retiredmartin

May 2024. Luton to Tirana.

Back to ticking Europe. I miss Europe.

When I completed the Guide two years ago I thought I’d never again have to rush around, leaping from plane to bus to ferry. May 2022 with its sixty (60) GBG ticks looked like this;

But that May of Antrim and Alderney and Ambleside seems almost pedestrian compared to the racing around the Balkans and Baltics this last year, and Albania meant another four nights in four different hotels burst. Good job we pack light.

Last Saturday we left Alfie, Baa Baa and Charlie with some friends (and a small bottle of Malbec) in my overnight room in Waterbeach,

and resumed our love/hate relationship with Luton Airport. The Great Short Stay Fire of 2023 finally took its toll and no walkable Mid Stay places means a return to Long Stay parking (almost certainly over the county border) and a bus to the terminal. And you know my views on buses.

Mrs RM has become obsessed with European completion, with only micro nations and Moldova to come, and I’m not sure Moldova is real. Chinese takeaway in Chisnau tips welcome.

Despite the Tand’s encouraging words, we had some disquiet about Albania, particularly after a chat with young lone female travellers we’d met in the Balkans last year. Now, I can’t speak as a young lone female traveller, self-identification doesn’t stretch that far yet, but this was an easy trip in nearly every regard. Unless you need a daily craft beer fix.

The pre-flight entertainment is provided by a Wizz passport checker shouting “OPEN. YOUR. PASSPORTS. ON. THE. PHOTO. PAGE” and a nice Albanian businessmen responding “F*** **F“.

There’s also far more rigorous tests for compliance with the hand luggage requirements, with plastic cases inevitably failing the size test and incurring a c. 100 euro surcharge. I feel sorry for the noisy lady with the oversized pink case, but Mrs RM reminds me that people who don’t follow the rules subsidise our £9.99 flights, a bit like the folk who pay to use the loos on Ryanair (suckers) or £25 to sit next to their beloved on Wizz. Sadly, I have to sit next to Mrs RM as the random seat allocator lets me down.

It’s nearly 10pm when we touch down, but remarkably it’s literally two minutes between setting foot on the tarmac, using the Electronic Passport gates and being greeted by a bloke holding a sign saying “CHRITINE TAYORL” which is close enough.

Spending money she’s saved on the flights, Mrs RM has booked a transfer from the airport to the shiny new Mercure Hotel on the very edge of the city, which has this view from the rooftop pool;

Albania’s first Mercure (Accor Hotels) opened last month and we may as well have cut the ribbons; we were certainly the first to use our room.

“Would you like a complimentary drink” asks our host Daniel.

“Can I have a glass of wine ?” asks Mrs RM, noting the bar.

Daniel looks desolate. “Oh no, only coffee or a soft drink”.

We’re brought two espressos and asked to sign for them on a piece of paper saying “Zero”. But to be frank, that’s as fussy and formal as Albania gets all trip.

It’s 10:15pm and Mrs RM tests Daniel’s knowledge of the local culture.

“Where can we watch Eurovision locally ?“.

Daniel looks desolate.

“On no, we don’t appreciate art in Albania“. By “art”, I assume he means the UK entry.

Goodness knows what Daniel would have made of our Eurovision night in Belfast’s top gay pub.

Tirana is a sprawling city of Sheffield or Manchester size, and our hotel was a good 3 miles from the (presumably) craft beer bars of the historic centre,

but I somehow persuaded Mrs RM we needed to at least attempt to see a suburb, particularly one with sports cars for beds,

and endless gated houses. You could have been in St Albans,

though the roofing is rather different.

Astir is moderately smart, with gorgeous smells despite a litter-strewn stream, and the bars looked like they’d been transplanted from St. Albans,

only with all alcohol removed and modest dress encouraged.

There was beer (Carlsberg in bottles) in OSLO bar (top), but everyone was drinking bottled water and espresso. At 10:45pm on a Saturday.

No chance of decent beer, or Eurovision, but we got some cash out (irritatingly all in 5,000 Lek notes) and had a takeaway pizza and Italian soda at Pizza Ensari, served just before closing.

“Twenty-two” said the owner, and I was convinced I’d been overcharged until I looked more closely at the change on the way out. The next day, I’d have exactly the same issue with being charged “Twenty-two” for a bill that should have been much less, till I realised that I don’t speak Albanian and they were more than likely telling me where Olly Alexander had finished in Eurovision.