Monteperdido

I do not remember his name, mainly because I never asked and because after he slept with me the first night it would be uncomfortable to do so. I started calling him “Bougiordi”, a traditional Greek dish made of cheese, tomato and pepper I was deeply in love with. He used to climb my legs in the night with his little paws and to sleep on my lap while I was chatting with the other guests of the hostel, playing cards and drinking the traditional Albanian rakia.

However, I am sure you are not interested in reading my love story with a little puppy who lived in the hostel where I stayed during my time in Tirana, the capital of one of the most isolated countries of Europe. Albania, whose image in Western Europe is similar to that of a pirate state, was described once to me by a Serbian like “the last punk country of the world”. Truth be told, it is probably the coolest description of this singular piece of the Balkans.

Tirana is a city that spreads across a large surface, crossed by a small river that is barely visible and surrounded by hills. Like any other former Communist country you may visit, this capital features a big square surrounded by smashing buildings and a short but wide avenue with the same kind of constructions. Though, the city that you may be expecting around this does not exist. No big apartment buildings, no parking lots, no huge shopping malls… Tirana does not look like an Europan capital unless you have seen hens in the middle of the road in any other, and more specifically, it does not behave like one.

When I arrived to the city after a long trip from Greece, it was still night. Six in the morning is never a good time to arrive to anywhere, including Tirana. The only open bar I could see looked kitsch: neon lights, a couple of poker machines, a man in his fifties sleeping on a table with a glass of whisky and a couple of makeup waitresses with something I could describe as dressing gown. I actually did not want to know what was the main business of that bar. I just had my hot chocolate and I waited until the hour allowed to go to the hostel where I would meet my canine love.

That hot chocolate was neither the best neither the worst I ever had, but it let me wonder myself what I was doing in that almost uncharted country. Looking at the waitresses smoking their cigarettes, the deep sleep of the other costumer and the folk songs performed on TV I found the answer. I really arrived to the last punk country of the world.