeting fellow countrywomen. Everything and everyone finds their way into the carriages of Tirana: maids with groceries, porters with goods; a simple and popular means of transportation. Sometimes, on the streets and in the carriages, you glimpse Muslim women wearing black veils from head to toe. The shops are lined up one after the other.

Even the streets, especially the inner ones, the alleys, resemble the East; when it rains, everything turns into a swamp: white stones emerge from the mud, and you have to leap from one to another to navigate the paths leading to the main road, where there’s asphalt. All the major streets of Tirana are paved: like the large square of the ministers, with a sunken garden in the center that looks like a pool. The sleek, harmonious profile of a mosque stands against the sky, darkened by a flow of clouds. When the sun appears, everything changes; perspectives deepen, and the city becomes clear. The streets fill with lively, dense traffic: long American cars, Fiats of every size, a few Lancias, trucks, and buses. It's a movement with nothing artificial about it. For every car, there are at least three carriages, larger than ours, with rubber-tired wheels, as they once were. The coachman seems lost in thoughts unrelated to the journey; he moves slowly, not disturbing the horse, which is even more absorbed than he is. Inside, you can see officers of every rank, non-commissioned officers, soldiers, women whose Italian origin is revealed by their clothing and gestures, elderly ladies smiling; if you meet their eyes, they return a subtle greeting as fellow countrywomen. Everything and everyone finds their way into Tirana's carriages: even maids with groceries, porters with goods; a simple and popular mode of transportation. Sometimes, on the streets and in the carriages, you catch a glimpse of Muslim women dressed in black veils from head to toe. The shops are lined up one after another.

To be continued...

Click here to read part one

[1] Tempo – Roma 21 dicembre 1939