Day 2: Durres, Albania/Tirane - Would I buy a used car from any of these men?

The ferry got into Durres on time at 08:00. In order to get my passport back from the Albanians who had collected it, I had to pay an "entry tax" of 1 euro. Later on at the hostel in Tirane, I found out another guy paid about 2 euros. Clearly if there is no set fee, the tax is invalid. Except that it is demanded of you by a man with a hat and a gun. So you pay. My bravery astounds even me sometimes.

The Albanians I'd been drinking with the previous day had asked me to meet them for coffee at the port. So I waited. They did not show up. A taxi driver named Castro bought me a tea and drove me to the train station, where I got the train to Tirane.

Now, I'd heard horror stories about the Albanian trains. I'd been told they were filthy, run-down, windows smashed, no toilets etc. All of these things were true. The only thing I found to be different is that all the reports of the nature of the trains had left out how damn charming it is riding on an old train with smashed windows surrounded by Albanian families passing through the countryside. It was great. The views were spectacular and I bought bananas from a man in dangerously tight jeans who overcharged me mercilessly. The kids in the carriage with me had a new Sony phone between them and were listening to Italian ballads and singing along. For some reason, that didn't bother me as much as when it happens in London and the music is so-called "hip-hop". There's something surprisingly benign about watching teenagers grooving to a piano-heavy love song instead of a hi-hat dominated "urban" offering.

I dozed off and when I woke up the train was empty, like the twilight zone. I got my stuff and got off the train. We were in Tirane. I needed to take a wicked yes. The entrance to the toilets was blocked by a very stern looking woman in a housedress. She rubbed her index and middle fingers suggestively with her thumb in the universal gesture that means "money/smallest violin in the world". She asked for 1 euro. Taking a piss at the train station cost twice as much as the train ticket did. Genius.

I had to take a taxi to the hostel because my foot was agony. Still is. I checked in, dumped my stuff and made friends with a group of French arts students in town on a school trip filming footage of Albania for a project. I also met (and later drank excessively cheap grappa with) an excellent Canadian named Mark who collects bank notes from around the world. Public note to self: remember to send Mark the Macedonian dinars he wanted.

I took an exceptionally necessary shower and then spent the afternoon reading and resting my foot. Come 16:00 it was time to go for a walk, so Mark and I wandered the streets of Tirane and I got my bus ticket to Struga in Macedonia from a travel office. There are no official bus stations in Tirane so nobody knows when anything leaves or arrives. The only way to take buses is to ask around the taxi drivers for the latest drop points or to go to a travel agency and take one of their buses. At 18:00 I will be boarding the Drita bus to Struga arriving at midnight on April 29th, after which I have to make my way 15km or so to Ohrid and hope the hostel I'm going to got my email and has a bed for me. Alternatively, I may just sleep off the road in my tent. Let's spin the wheel together.

Anyway, Tirane is actually a very beautiful city. A bit dirty around the edges, but it has wide boulevards, parks and great weather. Also, for a country that only has had publicly owned cars for eighteen or so years, it is astonishing how many of these people drive a Mercedes. Apparently, as Mark explained to me from his lesson from an Albanian teacher he got drunk with, in Albania only a Mercedes is considered a car. If you have a car, it is a Mercedes. Otherwise, you have a Golf or a Polo or an Escort or whatever. The only car recognised by the Albanians as being a car is the Mercedes. Which is why they apparently stole so many of them during the early 90s and brought them here where it is very easy to register an automobile. All you need is the license plate number and you're legit. Allegedly. Likewise, only a Nokia is considered a phone. Everything else is a Sony or a Siemens etc. I told Mark that I thought this showed a level of brand awareness unexpected from a people so recently liberated from the shackles of oppression. I stand by my trenchant social observation.

Mark and I soaked up a brief but intense impression of Tirane, including the UFO University and an incredibly racist advert for flights to China.

During our walk, Mark and I also discussed an interesting irony of the Balkans. All the women below thirty tend to be quite hot (in Albania, there's a sad plethora of "butterfaces") and all the men in general tend to be short, hairy and leathery. This creates an interesting situation where all the women are attractive with low standards and all the men have inflated senses of self-worth because of their unique position as the only option. Another interesting fact about Albanian men. In the time I've been here so far, I have yet to lay eyes on a single one from whom I would purchase a used car. Something about the chain-smoking and leathery skin makes them all appear fundamentally shifty in a way that I'm sure they're not. But they look it.

Also, I would like to start a trend here. I feel that calling them Albanians, considering the way they drink, the way they drive and the way they often do both together, does them a disservice. I would like to hereby re-christen them Albaniacs. I think it's catchy, hip and a much needed rebranding of a downtrodden image. Saatchi and Saatchi can kiss my ass. I rule.

After our stroll, Mark and I went with the French students to film a performance at the Akademise, the local music academy. Fat man with clarinet, piano chicks in lycra, shifty cellist that looked like Bob, the Joker's sidekick from the first Batman movie - what's not to like? The venue was actually very nice and comfortable and the performances were excellent. Afterwards, walking around Tirane after dark with no street lamps was fun. But then again, I measure fun by my proximity to my own death, so it was a laugh riot for me.

Another interesting fact about Albania: There are no McDonalds in Albania. They have their own homegrown rip-off called Kolonat, which has a vaguely M-shaped symbol behind the word. In fact, if you look closely, or at the very least with your eyes, you'll notice the complete absence of any and all chain stores and franchises. If you want coffee, you have to buy it from a shifty leathery flat-capped man. Not some shiny pink fucker in an apron and visor. Awesome.

After the concert, which was mercifully short (about an hour), Mark, the French and I picked up a bottle of very cheap (270 leke/2-ish euro) grappa and some sour apple juice and retreated to the kitchen of the hostel where we drank and made merry. All was quite sweet, in fact.

So, Tirane in a nutshell: Pretty, mysterious and weird, the Albanian capital fits perfectly into the current pantheon of Balkan gems hidden from mass tourism by the perceived veil of recent war. Looking around Tirane, you'd never know it though. In the main square, they have a bunch of little motorised go-karts for kids to just hop on and ride around. I'd never wished I was seven again until I laid eyes on that. Bring the family. Just don't buy a used car.