Cake for breakfast in Albania.

Leaving the bus station at dawn. We are making our way into Tirana.
With no idea what will await us. How long we’ll stay. Or even where we’ll stay.
One thing we know, the reason we came here.

Eating “Trilece” and not having to pay with Euros.

We walk along the streets, direction city Center, enjoying the early morning calmness, searching for an open caffe.

Soon we learn that such thing as “searching for a caffe” doesn’t really exist in Tirana. The streets are packed with lovely terraces.

People here seem to live pretty much of coffee and cigarettes. At least that’s the impression you get, walking past the bars and caffe’s with ever bussing tables and comfy seats.
Equally it is never too late nor too early for a coffee. At nine in the evening you can still observe as many espresso cups as beer bottles on all the tables.

A few years back I must have decided, that I do not like (big) Cities anymore. Which was just about to change. Something here feels different.

We eat cake for breakfast, every single morning. I guess that is the fun part of being an adult, not having any parents around telling you, cake isn’t an appropriate choice for breakfast.

Then we walk around, left and right. Choosing random streets and directions.

A second morning coffee doesn’t hurt either.

Crossing huge squares and fancy buildings.

As we look up the sky seems to be covered in some big crawling spiders web. She covered the whole City. Is it phone cables, internet, electricity? Or all together?
Sometimes you have to make sure not to bang your head against them. And each time the internet interrupts we come up with the wildest stories of who cut the cable and why. Secret revenge? Or just the wild autumn wind?

It only took us a few days to get used to another, this time, afternoon coffee. With, guess what, another cake.

Eventually we start to look forward to move out of Albania. Not because we don’t like it. But because we are eating too much cake.

“We’ll eat veggies in Italy!” we say as we have the last one. Last Albanian sunset, cake and coffee.

The ferry awaits us, from Durres to Bari over night.

“First time in Albania?” the border guard asks me, while he looks at my passport. “Yes.” I answer. After he figured out my name and tipped a few things in his computer he hands me back my document and asks: “Last time?”
“No!” I say, smile and walk away.

Thanks for stopping by, have a good week!

All photos and words are my own, taken and written by myself ©kesityu.