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O ver the past four years, I have travelled to 17 countries for my book Goodbye Eastern Europe. In it, I try to chart a vanished eastern Europe, one in which cultural multiplicity and religious tolerance were the rule, rather than the exception. Albania was one of only a few places in which that legacy was not a memory but a living reality.
Seeing it in action gave me hope, not just for the Balkans, but for Europe as a whole. I felt trepidation before my first visit there in A quick cab ride from the frontier to the nearby town of Pogradec was enough to dispel any lingering anxieties. Arriving at noon, the city seemed deserted. The press and academy are gone, but you can still see masterpieces by David Selenica and other Albanian icon painters in its many churches.
Sometimes, though, it takes a phone call. The church of Saint Nicholas was closed when I arrived. At the front of it, I met two couples from Germany and France — the only tourists in town that day. We called the number on the door; a few minutes later, a kindly Vlach priest in black robes let us into a jewel box of multicoloured frescoes. I walked for an hour through pine woods without seeing a soul, until I came to a little stone pilgrimage church dedicated to Saints Constantine and Helena.
The view of the valley from its porch stretched for miles, all the way to the Tomorr massif, the Mount Fuji of central Albania, and a place of pilgrimage for Christians and Muslims. Delighted by my first trip to Albania, I was determined to come back. Life and the pandemic intervened, but in I returned with my wife for a two-week tour. We began in Tirana. Just off Skanderbeg Square, an attractive villa that used to be the headquarters of the secret police has been turned into a museum of surveillance called the House of Leaves.
