Tirana.
The best kept secret in the Balkans.

The night my little sister turned 16, back in October, I was laying on a bed bug-infested mattress in Montenegro, plotting my next move. I had made my way down the southern Dalmatian coast into Kotor, and after three weeks in the Balkans, it was decision time.

Albania or Bosnia-Hercegovina?

I knew zero about the former country; I knew a tad about the latter. Albania would mean heading south and beaches; Bosnia would mean inland and mountains. I like beaches, and I like mountains. So it was pretty much a coin toss -- heads or tales, I could have cared less.


This was back in the days of "Yeah, I'm planning on hitting up every country in the Balkans before I head to the Middle East," so it wasn't like picking one over the other held anything but chronological significance in the course of my journey. I don't even remember what it was that kept me inside the former Yugoslavia, but anyone who has been reading my blog knows what happened next: I never was good at leaving YU.

I went to BiH, which led me into Serbia, which led to the end of my pan-Balkan aspirations. The Belgrade time warp sucked me in, and it was all over. I quit moving; I became a real Serbian man; and I quickly forgot all about Albania.

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"Me and Aly are planning on heading down to Albania. You coming with us?" Stewy asked during my seventh -- and final -- stop in Beograd.

"Nah man, I don't have much time left in my trip. I may go see Macedonia, but that's it for the Balkans. I need to start heading back so I can stop and see some of my friends on the way home during my rock star farewell tour." I was dead set; nothing was swaying me.

Stewy just laughed. "That's it for the Balkans." Right. "Dude, for the amount of manipulation you've placed on us to stay in Belgrade all this time, I don't think you really have a choice," he said. "You're coming to Albania."

You can't bullshit a bullshitter; but you can manipulate a manipulator. After three days back in Kosovo with Stewy, Aly and the new kid, Matt, I was shaken from a deep slumber. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I squinted out the window of the bus. It was five in the morning, dark and cold. Welcome to Tirana.

(Little did I realize that there were mountains here, too).


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"You mean all white with pink eyes?"


Homer Simpson's conception of an Albanian was about all I had to go on until I went to Prishtina for the first time last March. Never mind that these people are actually dark folks -- Homer thought they were all albinos. You can't blame him for being so ignorant. During the Cold War, this country was even more isolated from the world than the Soviet Union. Enver Hoxha (hoe-jah), who was more Stalinist than Stalin, kept the place on lock down from his rise to power after World War II until his death in 1985, so an exchange student living in Springfield couldn't have expected for Homer to know much (which was perfect for little Adil Hoxha, code name "Sparrow.")

To be honest, I still don't know much about this country. Kosovars are Albanian, sure ... but at the same time, they're not. Are Bosnian Serbs the same as Serbians? Depends on who you ask. Same goes with Kosovars and Albanians. (Disclaimer: You can't really make a judgment on something so broad when your sample size is restricted to young, cool people in both Serbia and Albania). Sadly, I really do not have time to venture beyond the small circle of Albanians I've met at the one and only hostel in Tirana. But after four nights here, I know one thing: T is for "The reason I'm glad I didn't come home straight from Asia like my dad wanted."

The Tirana Backapacker Hostel is no Three Black Catz. Nothing is like that place; nothing will ever be like that place. But aesthetically, it is hands down the coolest hostel I've ever seen. The Black Catz is a litter box (albeit a litter box with soul). This place is a villa -- in the middle of the city. No joke. Stewart calls it "The Real World: Tirana." And he's right on the money. Across the street is the Italian embassy; a stone's throw away is the Swiss and American. Two floors, a garden in the front and the back, a balcony porch, a real kitchen, showers with water pressure ... it's no Three Black Catz, but it's still cool as hell.

But at least Ilir's place -- unlike Osama bin Mladen's place in Belgrade -- actually has a cat. And this cat is like a dog, man.


I love cats that think they're dogs.

But even more than that, I love puppies that think they're dogs.


Meet Tricky, the best alarm clock I ever had.

To describe him, I'll just copy the lyrics to the song Stewy wrote about the hostel mascot:

"My name's Tricky, I like to pee on things. My name's Tricky, I like to poop on things. My name's Tricky, I like to throw up on things. My name's Tricky, I like to bite on things."

(All the while, Stewy is shaking him around on his lap like a tumble dryer, which may explain why he threw up on Matt's bedspread our third night here).


Cool hostel, beach, mountains ... let's get to the best part about Tirana. The paint jobs.

All former Communist countries take note: PASTELS MAKE IT SEEM LIKE EVERYONE IS HAPPY, EVEN IF IT IS A VENEER. The gray, concrete blocks that make Belgrade what it is are not gray in this city. In Tirana, they're psychedelic. If you're ever trying to get serious visuals, just pop some caps in this town. About six years ago, Tirana's mayor -- an artist -- decided that his town needed a boost. Something to cheer the place up. So he went on a rampage of color, and has turned Tirana into an assembly line of places that look like this.


I'm leaving today for Macedonia. But I've always wanted to go to that country. Never did I really have a desire to see this place. Which makes it the hidden gem of the Balkans.