There used to be a bit of a problem: officially, Macedonia wasn’t called Macedonia for decades, but FYROM—the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. The reason? Greece essentially claims sole rights to the name, arguing that the adjacent Greek regions of Central, East, and West Macedonia are the “true” Macedonia, while the macedonian Macedonia is a communist invention. In reality, the territory of the ancient Kingdom of Macedon spans both regions—the Greek side on one hand and the southern Macedonian side on the other.

Unfortunately, the people whose heritage is at the center of the dispute couldn´t step in to mediate. The ancient Macedonians—the most famous of whom was Alexander—did manage to build a short-lived global empire, but then they fought the famous Wars of the Diadochi, underwent a bit of Hellenization, and finally vanished quietly into the Roman Empire, never to reappear on the historical stage again.

Macedonia is likely the only state with two versions of its flag in circulation. The first, yellow on a red background, was created in a hurry by adopting the Vergina Sun, the emblem of the former Macedonian royal house. However, this same sun also adorns the unofficial flag of the Greek region of Macedonia (on a blue background, naturally, since the sea is near). Consequently, Greece demanded that as a condition for recognizing the new neighboring state, it must refrain from using “originally Greek” elements. And so it happened: the sun was stretched and modernized, but on the matter of the name, they remained steadfast.

One could dismiss this as childishness or simply bizarre, but both sides took it deadly serious. On the Greek side, there is a deep-seated fear of territorial claims; they feel robbed of their own history when an airport in Skopje is suddenly renamed “Alexander the Great.” On the Macedonian side, they pulled out all the stops—at times even resorting to historical revisionism—to assert themselves as a “nation” to both themselves and the world.

This effort persists despite the fact that Macedonia is a land of immense ethnic and religious diversity; about 25% of the population identifies as Albanian, and Orthodox Christianity and Sunni Islam are the dominant religions. Historically speaking, it was indeed Josip Broz Tito who came up with the idea to transform the Vardarska Banovina—the southernmost province of his federation—into the sixth constituent republic, christening it “Macedonia” and actively promoting “Macedonism.”

A few years ago, I was in Skopje and was amazed by the monstrous monuments that had landed in the city under the then national-conservative government, beyond all sense of proportion or scale. Alexander the Inevitable towers there in oversized bronze upon his horse; the fountain beneath him is illuminated in the evenings, its jets dancing to classical music. Doric columns on newly built government buildings are mandatory; even a triumphal arch was installed in the center of the city—though without any connection to an actual triumph.

The National Museum, also new, is anything but independent. My Macedonian companions—whom I would categorize as left-wing/alternative—remained silent and embarrassed during the explanations provided by the government-appointed museum guide. It was left to me to ask seemingly naive questions:

– “Weren’t there any Albanians among all these resistance fighters? Perhaps even a Roma?” – “No, no,” he replied, “they were all Macedonians.” – “How should one interpret these maps, where the ‘Macedonian’ territory extends far beyond the current state?”

At that point, he smelled a rat and became more cautious, yet he was unable to articulate historical contexts as such. All threads converge in the now; history serves to legitimize the present—the former must adapt to the latter. I remember becoming genuinely angry at the absolute rubbish they were trying to feed me.

The state of affairs used to be that the Greek side persistently demanded a renaming of the Macedonian state—boycotting it internationally at every turn—while Macedonian counter-proposals remained elusive. However, much has changed. In 2018, the two nations signed the Prespa Agreement, and in early 2019, the country officially changed its name to North Macedonia.

This compromise finally addressed the reality that the historical and geographical region of Macedonia is distributed across two sovereign territories. Even before the name change, the Greek region of Macedonia and the nation of North Macedonia had long been economically intertwined; in fact, Greek companies remain among the primary investors in the country.

While North Macedonia officially accepted its new name to clear its path toward NATO (which it joined in 2020) and EU negotiations, the internal struggle continues. Hopefully, it will soon be universally recognized that the nationalist efforts of a small multi-ethnic state—much like oversized statues on squares that are far too small—feel inherently artificial. It is simply exhausting; it would be far easier for everyone to accept that a shared geography can exist across borders. Such things do happen.

It’s a bit absurd, but there are no transport connections between Pogradec and Ohrid or Struga. Pogradec lies on the southern shore of Lake Ohrid in Albania; Struga is on the northern shore, and Ohrid—the famous Ohrid—is on the eastern shore in Macedonia. At night, you can see the lights shimmering and blinking from Pogradec, coming from the other side, from Macedonia, but you simply cannot get there. At least not by bus, and certainly not by a direct route.

Lake Ohrid is considered one of the oldest in the world, formed millions of years ago by a tectonic rift. It has no major inflows and is fed primarily by underground springs—you might think of it as a classic mountain lake, were it not so gargantuan. The lake is split equally between Macedonia and Albania, surrounded by mountain massifs, and with its usually shimmering, smooth, and unruffled surface, it feels somewhat forgotten by the world.

Pogradec is certainly that; only three floors of one wing of the immense Enkelana hotel complex are actually open. One is occupied by a fabulously chatty, elderly troop of German bikers—”Germany” is emblazoned in blue Fraktur script across the top back of their leather vests. If you stripped them of their uniforms, they wouldn’t look out of place at a party resort in Mallorca. The second floor is reserved for Albanian families and commercial travelers, while on the third, I reside entirely alone.

I should mention that in this entire region, you don’t pay for the room, but per person. This makes hotels very affordable for me, and I like hotels because they are spaces of retreat. I can move between the terrace and my room and back again in total peace, go shopping in between, and no one asks questions, no one wants anything, nothing happens—and I am the sole master of my daily routine.

In august, however, Pogradec is one of the favorite destinations for Albanians due to its pleasant climate; the town is packed then, the Enkelana fully booked, and there’s hardly any room on the promenade in the evenings. During that season, a boat also runs to Ohrid twice a day, and the holy city of Ohrid diagonally opposite—the city of 365 Orthodox churches—is well-visited, its rooms and little pensions booked solid.

But it’s not that time yet. Years ago, in the middle of winter, I visited Ohrid once before and traveled from there via Sveti Naum to Pogradec. The mountain peaks were covered in deep snow, the air was cold and damp, and Pogradec had appeared gray to me—cold and lifeless, the entire area somewhat inhospitable.

That is completely different now. The vegetation is lush, the sun has awakened the colors, and the air possesses a gentle freshness—that calm liveliness found only by lakes. Even the mountains seem less rugged to me, appearing rounder and softer; but that is an illusion, born from the fact that Pogradec already sits 600 meters above sea level, bringing the 2,000-meter peaks much closer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my driver slip a banknote into his vehicle registration papers; it must have been a Macedonian 100-denar bill. After that, everything moved very quickly with the paperwork. Unlike the Albanian customs earlier, the Macedonian officials showed no interest in my luggage.

I had taken a furgon from Pogradec up to the ridge. There, after several switchbacks, a turn-off leads along the crest directly to the small border station. On the other side, the road descends into the Black Drin valley and back toward Struga on Lake Ohrid. Originally, I had planned to walk the short distance to the border, assuming I’d find something on the other side. However, a few Mercedes-Benzes were stationed at the junction, and one of the drivers offered to take me all the way to Struga for ten euros. Fair enough—done and dusted.

And so it happens that I arrive in Struga before noon, searching for the supposedly picturesque old town. It doesn’t exist—or doesn’t exist anymore, who knows. There are all sorts of signs, more signs and inscriptions, travel agencies, restaurants, and significantly more “Rooms for Rent” than in Pogradec. It looks as though all hell breaks loose here in the summer, though I find that hard to believe.

This slightly skewed, comparatively extroverted appearance is really the only difference. In Struga, too, a minaret stands right next to an Orthodox church; in Struga, too, Albanian is spoken. In Struga, a stout, black-clad Orthodox priest stares at his phone for minutes on end, while various buzz-cut men—no longer quite young—sit in the cafés discussing non-existent opportunities. Dutch tourists stroll up and down the somewhat dreary promenade along the lakeshore, eventually renting dilapidated paddle boats or eating shishkepab or qofte with patate and domate written in Cyrillic.

Every taxi driver who spots me automatically assumes I want to go to Ohrid. But I don't want to go to Ohrid; I want to follow the course of the Drin, which drains Lake Ohrid to the north and flows in a long curve via Peshkopi and Kukës down to Shkodra, toward the Adriatic. Nature does not abide by national borders—so why should I?

Përmet lies off the main traffic routes further inland, up the Vjosa river, tucked behind the Lunxhëria mountain range. Getting there from Tepelene requires a bit of persistence, as I miss the first furgon. I arrive at the roundabout at eight o’clock—too late! When will the next one come? Who knows? Certainly not the people standing around. I’m left with a choice: a demi-tour back to Gjirokastër to take a longer run at it the next day, or wait it out. The latter seems like the better option, and lo and behold, six hours later, just as I’m about to give up, an old Mercedes van rounds the corner with a “Përmet” sign tucked behind the windshield.

Why go to Përmet? Because the Vjosa is the last remaining wild river in Europe—the only one that has remained intact from its headwaters to its mouth, neither accelerated by channelization, made navigable by dredgers, nor halted and dammed by power plants. At least, not yet; further downstream, construction is in full swing right in the middle of the national park. Albania’s energy demand is rising, but its energy security is not. In some places, on some days, the power doesn’t so much “go out” as it occasionally “comes in.”

The concessions for the power plants—located on the middle reaches of the Vjosa in the immediate vicinity of hot thermal springs—were granted years ago under high consultancy fees and a murky (yet transparently corrupt) tangle of interests. The current socialist government under Edi Rama is finding it difficult to row back, so it seems likely that all 33 planned power plants on the Vjosa will be completed, despite the resistance of the local population who have lived with and from the river since time immemorial.

Përmet is considered a rafting stronghold, but there isn’t a single trace of “booming” tourism to be seen. I arrive much later than planned and have to attend to my three remaining needs: sleep, food, and Wi-Fi. In the town center—that is, to the right of the Vjosa—there seem to be three hotels. One is a brand-new construction at the edge of town, concrete and glass, four stars; then there are two on the central square. One of those is a not-quite-so-new new building, three stars, concrete and glass. The third—the first, because it’s the oldest—is the Hotel Përmeti, and it is quite obviously the one for me.

What one must know is that the prices of Albanian hotels online and in reality often differ drastically. Anyone who books in advance pays triple or more—because they are booking in advance, essentially buying security. And that comes at a price. The gentleman at the reception takes a liking to me, which is why, as he puts it, he quarters me on the “first floor.” As it turns out, this is actually the third floor, the top story. The third floor is the “first” because it is the highest, offering the best view. Now, Përmet doesn’t exactly have many sights—strictly speaking, none at all—but I can look out over the flat roofs with their blue water tanks toward the mountains, and that’s something.

Next door, in the rather new new building, where I initially thought one supermarket was housed, there are actually threesupermarkets, all of them dimly lit and stocked with almost identical inventories. I know this because I visited all three. For whatever reason, I am on the hunt for stuffed grape leaves, which you can usually find everywhere. Not in Përmet, though—not in any of the three side-by-side supermarkets, whose food selection consists mainly of an overabundance of Nestlé products alongside drugstore and household items.

Albanian society, at least in the countryside, is still an agrarian one; this means that daily necessities are produced or grown at home. Supermarkets, therefore, are responsible for the superfluous, for status distinction, and for Western brands—for colorful shower gels and fancy cornflakes. Everything else—vegetables, fruit, fish, and meat—is traded for pittance at markets and in small shops; bread still costs shockingly little (a small loaf of white bread, about 500g from the baker, costs 50 Lek, which is roughly 30 cents). Consequently, there isn’t much in those three supermarkets that is actually fit for consumption. Incidentally, one of the three is called Supermarket, the second Market Përmeti, and the third New Market. The first advertises in red neon, the second in green, the third in blue. For the sake of evidence, not aesthetics, here is a photo.

The next day, there is a kind of breakfast included in the price; I show up as early as seven-thirty, but it does me no good. The only way to continue my journey—to Korça—has already departed. At seven, without me. Either you have a car and can do as you please, or you have something to get done, in which case you’re simply up at the crack of dawn, early enough for the only furgon to Korça. I’ll clearly have to adjust my rhythm a bit more to the local times and habits.

A small excursion is on the agenda, just a few kilometers uphill to the village where Ali Pasha was born. I know there won’t be anything to see; rural village structures have a much shorter half-life than townhouses or, heaven forbid, fortresses. The latter aren't so easily brought to their knees—not even by an earthquake like the one in 1920, which razed all of Tepelene to the ground, save for the fortress walls. Once again.

Edward Lear reported on devastations as early as 1809—not the first and certainly not the last, given that every army since the Caesars has passed through here. It may be for this very reason that, to this day, there is no bridge over the Vjosa, only a suspension bridge. Tepelene was never a merchant town; for centuries, its purpose was to stop foreigners. A local superstition claims that the city faces destruction every time it reaches more than a hundred buildings.

It would seem, then, that time is up once again: Tepelene saw its last uprising in 1997, when arms were taken up from here against the government—or rather, the system of Sali Berisha.

Ali Pasha’s fortress—or what remains of it—is massive and impressive only from a distance. Compared to the height of the walls, the upper gate is like a hidden mousehole and is currently being used by some teenagers as a soccer goal.

– Hey Mister? How are you?

I’m invited to play a round, so I take off my slippers and step up barefoot, only to fail miserably at the five-meter shootout. My opponent also shows a lack of finishing skills; we part ways at 0:0, and I head into the interior of the fortress. And lo and behold: gardens, vines, water tanks, small houses, flowers, dirt paths. Nothing is left of Ali Pasha’s stronghold—absolutely nothing except the surrounding walls. In Tepelene, there is a village sitting right in the middle of the city on a plateau encircled by fortress walls! To me, this seems like a sign of more peaceful times and a hint that the “hundred-building limit” may finally be exceeded.

But as I said: a small excursion across the Vjosa is due, because I absolutely must cross the suspension bridge, which serves as the school and transport route to Beçisht. Beçisht lies opposite Tepelene halfway up the mountain, and I want to look down from the eagle’s nest onto the river valley, the fortress, and the pallati of Tepelene. Aleks’ uncle had offered to show me the way and wouldn’t be talked out of it, even though I had signaled extensively that I could find it myself. Thus, he is at my door at seven sharp and takes me down into the city on his moped.

So, early in the morning, I make my way across the Vjosa and over the suspension bridge, which bounces and echoes every step I take. A good hour later, I am already in Beçisht, where I have absolutely no business being. The few people I encounter keep their distance, avoiding my gaze; two men speed up their backgammon, I almost believe they mistake me for a stranger.

In Tepelene, I cause a minor commotion, and here is how it happened: Aleks has been studying in Tirana for six months, where he discovered Airbnb. A few months ago, he set up an account and presumably pitched it to his family as a lucrative model for the now-vacant room.

And now, for the first time, someone is actually showing up—and a foreigner at that! One who, moreover, has the audacity to stay for two nights. So, not just staying overnight, but effectively occupying the space. Yet, he speaks no Shqip, only Anglisht… while the only family member who speaks English is away in Tirana!

I should have seen it coming, but there I was at the lovely hour of noon, sitting serenely in Café Geri opposite the Bashkia(town hall). I let Aleks know that I was sitting across from the Bashkia, specifically in Café Geri—a place that offers all sorts of drinks and good coffee, yet has no guests and nothing to eat. I had chosen Café Geri for its strategic location and because, unlike the other bars, it actually had a name.

Aleks subsequently sends Ronni, his buddy, to pick me up, because Ronni speaks Italian—and where there’s Italian, there’s a way. Ronni arrives, speaks Italian, and Aleks soon checks in via phone to direct the operation. He talks alternately to me and to Ronni, but then has to hang up to call his mother and let her know we are on our way.

Like most detached houses, Aleks’ home is walled and fenced, armed with a large sheet-steel gate and a dog behind it. The dog, however, is weary with age and does nothing more than her bare duty—but only the dog and I know that. The family, on the other hand, considers the old vixen dangerous, and I have to navigate a wide berth around her. Over the phone, Aleks instructs his mother on everything that needs to be done now that the foreigner is to inspect the room, appreciate the shower, and receive the key.

But it’s all too much for her; she is visibly overwhelmed, especially since Ronni is mostly just sowing confusion. She abandons the protocol forced upon her and reaches instead for the ultimate peace offering: homemade raki. And so, we find ourselves sitting at the table first—just as it should be!

Hardly has a bit of calm settled in when communication suddenly starts to work. She notices that I speak a few scraps of Albanian and promptly overtaxes my vocabulary, but that no longer matters. Melissa, the six-year-old granddaughter, creeps closer to observe me with wide eyes until the spell breaks and I am simply allowed to “be”: interesting, certainly, but by no means extraordinary! Melissa’s mother peeks through the door, Aleks’ uncle appears, and finally, the grandfather joins us in blatant curiosity. With total lack of reservation, but with great openness and friendliness, he manages to learn everything important about me within minutes: From where? To where? Work, profession, age? Why Tepelene? Once everything is settled, he sinks back into his chair and looks away from me; the task is done. The phone rings; Aleks’ mother declines the call.

While Aleks had advertised the family stove on Airbnb for shared use—emphasizing it in our phone call just as much as the running hot water—I know my limits! I wouldn’t dream of storming the kitchen in the evening...

“Howdie, folks!”

...grabbing a Teflon pan and sizzling up something of my own right next to Mama Aleks. That simply doesn’t work; I am aware of that, and so I am on the hunt for sustenance in Tepeleae. The plan is to return sometime around dusk, almost certainly ending up on the terrace, but without disturbing the family peace beforehand.

However, the search for food proves more difficult than expected. In my current Wi-Fi-afternoon-café, I am told upon inquiry that there are no restaurants in Tepelene. Tepelene is too small, they say; people eat at home. Indeed, most of the nameless café-bars along the short boulevard have no menus; they are places to linger, transit stations—they offer chips or Baked Rolls. I find a butcher, but the bakery that must exist remains hidden from me. I have no desire for canned goods from the small supermarket; by now, I associate those with grueling hiking stages. And so, Day One in Tepelene is tackled with chips, beer, and Baked Rolls. That works, too. But only for so long.

Day Two brings the solution, as I stroll along the boulevard in the blazing midday sun, hoping to discover a menu or some hint of edible offerings. But the nameless bars are hardly occupied, each managed by a solitary djalë (lad), and they don’t even have a kitchen. Someone calls out to me from a café across the way on the second floor—one I had noticed before because it looks comparatively posh. I wave back in a friendly manner but intend to keep going; sorry, but I’m not in the mood right now—I’m hungry. The caller stands up, goes to the balustrade, and calls again. It’s the London-Albanian! The one from the ferry to Saranda, which whom I shared greek sugar-bombs!

I have no choice but to sit down and exchange news. The table is drinking colorful Blloku-style cocktails—fancy—but I am allowed a beer. He can hardly speak; he’s getting his teeth done in his hometown. Two more days until the bridge is put in; it hurts like hell, but it costs a tenth of the price and is just as good. Yes, yes—of course! There is a restaurant, “Mama-Whatchamacallit,” she’s been cooking since the socialist era!

“It’s a bit hidden. But wait.” The London-Albanian calls over two young people, he is a big deal in Tepelena; the posh bar belongs to his brother.

And so it happens that I am led by an escort to Mama-Whatchamacallit’s, into an unpaved side street, to a raised ground floor. There is no menu. The escort wants to mediate, but I already know what I want: I’ll take the combination for sure.

Public passenger transport as it’s formally known up north, is largely handled by furgons all over in Albania . These differ from Georgian marshrutkas, Turkish dolmuş, or Moroccan grand taxis only in terms of car brands, models, and capacities. In Albania, all types of minibuses are used; the driver is usually the owner, and his starting point and destination are almost always dictated by where his family lives.

From Gjirokastra one gets to Tepelena by knowing which intersection the furgons depart from. If you want to go somewhere else, you have to check in that specific direction - logical enough. The Japanese individual tourist, who first drank three hot chocolates within an hour only to then inquire of Fatjon the waiter in a hushed voice where the bus stop was, asking specifically for Vlora and departure times, is therefore mistaken on several counts.

While buses do exist and even run according to a schedule, that schedule is written nowhere and is anything but binding. Usually, the buses take the “old” routes—roads that still remember Communism—whereas the furgons prefer the fast lanes. If no such fast lane exists, the furgon driver will make sure you feel as though it does.

Proper buses and minivans have in common, that they begin their journeys from customary spots. These are not "bus stops," however, but rather restaurants, parking lots, patches of wasteland, or gas stations—whatever happens to be convenient. The buses depart from former depots and stop at former stations, regardless of whether those places still exist or not. The furgons gather at some undisclosed location in the appropriate direction, along the respective arterial road or at a strategically placed intersection, and set off as soon as they are full enough for the trip to be profitable.

The furgon drivers are almost always gentlemen of a certain age; some have significantly upgraded since my last visit, but old Mercedes buses of every conceivable kind are still on the road. I am sitting in a quite posh, newer-model, thinking, Good heavens, air conditioning, a 20-seater—what’s going on? But then, everything is back to normal: the driver climbs in, starts the engine, revs it in neutral, drives a few meters and parks the van at an angle—effectively letting his horsespowers stamp the ground so that everyone still sipping coffee realizes we’re about to leave.

Hardly has the journey begun when the travel group is blasted with sound. I imagine the drivers are taking revenge on the younger generation—on all the students heading home who have to take the furgon—avenging their preference for the international pop-kitsch blaring from the bars by flooding the furgons with national folk-kitsch instead.

The ride to Tepelene feels a bit like a gallop, even though the road is new and excellent. It passes along the Drino River; the valley narrows, the waters unite just before Tepelene with the wildly meandering Vjosa and turn into a broad milky turquoise delta, the banks becoming wide with white pebble banks. It is the same route that Lord Byron once mastered on horseback to be received by Ali Pasha in Tepelene, though—I only allow myself this joke because it’s true—he was traveling along the other side.

Basically, I don’t display any excessive interest; basically, I just live in Gjirokaster like this, I'm just there, rehearsing another parallel life and seeing what happens. Early in the morning, I'm at the bazaar, having one or two coffees. Usually, I meet Kujtim around ten and we go for a walk—if those treks through the steep passages over the hills, into the various neighborhoods on the slope, qualify as "walks" at all.

Kujtim (67, an electrical engineer) reveals the city to me step by step—his city—though we aren’t particularly ambitious about it. One day we climb up to the Ottoman Zekate House, which stands on the mountain like a pale elephant; the next, we head to the Dunavat quarter high above the old town; and only on the day after that do we ascend to the fortress. Gjirokaster, the “Silver City,” has its own rhythm; it cannot simply be “seen” in a few days or, heaven forbid, a few hours.

Life begins early. The muezzin sings for the first time as early as four (he truly sings, he sings beautifully, singing his way into my sleep and into my dreams). Before seven, the cafés slowly begin to fill; from seven-thirty, the students make their pilgrimage to school. The sun gains immense strength, the white stones radiate, the pavement gleams. Around twelve, a stillness settles in; around three, the second half of the day begins.

And in the evening—in the evening, it is a duty to be seen, to take to the streets, to do the Xhiro. In Gjirokaster, it is a short affair because only one street is really suitable for it, and one can settle down anywhere because you’ll run into everyone anyway. The old men have certain prerogatives; they are allowed to sit at special tables, unpack their raki and perhaps a bit of cheese from Zagoria or a bag of chips, and invite the foreigner over—the German who came down from the mountain.

– since you are still here, what exactly are you waiting for?

– For the rain. For Ismail Kadare’s rain!

But while I wait for the rain to perhaps arrive, to run down the stone pyramids of the roofs and swell into streams on the heavy, steep cobblestones, rushing down past the Bazaar, past the Hotel Sopoti, past the Restaurant Mapo, toward the valley and the river—summer arrives. The temperatures rise, and a hot blue sky arches high above the stone city. The pines are fragrant, the sea is distant, the mighty Lunxhëria range opposite blurs in the haze, and the air shimmers.

Kujtim and I descend from the fortress and stop along the way for an early beer. Afterward, we walk back through the Bazaar into the city and part ways; he heads home, and I return to the nearly hundred-year-old Hotel Sopoti. I reside there entirely alone most days, as it has been overtaken by time and—unlike the newer hotels—cannot offer the luxury that tourists require today.

In the afternoons, I am usually at the Restaurant Mapo—partly for the Wi-Fi and partly for its strategic location. It takes its name from the former magasin popullore, and there, a relative of Enver Hoxha keeps watch over two waiters. I ate there on my first evening—ate well, too—but I’m no longer allowed to do so because Kujtim caught me there one morning with a portion of Xaxiqe (Greek: tzatziki) that, even to me, seemed rather ungenerous for some hundreds of Lek.

Instead, I am introduced to the Flora; Kujtim calls it a “micro-restaurant” and politely gives me to understand that they still know how to cook there. And yes, they certainly do! When I spend too long looking at the menu because I can’t find the prawns or the grilled sardines—the remains of which I had seen outside on the family’s private table—the lady of the house takes charge and decides to serve a combination. Of everything. It can be that simple.

For once, I’m posting a picture of plates. The large glass is for water; the small one is the raki. I didn’t order it. It just appeared on its own.

PS: Incidentally, while writing this post, I am obtaining permission to publish Kujtim’s photo. From his son, who tells me that his mother, Natasha, is now a little jealous because Kujtim comes off so well, and the byrek—the byrek i rrallë—that she packed for me so that I wouldn’t have to go to a restaurant isn't even mentioned. That is incorrect; it is being mentioned—that excellent and rare nettle-byrek—right here at the very end of the article in the postscript! Last, but not least.

There’s really no avoiding it, so I might as well tackle the subject of raki right now.

1. Albanian raki is usually grape brandy, pomace; it has nothing to do with Turkish aniseed liquor—nothing at all.

2. Every household in the countryside—and specifically its head—makes their own raki. Almost every single one.

3. Raki isn’t bought; raki is given as a gift or served to you.

4. Raki has to be tasted. The time of day doesn’t matter.

Years ago, I got myself into real trouble because I wrote that raki was a mild grape brandy. That’s how it goes with impressions—if you don’t gather enough of them, you’re quickly proven wrong. When I visited the Sami Frashëri school in Tirana, the bravest students in the class spoke up afterward to protest two things: that Albanians weren’t allowed into Europe without a visa, and that I claimed raki was a mild spirit. It is not. Not necessarily.

Also, visa policy isn’t my field—besides, Sali Berisha botched that back then; the Albanian administration was simply unable or unwilling to introduce the required security features that were a prerequisite for entering negotiations in the first place. As for the raki, fine—I take it back; I was wrong. Raki comes in every variation and strength: from fine, soft, highly aromatic distillates to suicidal throat-strippers, it’s all in there.

My other claim made elsewhere—that any foreigner entering Albania would inevitably find themselves sitting at a table with a glass of moonshine in front of them within a few hours, regardless of the time—was perhaps made in a moment of bravado and meant as an exaggeration, but it’s proving to be the absolute truth. At best, you’re allowed to choose between coffee and raki; if you choose the coffee, you simply get both.

It is half-past seven in the morning in Gjirokastër. I am going to the café at the bazaar for the second time. The first time, you’re just someone passing through; the second time, you’re practically family.

Upon me entering, the browner produces a plastic bottle and a glas. His raki, he claims, would be the strongest—I should have a taste, but careful, just a sip...

Sure, the strongest of all, do bring it on!

But what can I say? Good heavens, he’s right: almost nothing even reaches the throat because the mouth is already thoroughly disinfected. I can’t help but think of dentists—I only know this evaporating effect from overproof, cask-strength rum. With a clear conscience, I can confirm that this was indeed the strongest raki I’ve had the pleasure of tasting so far. He didn´t ask me about the flavor, after all.

– “Are you a tourist?”

– “Nope,” I say cheekily, “I work here. I am writing.”

– “Ah, I see! In that case, the double-coffee is 100 Lek. 100 is for those who work.”

I do now have a go-to-bar in Gjirokastra, never shall you see me sipping my morning coffee elsewhere. I am initiated with the raki of the house, no need to repeat.

My social circle has shifted slightly, and I think I know why. In Saranda, I drink raki with Thoma; in Delvinë, with Kristaq; in Gjirokastra, I hit the town with Kujtim. All of them gentlemen over sixty. It’s not that I don’t talk to the younger ones—of course I do. But I get along better with the old-timers. How poorly things are going in Albania and what a great country Germany is—that is too often the leitmotif of conversations with the youth, and these talks are exhausting because I frequently have to contradict them, only to give in at the end anyway.

I learn that a trained tiler earns the equivalent of 17 euros a day. That is, on the days he actually has work. There is work—construction in Albania is still going on like crazy—but the money isn’t enough for dreams and desires. Getting married, for example: how is that supposed to work? Without a house, without a car? His parents are farmers; they have hardly any money either. Germany is rich, Germany is good. We talk in Spanish because the young man learned it from watching various telenovelas. I point out the rifts that neoliberalism has torn across Europe, the Berlin crisis of the 2000s, unpaid internships, the lack of steady jobs. I don’t have a car either, I tell him; I’ve never even owned one.

– “But health insurance—you have that, don’t you?”

Yes, I do, but it costs three hundred a month and it’s not getting any cheaper.

– “So, what would you do if you got a toothache?”

– “Go to the dentist.”

– “And what does he do?”

– “He drills and fills.”

– “In Albania, he pulls it if you don’t pay cash.”

However, it isn’t just material desires that fuel this discontent; it’s also about dependencies. Another conversation, a similar trajectory, this time in English with a British lilt: Arber has been working as a math and physics teacher at a secondary school for eleven years, for which he receives 400 euros a month. The state immediately takes back almost a third of that, officially for health insurance for him and his family. But this insurance only exists on paper and perhaps in Tirana; reality looks different in Gjirokastra. The doctors are just as poorly paid as the teachers, medicine and supplies are scarce—anyone who wants treatment has to pay. He asks if that is also the case in Germany. A rhetorical question; no question mark.

– “No, in Germany, you don’t have to grease the doctors’ palms.”

– “You see,” he says, “a good country, Germany.”

A brief excursion on my part regarding outdated industries and high tax burdens, a crumbling middle class, the relativity of poverty, and the opportunities and perspectives within Albania.

– “Couldn’t you give extra lessons as a private tutor?”

– “No, that would be frowned upon; I could be dismissed from one day to the next.”

– “Don’t you have a contract?”

He doesn’t. He has worked as a teacher for eleven years and has never put a signature on anything. Out of his 400-euro wage, 120 are taken for something that de facto doesn’t exist; earning on the side is impossible for him, and he must stay in the school principal’s good graces, otherwise he could end up on the street.

Arber dreams of a car, of education, and of functioning health insurance for his seven-year-old daughter. Arber dreams of going abroad, because he expects none of that from Albania.

I’ll say it straight: that was right at my personal limit, if not a little bit beyond. The final ascent was truly critical, the traverse before it had stopped being fun, and the entire climb over the ridges of the mountain flanks was anything but easy. The weather was wonderful; otherwise, I wouldn’t have dared it: going from Delvinë over the Mali i Gjerë to Goranxi.

In theory, it all looked fine: just under twenty kilometers, about 1,300 meters of elevation gain to the saddle. Manageable, or so it seemed, even with luggage. I set off shortly after eight in the morning, only to emerge from the mountain into Goranxi just before eight in the evening as dusk was falling. A hundred thousand hounds of hell!

Even today, there are only a few maps of Albania, and those that do exist can be inadequate even for car journeys. Hiking maps are practically non-existent, apart from the efforts made in the small area of Theth and Valbona in the far north. But there is GPS. And the trails of those who went before. I should have become suspicious, however, that the trail length was listed with a total time of 12 hours. I explained this away to myself by assuming extensive breaks and a kilometer-long detour to the summit—which I wouldn’t be undertaking, choosing instead to cross the saddle and descend on the other side.

What I hadn’t realized, however, was that there wouldn’t be any actual paths—but rather, if anything at all, just scattered goat trails. I also didn’t know how steeply these would pull upward along the ridges, or through what lush vegetation. The Albanian highlands are in full bloom; the damp clover shoots up nearly knee-high—at times, it’s like walking through fresh snow. Then again, the paths are overgrown; gorse and blackberry vines thicken into tunnels that I have to push through uphill, no matter what.

I reached the point of no return with the first alpine meadows, where the terrain levels out slightly toward the next ridge. Delvinë was already five kilometers behind me, another 5 are left just untill the saddle; the descent on the northern flank would add another eight kilometers to the tally.

I realize: I make the same mistakes over and over. I tend to carry too little water and too many rations. By “too many,” I mean: a tin of baked beans (280g), a pack of biscuits (150g), and a bar of chocolate (100g), which would only be useful if I were staying overnight on the mountain. That would be possible—the Reitinger tent is with me (1000g), as is the sleeping bag from Kerkyra (1000g) and an inflatable mat (700g)—but it remains the emergency option, especially since, with only two liters of water, I’m at least one liter short of being able to stay on the mountain relaxed. So, I want to make it to Goranxi; I don’t really have a choice.

I’ve left the scrub and the thick clover behind me; I stop at a watering hole for the goats, which haven’t been driven up yet. My gaze falls on the sea and the island of Corfu; from here on, it’s a steep climb through white, pale scree up to 1350 meters. This is followed by the traverse to the saddle, one last ascent, and then back down again. I promise myself that while the next section will be hard, the one after that will be easier again. But the one after that is also hard; the traverse through trackless terrain on the slope requires full concentration. Before the final climb to the saddle, before the last 50 meters of elevation, I am completely spent and look a bit stunned at the terrain that still lies ahead—see below.

At five o'clock, I finally start tackling the descent. This part is relatively straightforward, even though it once again leads through open terrain and over lush meadows. On the plus side, it's far less steep, allowing for a faster pace and, at times, descending through a dried-up streambed. It’s a stroke of great luck to find a cistern with drinking water halfway down: the end of rationing, water aplenty—time to refuel.

Nothing can go wrong from now on.

It went like this: In Benitses, on the eastern coast of Corfu, barely 15 kilometers south of Kerkyra, I was perfectly on time for the bus—but the bus never came. Neither did the next one. The reason: a severe storm the day before, waves practically crashing into the bay, rain like in the middle of winter! The worst day of the season, according to Vasili, the owner, chef, and maître d’ of the seaside restaurant where I had stayed for three rainy days. The third scheduled bus did eventually come. I therefore arrive quite late in Kerkyra and I find myself a bit under time pressure…

It’s 4 PM, and I don’t have a ticket yet; the ferry departs at 6:00 PM. I need a sleeping bag, because I’ll soon be heading off into the Albanian mountains. Thus I run from the central square where all the buses stop—no time to memorize the name—into the city center, walking way faster than anyone, especially the Slavic women who feel compelled to make a spontaneous swerve toward every shop window with shoes in it.

I note that the Old Town is exactly as suspected: nice, a beautiful mix of slight decay and grandeur (Venetian grandeur), yet infested with the ever-present frozen yogurt and “knick-knack-and-nonsense” shops. I don’t need knick-knacks or nonsense; I need a sleeping bag. I have no time, so I turn back and run from the omnibus station (Lat. omnibus meaning “for everyone,” dative plural of omnis—details matter!) onto the arterial road, where I know an INTERSPORT shop is located a few kilometers away. I know it’s open on Saturdays because I checked online beforehand, having decided I not to waste half the day shopping for a sleeping bag and instead waste the whole day with Vasili in the rain at that tavern in Benitses.

As I’m running, I think to myself: “taxi time” (taxi is not Greek, but a short form of the French taximètre, though the meter, of course, comes from the Greek metron, even if the standard meter is lying around in Paris—accuracy matters!). I wave at a blue Mercedes coming out of a side street, toss my backpack onto the back seat, and in a few minutes, I’m at the INTERSPORT branch—which is closed! ...Wait, what? ...And here I was, planning to buy something decent, lightweight, yet warm for a lot of money, just like all my hiking colleagues have. I’ve had bad experiences with crappy gear before—see the episode at La Trapa. So, I ask the driver if he knows anything else. But he doesn’t know anything, except that it’s Saturday, and on Saturdays... Fine, then on to the harbor.

I make a grand entrance into the harbor area in the blue Benz, pulling up to the terminal building. No tickets for sale there, unfortunately. They can’t be bought on-site but must be purchased at the proper ticket office—it’s not just any ticket, after all, but one to Albania; you don’t just get those anywhere.

Fine, back I go. Reached the ticket office, I dismiss my hired driver—I can walk the way back—and pay a princely 17 euros! But whatever, it’s a bargain for the insight gained in such a short time. The ticket process, in turn, goes smoothly. “Can I leave my backpack here for half an hour? I’ll be right back!”

Back to the Old Town, round two! On the way, I have to help a middle-aged French couple. They are looking for the Old Town in the direction of the harbor instead of the direction of the Old Town (...courtesy matters!). He is easygoing, but she immediately falls behind—mon dieu! I leave them at the omnibus square where they can study a map and take a turn into the proper Old Town. Only the knick-knack shops are open, no “real” ones. Foray into the side streets: everything closed except pizza, ice cream, handbags, flip-flops. Then—since I’m hungry too—a bakery with spinach börek in the window; they’re called something else, of course, but that’s what they are—the Ottomans brought them over, after all. So, I go in; inside, it’s madness—see the picture.

Me: “Okay, two of those spinach things, whatever the name.” And then, “Friend, just pack some of those little pastries too; yeah, nine is fine, just an aluminum tray’s worth.” Him: “That’ll be 17 euros.” Me: “...Okay!!”

Seventeen. Is that the standard here? No matter what? Comunque tutto? I leave the shop and see a mini-market opposite that is OPEN. So, in I go, grab a beer, to the counter, pay. One more question: does he perhaps know a shop, because of Saturday and the sleeping bag? The guy—small, wiry, grey-haired ponytail—reaches for the phone: — Ἄνδρα μοι ἔννεπε, Μοῦσα…? (Tell me, O Muse, of the man...?)

Yes, he says, it might be possible; a shop around the corner, closed because it’s Saturday, but he has the key. Me: “Fine, great, superb—but what about his shop?” Him: “No problem, someone will come.”

Another guy—tall, wiry, grey-haired ponytail—enters the shop at that exact moment, takes over the register, and we go to the shop around the corner, which is indeed around the corner. He unlocks the glass door. The shop is full of knick-knacks and nonsense: belts, leather bags, and such. He heads straight for a corner, searches, finds it, and shows me: a sleeping bag! 19 euros. ...Wait a minute! Shouldn’t it be 17? Whatever. ...Did I want to look at it? Nah, no need; it’s the only one anyway. We leave the shop and finally introduce ourselves. — “Georgos, trail runner, sprinted up Mount Olympus 21 times.” — “Jörg, namesake, on my way to the Albanian hinterland.”

The Sleeping bag and I head off to pick up the backpack—efcharisto! Onward to the harbor, leaving Schengen behind, then boarding or barking, whatever. I share one of the bakery treats with an Albanian from London; we agree: sugar overdose, kills any and all flavors. Sit down, right at the front in the wind, take photos, open a beer. The Queen Mary is pulling out—the Queen Mary! Surely bound for Dubrovnik. I hope for great photos, but the Queen Mary, that skyscraper of a ship, is faster than our cutter. Another good hour, then into Saranda.

Walking along the quay toward the city, I’m soon approached by an actual beggar. My rule when entering new cities: the first person who speaks to me and truly needs something gets it. A sort of entrance fee. For the gods. In this case, since I don’t have any Lek yet: the remaining pastries from Corfu. He was absolutely thrilled—more so than he would have been with a few Lek—and I was just as happy about it. A good omen.

Now let’s call it a day.

Sure there is some a kind of "self-defense mode" in the language center of the brain, designed solely for coping in the here and now—quickly picking up the essential vocabulary to satisfy one's basic needs.

Normally, this specific area works quite well for me, but now, under the pressure of circumstances, it has completely hung up. I had encountered some Frenchies, then recollected a few albanian pleasantries, and after that, I found myself speaking Spanish with Albanians and English with Italians.

But now, it’s over; my language center keeps crashing. I can’t even manage to order a caffè in Italian without an accident; too many idioms swell up in my brain like a wave that then collapses with a crash, leaving me stammering, uncertain, and speechless. It seems to me that the synapses are reorganizing themselves—language families are forming, relatives, aunts, and cousins are passing by, whose names one cannot remember easily or all at once.

I miss my train because the bus doesn’t turn; instead, halfway up, it heads toward another station—the wrong one. From there, I have to double back halfway to make the correct turn down toward the other side. This gives me time to stop for coconut milk with some French-speaking Italian-Africans who run a kiosk selling hair extensions, yams, and fresh coconut milk alongside the usual items. I do catch the next train, which then travels through hilly countryside with the Apennine ridges to my left, southward through the Tiber basin and across Umbria—this “shadow-land” (Lat. umbra, Fr. ombre, Sp. sombra)—lush, green, and still forested today. It is an Italian heartland in the sense that it lies inland, bordering neither sea nor foreign country.

I surrender not only to the languages but also to the cities and towns; each and every one seems worth seeing. I almost don’t care where I get off the train; one place seems as good as the next. I had bought a ticket for Spoleto, but in my confusion, I was startled by Spello, thinking the names were kindred synonyms, and hurried off the train. I realized my mistake just in time, standing undecided in the sun for a few seconds. The conductor shouted I had to cross the tracks immediately, as a train from the opposite direction was coming. I didn’t; I climbed back on and admitted my error with a shrug. Spello is bello, but Spoleto is più bello, my seatmate assured me. And all this while we were passing the village of Trevi, which sits enthroned on its own hill, visible from afar like a sugarloaf, even more exposed than the subsequent small hilltop towns.

The weather remains unstable; the spring is a capricious one. The sun shines on Spoleto’s facades while dark gray clouds gather: a wonderful, magical contrast. Through alleys, archways, and stairs, I walk past an Orthodox church, up to the marketplace, the cathedral, and the Romanesque church of Sant’Eupemia. This one is said to be even more significant than the other significant monuments. But since I am already quite overwhelmed by all this significance, I simply accept its age and uniqueness, close my eyes, and enjoy the thousand-year-old silence. Through the silence, however, the question soon arises: who was Saint Euphemia, in whose honor a basilica was placed atop the foundations of a Lombard palace in the 12th century, leaving some columns intact and repurposing the stone material (from Lat. mater meaning mother, Ital. and Span. madre)?

Well then: Saint Euphemia is a Christian martyr of the third century. She was from Chalcedon on the Bosphorus—the Greek name for today’s Istanbul district of Kadıköy, which was founded as a Greek colony long before Byzantium, the later Constantinople. Euphemia’s relics lie in Rovinj, Istria—the former Venetian trading city of Rovigno, or Roman Arupinium—where she serves as patron saint, just as she does for several communities in Portugal, France, and Andalusia, while simultaneously being their namesake. Hallelujah Europe, sacred diversity wherever one looks: what entanglements!

I step out from the chill of the church onto the warm, steaming pavement. The sky has opened up; big, heavy drops are falling. I seek cover under archways and walk along the facades until the rain (Sp. lluvia, Ital. pioggia, Fr. pluie) fades. Then I head down a wrong flight of stairs and once again get as thoroughly lost as is only possible in a small town. A small town on a hill in Umbria.

PS: eu is Ancient Greek for “good,” phemi is the inflected form for “I say,” hence the Latinized word euphemism

There is understanding in Perugia for me shunning Rome. I preferred to sit on a train for two and a half hours instead. Rome, they say, is simply too big. It had been pouring there in buckets; the Termini station was besieged by umbrella vendors, the food overpriced, and the hostels were no different. Nothing decent to be found, so I moved on—quasi per errore—to Perugia.

By evening, the rain has passed, Perugia’s cobblestones glisten, the air is cool, and everything smells freshly washed—in some places, quite distinctly of soap. Stefano picks me up at the station, which is crucial in Perugia, as I realize during the short car ride in which we easily gain 200 meters in altitude.

The tiny attic I move into for two nights had once been converted by Stefano himself to make room for one of his four sons. Everything happens very quickly; I am handed three keys that I can’t clearly identify and an imprecise map with an imprecisely placed “X,” and immediately we are on our way again: I am taken to a shop that is still open even on Sunday evenings. From there, I stroll toward the centro storico in the gathering darkness, pass the university, descend and ascend again, walk in circles, and get thoroughly lost.

Perugia is sublime in the literal sense of the word, sitting exposed like a headland in the middle of a sea of Umbrian hills. Though it remains unclear how much of this grandeur is owed to nature and how many meters to the older settlements upon which newer ones have been saddled for thousands of years. You descend deep into the Etruscan well, climbing down from the center of the city via stairs into a basement of time to see the remains of an older civilization. They are stones, arranged in a circle, not particularly photogenic, but of Etruscan origin, like the city itself. Perugia is expansive in every sense; its streets and alleys wind around the slopes, running in curves and leading into narrow lanes that sooner or later tighten into stairways and flights of steps. It is a constant “up and down”; I get lost again the next day, having no idea where I am, comparing the inaccurate map with the details of reality but never finding the alley I am actually in, until I finally throw it away.

Only when I hit the Corso and thus reach Perugia’s “top floor” do the hills and slopes, the squares and alleys, arrange themselves around this point of reference. Running exactly along the shoulder of the hill is the Corso Vannucci—white, wide, level, and straight as a die—the center and main artery of urban life, especially in the evenings. From this crest, the neighborhoods, the church towers, and the various levels of the city unfold.

The Frizz-Bar in my quartiere is responsible for everything: for caffè and breakfast, for pranzo, for afternoon beers and colorful mixed drinks, serving the young and the old alike. Aesthetics play a subordinate role here compared to the bars of the centro storico; it’s all about functionality. The prices also differ significantly from the main hill; a cappuccino goes for one euro. I am allowed to settle in with my computer and am even granted some electricity. When the two proprietors step outside for a moment to sit with another guest at one of the tables, I notice that they are no longer speaking Italian, but another idiom that is somewhat familiar to me. At first, I am puzzled, then almost certain, and I ask. And indeed: Albanians. One comes from Laç, which I know, much to his surprise. The other from Kruja, which I also know, which surprises him just as much. The third is from Tepelena, which I don’t know, but will likely get to know soon. We marvel at each other.

They are more shy about their “Albanian-ness” than I am used to. They smile softly and answer with restraint. The effort to integrate into Perugia was too great, the road from Laç, Kruja, and Tepelena to Umbria—to their own Italian bar—too long.

I am still sitting in front of my computer in sweatpants and slippers, organizing my onward journey, when suddenly things are being cleared away and the bar is set to close early. They are celebrating a birthday upstairs. It’s out of the question that I should leave now—absolutely out of the question! It becomes a long evening: the journey to Albania begins, quasi per errore, in Perugia.

Valldemossa is a tourist attraction, beautifully situated in the heart of the mountains and crowned by the church tower of the Carthusian monastery. It gained fame primarily because Madame George Sand—the pen name of Baroness Dudevant—once spent a winter here with her sickly son and her ailing lover, Frédéric Chopin.

The Spanish sun was supposed to do her son Maurice good, and certainly wouldn’t hurt Chopin: Parisian doctors had advised a journey to the south, to the sun, and to milder climes.

That it had to be Mallorca of all places was due to George Sand’s adventurous and pioneering spirit, and certainly also to her veneration of Jean-Jacques Rousseau and his romantic, progress-critical ideas of nature, primitivity, and the peasantry! Chopin’s condition deteriorated so rapidly following the crossing in early November 1838 that medical advice was immediately sought in Palma. Chopin was diagnosed with “consumption”—tuberculosis—a finding that no one wanted to believe, as the “nervous disorder” he had been treated for in Paris seemed far more fashionable.

Furthermore, the Spanish sun was in short supply; on Mallorca, as in the entire Mediterranean region, a damp, cool autumn sets in from November, and long rainy days are accompanied by raging storms. Regardless, Maurice, Chopin, Sand, and a specially imported piano moved into a cell of a deserted charterhouse in the even colder, rainier, and stormier mountain village of Valldemossa in December. The monastery had been secularized in 1835, and its nine cells had passed into private ownership and could be rented cheaply.

In Valldemossa, Chopin composed the Préludes, among them No. 15—the well-balanced, deliberately paced “Raindrop Prélude”—written, according to George Sand’s memoirs, in a feverish, almost trance-like state. In letters, Chopin described the cell as a “tall coffin, the vaulting dusty, the windows small,” while Sand described the masonry as being buffeted by crescendos of storms and a fierce staccato of rain.

The cell, Celda No. 4, is wonderfully preserved along with its furniture and devotionals, having been converted into a Chopin museum; the small piano still stands exactly where it did back then. Comparing it to a three-room apartment in Berlin wouldn’t be entirely off the mark, though it lacks a kitchen and a bathroom; instead, there is a stove, a washstand, and an opulent strolling garden. I can well imagine how cold and clammy those monastery walls must have been in winter, how difficult to heat, and how unhomely compared to the already sophisticated, luxurious Paris and the amenities it offered the arrivistes—a group to which both George Sand and the young Chopin already belonged. However, speaking of an inhospitable monastery cell, as both did, evokes false associations of asceticism, which was certainly not the case. The bed is no cot but an expansive couch, the furniture is bourgeois, and the Abbot’s library—including a volume of Galileo Galilei’s Systema Cosmicum—was exceptionally well-stocked and remains splendidly preserved today.

Perhaps some secret improvements were made here and there, a piece of furniture added, but fundamentally the difficulties lay less in the accommodations than in the arrival of our travelers and the resulting lack of outside help. For the fact is that Chopin—freshly divorced and diagnosed with a contagious disease—and the likewise divorced Sand, who to top it all off smoked in public, along with her son, formed such an illustrious, “immoral,” and “corrupt” party that it is no wonder the rural community of Valldemossa at the time reacted with caution or even rejection. Yet the pure workload of the two—Sand had to write to earn a living, Chopin had to compose to earn his—suggests that the subsequent literary crafting of the Mallorcan journey was more interested in myth-making than in a truthful accounting.

After only ninety days—in February, and thus without ever experiencing the joys of spring—the two fled Mallorca. To make the fiasco complete, they had to endure the crossing to Barcelona alongside herds of pigs. According to her own account, Sand complained to the captain about the noise level, unsuccessfully, of course. Less than a year later, Madame Aurore Dupin, as Sand was known in private life, began reporting on her disastrous excursion in the Revue des Deux Mondes, including a critique of Mallorcan pig farming in general.

These articles would later be compiled into the book A Winter in Mallorca, which continues to sell well to this day (even on Mallorca), despite being a document of disappointment and resentment. It is a document of reckoning that eloquently praises nature and naturaleza, the Arabian heritage, and manor houses (such as La Granja near Esporles)—briefly, everything romantic—but directs itself vehemently against the Mallorcans themselves. For long stretches, it maintains an air of superior insight and higher knowledge, though it must be clear that George Sand could not have understood—not even verbally—the people whose way of life and production she was judging.

She shows neither interest in nor understanding of the historical circumstances of the time—the turmoil surrounding the Spanish succession, which left Mallorca in a sort of watchful, uncertain state of siege. She doesn’t even touch upon the fact that the troops of a certain Napoleon had paid their respects to Mallorca less than thirty years prior, and only mentions in passing that the French Parliament had not yet taken the question of a renewed invasion and annexation of Mallorca off the table.

In a word: George Sand remained impervious to large parts of reality; she largely filtered out the political events of the time and showed little inclination to adapt to the foreign, provided it didn’t manifest as sublime nature but rather as bad weather or headstrong people. Even today, she demonstrates how political an unpolitical stance can be, and that a “document of culture” can simultaneously be one of “barbarism” (Benjamin). Praising the neat uniforms and good looks of a few scattered troops on the mainland, only to write three sentences later that horse and rider occasionally looked quite thin—even of a downright emaciated stature—testifies to an aristocratic detachment from life that cannot be undone by simple travel.

The entire fiasco of this journey to the south is quite simply due to a lack of understanding. Mallorca was not the idyllic, paradisiacal south—not the blessed stepping stone between Europe and Africa that they had yearned for, in whose sun they had hoped to bathe, and about which they had tried to rave at the start. Instead, it was a poverty-stricken, peasant island in the depths of winter, and, for all intents and purposes, in a state of war.

Following the flight from Mallorca—the piano remained behind—Chopin was in a state of total collapse. After the crossing, there were fears for his life, Sand wrote. The French warship that picked them both up in Barcelona, allowing them to depart without having to set foot on Spanish soil again, greeted them with Vive la France. Sand praised the education and distinction of the French officers and the cleanliness on board, believing herself to have escaped an—I quote literally—”inhuman race.” It remains to be noted that at their next stop, Marseille, Sand and Chopin faced difficulties quite similar to those they had encountered on Mallorca.

The Parisian doctors, by the way, would be proven right in their own fashion. They had diagnosed that Chopin’s “nervous disorder” would subside before his fortieth birthday: Chopin died at thirty-eight. Of tuberculosis.

Storming Hannes had already moved on to Valdemossa, but I was held back in Esporles by cold spring rain. Getting stuck there isn't hard; Esporles isn't as picturesque as Pollença, not as famous as Valdemossa, and therefore very relaxed and very normal. Plus, it’s home to one of the most beautiful—if not the most beautiful—hostels I know. Sa Fita, a luxury hostel in a spacious, old townhouse with a garden out back where lupines bloom, daisies grow, as well as a row of young lemon trees and a stately avocado tree. An avocado tree! Blessed are those who will be here once the fruit is ripe!

Marta and Joan have only been running the hostel for a year, following three years of careful and expertly executed renovation. In the common rooms, coffee table books are on display, alongside stacks of National Geographic magazines and hiking literature. I feel at home and enjoy the rainy day—reading, writing, and simply being and staying there.

I pick up a second day of “delay” when, seeing the weather clear up, I intend to tell Joan that I am moving on. Joan, however, asks if I’d like to head out with him: for a few hours on the other, far less-trodden side of the valley—in the “wrong” direction for me. He wants to scout some paths there and suggests I just come along. Joan—tall, athletic, and energetic in the sense of visible energía—is a former racing cyclist who quit when he would have had to start using illicit substances and methods. The mountain calls, and with it a seasoned mountain guide—vamonos! Valdemossa can wait or, if necessary, be skipped. I’ll just have to catch up on it later.

And so it is Joan who hands me the decisive key to understanding the Ruta de la Pedra en Sec—the Dry Stone Route—and the Tramuntana. I should definitely take the poles, he says, as it would get quite steep in places; water and comida as well. By now, my Spanish has improved significantly, but only four weeks ago, I was a linguistic menosvalido. Joan couldn't have cared less, though; for half a day, he explained to me in Spanish the significance of the huts and walls, the cisterns, and the circular stone clearings in the mountains. We hiked through the high forests of Son Poquet, ascended the Fita del Ram, and returned to the valley and Esporles via the Maristella monastery. Joan has an eye for an overgrown olive tree, for the interplay of colors in wild orchids, red earth, and white rocks. Along the way, he repeatedly marvels at the Mallorcan wonders himself—how beautiful everything is, how precioso, how increíble.

Previously, I had simply accepted the stone remains that one encounters time and again along the path—blindly accepting them without truly asking what purpose they had served. Now, everything became clear: the huts were charcoal burners' huts, the clearings served the slow firing of the holm oaks, and all the paths were for transporting the charcoal produced this way down into the valley. Poc a poc, a vivid picture of the work and the way of life up there began to take shape before my eyes. I imagine how, at night in the valley, one could see the small points of fire from the smoldering woodpiles, scattered far and wide across the mountain slopes. I see the life up there before me—watering the livestock at one part of the cistern, while the people drew from the other. The mountains become populated, busy, and then bare again, for fifty or sixty years ago there were no trees here—not around the charcoal burners' huts, not alrededor of their working and sleeping quarters. The management of the mountains is, therefore, also the explanation for the extensive, old trail system in the Tramuntana and for the walls that enclose and accompany you.

The circular, deep stone structures that I had taken for cisterns tambien turn out to be lime kilns: in them, limestone was once burned to dust, primarily to be mixed and used for lining houses and wells. Also I came to understood about “snow houses”: snow was collected, shoveled into large basins lined with stone, compacted into ice, covered, and later transported block by block into the valley or on the backs of donkeys as far as Palma, to serve in iceboxes and at fish markets.

I almost stayed in Esporles even longer, happy with the circumstances, if it hadn't been for Storming Hannes, who told me to move my butt. He was already close to Soller, facing the high mountain stages, and was feeling a bissl fad—a bit bored. I complied, and it’s a good thing I did, otherwise I might have become a Detourist or, worse, a Stay-Behind; I wouldn't have met the guy from Vorarlberg or the Double Pack, and this Brädlie would be even more dissatisfied with me.

With every stage a long-distance trail feels a more and more like a school field trip. While the landscapes changes, the people do not. You meet, you talk, you continue separately, perhaps take a different path, stay in a different hostel, and yet you see each other again the next day, eventually landing in the same refugio in the mountains—because, after all, there’s only that one, and the next is half a day away. I walked fifty kilometers together with Hannes from Styria; that’s no small distance. The names of the mountains, even the names of the towns, the accommodations—all of that is quickly forgotten, because every day is a new struggle for the essentials: what to eat, where to sleep, what will the weather be like? But what remains are the companions.

Mister Tweed—that’s what he christened me, because I was sitting over the map in my jacket in the face of the approaching bad weather when he caught up with me at the start of the Serra des Puntals: Hannes, whose bright orange down jacket (”Yeah, if I get smashed up, I want ‘em to find me!”) I had already spotted far behind me on the previous plateau, wondering who was gaining ground meter by meter with such a quick stride. I wouldn’t learn his name until Estellences—hours after I had ultimately chosen the coastal path over the mountain route, while Hannes, just like Dirk, the Butcher, had crossed the poorly marked high plateau in fog and drizzle.

I had already bivouacked with the Butcher at La Trapa, but he only earned the nickname a few stages later in the high mountains, after repeatedly proving that, given two options, he would reliably choose the less sensible one. Hannes from Styria became the Storming Barber due to his rapid pace and his profession, though he could just as easily have been called the Detourist, given his tendency to get lost every few minutes and then catch up with the field from behind. On the climb from Soller, I imagined him ahead of me the entire time, thinking he would be waiting for me somewhere up there as we had agreed, when suddenly he appeared behind me because he had taken a wrong turn and ascended the wrong side of the mountain.

Then there was the lady with the drinking problem (a bottle of red wine costs six euros in the refugios, nothing more needs to be said), Blond and Gray, who always walked side by side, furthermore the Double Pack, and the guy from Vorarlberg. The guy from Vorarlberg was the only one who didn’t need a nickname, because people from Vorarlberg are so rare abroad that the generic term is perfectly sufficient. At nearly thirty years old, the guy from Vorarlberg had no mobile phone and no Facebook account, but he did have his well-considered principles—for instance, never using any form of transport while out on a trail, come what may (I took the bus during the two rainy days). He lived mainly on dry rice pudding and had liberated a mess kit from the federal army. The Styrian and the Vorarlberger got along famously, not just because of their shared nationality, but also due to shared television experiences: both had seen a documentary on Arte about the Tramuntana Trail, hosted by the Brit Bradley Mayhew. Initially, I took Brädlie for a well-informed fellow hiker whose acquaintance I had unfortunately missed. Not that I really regretted it, because Brädlie seemed like a bit of a know-it-all. The misunderstanding was only cleared up upon further inquiry.

I ended up walking the final stage with Hannes from Styria and the Vorarlberger, from the Lluc monastery down over a few ridges to Pollença. The lady with the drinking problem had dropped out, skipping the final stretch due to—as she put it—a “lack of beauty,” which neither the Double Pack nor I, nor the Styrian or the Vorarlberger, can confirm. Blond and Gray probably couldn’t either, but they went missing and didn’t stay at the refugio where we arrived around four, but likely continued straight to Palma. The Butcher, meanwhile, didn’t arrive until after dark because he had wandered off and bagged an extra mountain as well as “discovering” a path—if you can even “discover” paths at all, which I hereby doubt.

Speaking of the refugio: it is located at the entrance to Pollença; the Styrian and I dropped our backpacks immediately upon arrival and wanted a beer, but the Vorarlberger cast his veto. Because Brädlie had said that the Tramuntana Trail ends at the Plaça Mayor in Pollença and only there! Well, if that’s the case and Brädliesays so, we can walk that last kilometer too! No sooner said than done; we found the small square by the church, sat down at a free table, ordered beers, and toasted to what lay behind us. The only stupid thing was that we weren’t sitting at the Plaça Mayor at all, but at the Plaça Seglar—no less beautiful, but 200 meters away from the official end of the trail! 200 meters that we are now strictly speaking missing—at least if you go by what Brädlie says.

A lack of experience is a guarantee for a diverse range of new impressions. It had been perfectly logical to stock up in Palma at a well-known chain store with the essentials for a multi-stage trek through the Mallorcan mountains: two shockingly cheap trekking poles that I could either wreck along the way or give away afterward, a hammock that I would definitely need on the first stage since there would be no overnight accommodation whatsoever, and a quilted, sleeping-bag-like blanket with a zipper. The total investment was just over thirty euros—and I would come to feel that all too soon.

It was less logical to set up camp right at the front of the platform after reaching the first destination. La Trapa is a former monastery that can be reached from Sant Elm in just under two hours via a partly very steep route; the buildings are currently being renovated but are not accessible. For years, there have been rumors that a refugio would open there. So far, however, there is no sign of it, and little hope for the future. Even though the location would be brilliant, even though a refugio is exactly what is needed right there. A circular platform sits in front of La Trapa with a magnificent view of the sea and the island of sa Dragonera, the dragon-shaped one. Certainly, the spot and the view are unique, but the freshening wind should have been warning enough, should have told me that it would be more sensible to seek shelter instead of a romantic camp with a view. There is a point at which the consequences of wrong decisions must be borne and can no longer be undone—the famous point of no return.

This point was reached around ten o’clock in the evening: there was no light, the wind had grown into stormy gusts, the pines swayed, I had gradually put on every layer of clothing I owned, secured my things with stones, and forced myself into the cheap sleeping bag, which didn’t work. The night was pitch black; the young moon wouldn’t rise until about four o’clock. The wind penetrated all layers, tugged at the tarps of the hammock, and made it rock back and forth. Alternately, I feared that my things would blow away, that branches of the pines might break off, or that the hammock ropes would snap. Sleep was out of the question, but changing locations was no longer an option—in case of doubt, that would only make the situation worse.

At six in the morning—at the very first inkling of daylight—I began to pack; by half past six, I was on my way, climbing uphill behind La Trapa. The first half-hour of walking with gear is thankless, probably because the body isn’t used to it, the mind grumbles, and one generally isn’t quite at operating temperature yet. Quickly, however—surprisingly quickly—a strangely purposeful, strictly focused clarity of moving forward sets in. I am still surprised by how well it goes, after a night with hardly any sleep, in the wind. How the body does it: when it is allowed, when it has to, when it can. Quickly, however—surprisingly quickly—we were over the mountain, turned the corner, and the land, the sea, the view opened up, and everything revealed itself to the greatness that lay ahead.

How can you possibly forget an entire neighborhood? I looked for the Basilica Santa Maria del Mar on this side of the Laietana. But what does “looking” even mean? I just started walking, the way I always do, fully expecting to find myself standing in front of it any second—just as I had unexpectedly stumbled upon the Tabaco the day before. First the Tabaco, then the Panaderia, and finally the grocery store that had left such an impression on me years ago: not just because of the hams hanging from the ceiling, but because of the solid wine for three euros.

Back then, I remember clearly thinking: surely this must be possible in Berlin, too—decent wine for a few euros, presented without pretense. I even found the ice cream parlor where Rosella used to work; I cut across the Raval, crossed the Rambla dels Caputxins, turned the corner, and suddenly stood exactly where those two Pierrots were once given cups of ice cream as their daily wage.

Maps? Who needs maps. No hay mapas, no hay planes, somos estrellas. But I can’t find the Santa Maria; I don’t even remember the name anymore, only the general direction. What I do know is that Ignatius of Loyola is buried there. But I don’t dare ask for Ignatio, for Sant Ignasi de Loiola, with my rudimentary Spanish.

– The way to Ignatio, please?

Instead, I walk left, then right, pass the post office again, and finally end up going in circles. I decide to have a coffee and tap into the Wi-Fi: El Born! Of course! On the other side, obviously! In El Born, in the café across from the Santa Maria, that’s where we met back then. Two notebooks had ended up on the table, the illustrator’s and the writer’s. The next day, we met again to paint posters and buy white face paint in a magic shop. White face paint is important when you are preparing to offer dreams of all kinds for sale next to an ice cream parlor near the Ramblas.

It was only a short time in Barcelona, barely more than a week, two at most. But now, returning to all these places within a few hours and beginning to remember every detail, I feel as if I had lived here for quite a while. It has been eight or nine years since then, maybe even ten. Barcelona has changed; the El Born district hardly seems run-down anymore, all kinds of shops have opened, jute bags are being designed, and groups of visitors are led in front of the Santa Maria every few minutes—though they don’t hear a single word about Ignatio.

El Born, the nearby sea is palpable; it is cool in the shade and already warm in the sun. A mild spring breeze is blowing; and these were the first pleasant days. Oh Barcelona is beautiful, unbelievably beautiful.

Problems aren’t the exception; they’re the rule. They arise from a lack of local knowledge, a shortage of experience, and lead to a total misjudgment of the mission at hand. In alpinism, these are called subjective hazards – because, unlike objective ones (rockfalls, storms, avalanches), these can actually be minimized. The lesson I took home from Essaouira is that you can easily get into trouble, if not fail entirely, even on a perfectly straight, level path.

I’ve noted this elsewhere, but I’m happy to repeat myself: Abroad, you’re an idiot. You’re an idiot when you stroll through foreign villages at noon while everyone else is resting. You’re an idiot at the carpet market because you know neither the prices nor the quality. And you’re an idiot when you simply decide to walk along the beach to the next settlement, even though you don’t know exactly how far away it actually lies.

The reason I offered the Dutch girl an excursion was her Moroccan acquaintance. Joan was in her mid-30s; at times she looked like a young hippie, at others like a lady. She seemed a bit naive to me, and I tried to explain the situation as best as I could: that the attention and frequent calls from said acquaintance were certainly not just out of friendship, but that there was a very real interest behind them. There was nothing wrong with that, either; it’s just the nature of things. And perhaps it had a little to do with her passport. She just needed to be clear about the next steps and the inevitable escalation. In any case, it couldn't hurt to vanish from the radar for a day. For instance, by joining me on my trek to the beaches north of Essaouira. An excursion where the phone battery happened to die would be the perfect excuse. Besides, a small pause never hurt anyone.

Joan agreed, we met for breakfast the next morning and set off. A horse-drawn carriage took us to the far edge of town – to the part where Essaouira consists of concrete blocks and the streets run wide and straight until they suddenly end. The carriages in Essaouira are made of metal and fitted with metal tires; they are the cheaper alternative to the petit taxis and have nothing to do with romance. The beach begins right after the last housing blocks and is in no way inferior to the crescent-shaped city beach to the south, but it is hardly frequented.

We strolled out, passed the sewage plant, and eventually stood indecisively in the wind, maybe an hour from the city limits. Joan’s phone was, as I had advised her, without enough battery; mine was at one percent. I remember that I had just opened the map and framed the area so that a village north of Essaouira was captured – the next settlement – when the battery died. I couldn't check the exact distance anymore, only the general location.

– I’d guess 8 or 10 kilometers from here, we’ve been on the move for quite a while.

– We’ve got enough water with us!

– If necessary, we can always climb over the dunes; the road has to be right behind them.

– Let’s go then!

The beach was absolutely uniform, even monotonous; only a shimmering ridge in the far distance suggested a tectonic change. We had been walking for two hours when a slight uncertainty began to set in because nothing, absolutely nothing, changed in our surroundings. What helps against uncertainty? Perspective helps. – Let’s climb the dunes and look for the road. However, "dunes" was an understatement; the crest of the dunes was as high as a multi-story house, and trudging up through the sand was quite a slog. But that’s not the point. The point is that from up there, no road was to be seen. Instead, miles of untouched land with palms and grasses, without roads, without agriculture, and without people, stretching far into the hinterland to a second, distant ridge, behind which the road presumably lay. A lump formed in my throat; Joan had tears in her eyes.

– Oh my God!

The unexpected sight of the deserted expanse was a shock that momentarily drained all energy from the body and made the knees go weak. A decision had to be made, otherwise we would lose our composure and with it the necessary stamina. We thought turning back was the safe bet, but it would surely cost us more time and water than moving forward. We were wrong, because we hadn't even covered half the distance, but we didn't know that yet and therefore agreed to keep going. Sand is like snow; it drains your strength and you cover less distance than you think. If you add wind and poor visibility, you miscalculate completely. A shimmering haze of spray and swirling sand hung over the beach, making it impossible to identify things in the distance. A hoped-for bar or a wooden shack at a river mouth turned out to be a washed-up log with a plastic tarp caught in its branches. But then, finally, we spotted a silhouette in the distance that actually seemed to be moving. A few minutes later, we were sure it was coming toward us, though we couldn't tell what it was.

Then, slowly, a figure emerged from the glittering mist: a person on a donkey. This allowed for only one conclusion: the rider was on his way to Essaouira and coming from exactly where we wanted to go. There was no other possibility. He could tell us how much further it was! When he got close enough, I spoke to him and explained our predicament. The man laughed, made wild hand gestures and gurgling, unintelligible sounds. He was mute; he couldn’t articulate. I repeated the name of the village, and he pointed affirmatively in the direction he had come from. We were no wiser than before, yet the encounter had bolstered our morale because he hadn’t looked horrified, but supportive, and we picked up the pace. Suddenly we entered a different kind of terrain, having to work our way around some rocks in knee-deep water, then continuing through a shimmering green carpet of algae, and later through salt grass. Finally, with the small lighthouse, the village appeared on the horizon.

It took another hour before we reached the first paths and, eventually, the houses. We desperately wanted to eat and drink, but there was nothing. A driver to take us back to Essaouira, however, was quickly found. The small car that transported us along the inland route – which indeed took a massive detour – was unbelievably rickety, rattling and clanking, the engine wailing in agony.

Before sunset, we sat tired but endlessly satisfied in the Kasbah and enjoyed several cold beers – at my regular café, where the owner had placed a single table just beyond his awning, the only one where alcohol was served. He only set it up in the evenings: everything under the overhang was his café; everything else was none of his business. Joan charged her phone; she had 23 missed calls.