Yesterday I made a decision: don’t rush, avoid highways, don’t plan ahead, and try to sleep at campsites.
November 10, 2024, 9:30 AM. I hop on the motorcycle. The direction: Greece-Albania border, Montenegro, Bosnia, and then we’ll see. I leave the road to Thessaloniki at the exit to the town of Thebes, choosing roads that pass through villages and along the sea.
The climb to the village of Arachova on the winding road reveals the villages of central Greece. Between villages, I pass flocks of sheep, their scent lingering in the air even after I’ve moved on. To my left, the Gulf of Corinth appears before me—a stunning sight to see from the ridge of the mountains. The route leads down to the seashore, from where I’ll continue to the massive bridge that spans the gulf.
The road along the sea is breathtaking. The scenery shifts between blue mountains and green bays. The ride fills me with peace, and I begin to dream about the next destination.
It’s November. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and winter feels far away. As I approach the enormous bridge crossing the Gulf of Corinth, I debate whether to take the highway or stick to the village roads.
In a split-second decision, I continue beneath the bridge, staying true to my resolve not to rush. The road leads me to the shores of the Ionian Sea, bringing me closer to the Albanian border.
Choosing the backroads proves to be the right call. These roads wind through villages, allowing me to feel the local vibe, breathe in the scents, and stop at small cafés.
The sun begins to set, and I realize I need to find a place for the night. It feels like tonight will be in a hotel rather than in a tent. Maybe it’s the first day talking? I’m still used to the comforts of home—I haven’t toughened up yet.
I check Google. No active hotels in the nearest town. I consider continuing to the next town, but it’s likely the same situation. I have a tent. I keep riding along the coast, searching for a hidden spot.
Darkness starts to fall. I don’t like looking for a place to stay in the dark—it makes it harder to spot trails and set up a tent safely. At the last moment, I see a path leading down to the sea. The road is bumpy. I pass an inactive quarry, go a few more meters, and reach the shoreline.
The sun has disappeared, and I hurry to set up the tent. It’s the new tent I bought—the old one stayed on the motorcycle waiting for me in Los Angeles. That reminds me of the ride I’m planning in South America. It’s my first time using this tent. I fumble a bit with the poles, but with the help of my headlamp, I manage to figure it out. The tent is up.
It’s cold outside, but it’s cozy inside the tent. I sit with my back against my clothing bag, upload photos to my laptop, and read a bit about Albania. Outside, it’s quiet—except for the sound of the waves, there are no threatening signs.
At midnight, the wind picks up, shaking the tent. I step outside with my headlamp and secure another stake. That stabilizes the tent, and I manage to fal Eight in the morning: the sound of a car engine wakes me. I step out of the tent and see two people standing outside their vehicle. I wave hello, and they wave back. “We’re fishermen,” they say.
Time to get up. While heating water for coffee, I start packing up the motorcycle. With a cup of coffee in hand, I step out to take a good look at where I spent the night. The two fishermen stand on a rock by the water, casting their lines.
I get on the motorcycle, return to the road, and continue toward the Albanian border. The road winds through citrus groves, with farmland stretching out on both sides. Passing a fruit stand makes me crave fresh orange juice. It reminds me of a hotel breakfast. I make a U-turn and stop by the stand.
A full-figured woman with a serious expression looks at me. I haven’t said a word yet, but she peels an orange and offers me a taste. I grab a cup from the motorcycle, pick out an orange, and she swaps it for another one. I squeeze the juice by hand into the cup—delicious. I squeeze another, and she offers me a bag. I let her weigh the oranges, but she keeps adding more.
“I don’t have room for so many oranges on the motorcycle,” I say. For a moment, she gives me a serious look, then keeps adding more oranges. She weighs them, gives me another serious look, and I ask, “How much?” She signals with her hands: 5 euros.
“What? That’s three times the price,” I laugh at her serious expression. Realizing I’m probably her only customer today, I hand her five euros—and add another euro. “That’s for the juice.”
l asleep.
I ask if I can take her picture. She straightens up, places her hands on her shoulders, and tries to smile—though it doesn’t quite work. I tie the bag of oranges to the back of the motorcycle and get back on. I’ll have juice every morning for the next month.
I continue toward the border. I’ve heard many stories—mostly not good ones—about Albania, and my excitement grows as I approach the crossing.
It’s unbelievable how quickly it happens. No questions, no special checks—just a stamp in my passport, and I’m in. I head toward the coastline and the city of Saranda. I’ll find a hotel there and decide where to go next. I have another hour and a half of riding ahead.
The speed limit is 60 km/h. It’s hard not to notice that in most former communist countries, the limit is either 60 or 80 km/h. I’m riding on an open road, almost alone, struggling to adjust to the slow pace. Along the way, I study the local driving culture, trying to figure out where the police might be with their speed cameras.
The GPS directs me to a left turn, leading me onto a narrow, winding road climbing into the mountains. The scenery becomes more beautiful with every moment. The treeless terrain gives way to a dense, green forest.
I reach the highest point and begin descending on the winding road. Beside me, a stream flows parallel to the road, and the vegetation becomes even richer. The crystal-clear water of the stream stops me in my tracks—I have to capture this wonder in a photo.
I keep riding and enter a plain nestled between the mountains and the coast, with the stream still accompanying me. I stop again to take pictures, marveling at the wild nature around me.
My stomach starts growling, and I look for a place to eat. A roadside restaurant catches my eye—I have a soft spot for these spots in the middle of nowhere, unconnected to any village or town.
The waitress hands me a menu in Albanian, which I can’t understand. She invites me into the kitchen to choose food directly from the pots, where I see the whole family at work. Trays loaded with local dishes look so tempting it’s hard to decide. In the end, I order a steak and a few sides from the trays. When the bill comes, I’m surprised: only 13 euros! “Welcome to Albania,” I say to the waitress, and she smiles in response.
With a full stomach, I continue my ride and arrive in Saranda. I stop along the promenade, looking for a hotel with parking, and find one with a sea view. The receptionist says, “40 euros, including breakfast.” A fantastic price.
I park the motorcycle and head to my room. The view is stunning, and the room is spacious and luxurious. This is not at all how I imagined Saranda.
The city is well-organized, the promenade long and well-maintained, and the atmosphere friendly and inviting. All the tension I had accumulated from the stories I’d heard dissipates. Before heading out for a walk, I read a bit about the city’s history. Over the centuries, Saranda was conquered repeatedly—by Byzantines, Romans, Venetians, Greeks, and Ottomans—until finally, after World War II, it became part of the Albanian Republic.
I head down to the promenade, which feels peaceful and safe. The cafés are bustling, but there’s no loud music. I stop to eat a pizza, surrounded by tourists from around the world. At a nearby table, a young tourist sits alone, reading a book. The sight of a woman sitting calmly and comfortably alone speaks volumes about the safety of this place.
Saranda has turned out to be a pleasant surprise for me—a blend of beautiful beaches, delicious food, and a relaxed vibe.
I return to my room, filled with excitement and anticipation to explore more of Albania. Before bed, I plan my route for the coming days: I’ll continue along the coast to the city of Vlora, then head to the town of Berat and follow the Osumi River. Beyond that—who knows where the road will lead?
I turn off the light and lie down. Moonlight streams in through the window overlooking the sea, filling the room with a soft glow. I draw the curtain, feeling my eyes grow heavy… and drift off to sleep.
I wake up without an alarm clock. Still nestled in bed, I convince myself to enjoy another half-hour of lounging before I step into the shower to wake up fully. Afterward, I pack up the motorcycle and head downstairs for breakfast.
Breakfast is a buffet spread—eggs, slices of tomato, cheeses, and coffee. On my way to the table, I pass a pitcher of orange juice, bringing back thoughts of that woman who had filled my bag with oranges. After finishing, I mount the motorcycle and set off for the day.
I head north. The road weaves through olive groves—it’s harvest season. People are using sticks to knock olives from the trees, while sacks brimming with freshly picked fruit are scattered along the roadside. The road winds into a village perched above the sea. I stop to take pictures, thinking to myself, “This is Albania? I never imagined it could be this beautiful.”
The road then descends toward the coast. A breathtaking bay with vivid blue waters comes into view. I reach a junction, turn, and park right along the waterline. A blonde tourist family sits on the sand, with mountains framing the cove. A small restaurant with a terrace overlooking the sea plays Latin music, evoking the vibe of a Caribbean holiday. I take out my camera, capturing the moments, and then continue riding north toward Vlora.
Near the city, the hotel area along the coast greets me. Today, I plan to sleep in a tent, so I’m looking for a quiet spot by the water. I drive out of the city. Along the way, I pass through a shopping area—cafés, restaurants, and busy traffic. “Great city,” I say to myself.
The sun begins to set, and I still don’t have a place for the night. A Google search leads me to an area that looks promising, about 20 minutes away. The road passes through a pine forest that creates a sense of darkness. I reach the entrance to the destination—isolated and beautiful. I turn onto a dirt path, but a sign with a tent symbol and a big X over the tent makes it clear that camping is not allowed.
What should I do? I stop, sit on the motorcycle, and hesitate whether to enter anyway. I think about the consequences of a foolish act, and decide to continue looking.
I ride back on the road I came from, until I approach the turn leading to the beach. The beach looks tidy but inactive. The gate is open, but I’m not sure if entry is allowed. I think: yes, no, to go in, not to go in, just then, a police car passes by. I signal them to stop and ask if I can pitch a tent here.
The officer looks at me with an indifferent expression. “Of course you can,” he replies. I insist, explaining that it seems like private property. He waves his hand dismissively: “NO PROBLEM,” and continues on his way.
The sandy path leads me close to the water’s edge. Along the way, I pass a pile of chairs and tables. The restaurant is closed. The beach equipment is folded, except for the umbrellas stuck in the sand. I look around—there’s no one. I continue with the motorcycle into a large pergola. I assess the surroundings—I’ll set up the tent here.
The beach is about 50 meters from me. I walk toward the waterline and look left and right. Both sides of the beach stretch out to the horizon. The waves meet the sand at a calm pace. It still feels strange that the gate is open and there’s no one here.
I start getting organized – unloading the camping gear, setting up the tent, and placing the cooking equipment on a shelf around the central column. The sun has set, and darkness has fallen. I turn on my headlamp to arrange the sleeping gear. An older man approaches the central column of the pergola and turns on the light. Where did he come from? I get excited and say thank you to him. “No English,” he says to me. I try to understand what he’s doing here, but he doesn’t understand what I’m saying. While I prepare the food, I gesture with my hand that it will be ready in half an hour. With my finger, I point at him and at myself, and with a fork, I make a motion of eating. He places his hand on his chest and shakes his head no. “Coffee?” I gesture with my hand as if drinking. He smiles and nods yes.
I prepare a vegetable stew with red spices and a bit of soy sauce, and in the small pot, I cook white rice. Again, I offer, and he shakes his head no. In the moka pot, I make coffee and pour it. He sits down on the beach chair next to me. With a finger motion, I signal him to wait, wait, and go to my bag to take out a chocolate waffle. He smiles, tilts his head, and gestures with his hand to say thank you.
We stay sitting on the beach chairs, listening to the sound of the waves. Occasionally, I look at him, he smiles, and I give him a thumbs-up. We continue in silence until he stands up, gestures to me that he’s going to sleep. I see him heading towards the guard station. Now I understand. He’s the guard.
The sound of the waves wakes me up. I felt safe here, which is why I had a good, deep sleep. I get up and go to the beach showers. I prepare myself for a cold shower, but I check the water temperature. The guard comes toward me and gestures with his hand: no, no. “Come with me,” he signals with his hand. He leads me to a room behind the kiosk across the way, points to a solar water heater on the roof, and smiles widely. I shower with hot water – wow, it feels so nice.
Before I leave, I offer him a tip. He shyly refuses with a smile. I thank him with a smile and head out on my way.
I pass through the exit gate on my way to Berat and begin to process the intensity of the experience and my encounter with the old man.
Two hours later, I approach the city center. In the distance, I notice buses full of tourists. Large tourist groups are walking behind a guide holding a flag on the sidewalk.
This sight makes me decide to continue on. I might stop here on my way back to Tirana.
Berat is the oldest city in Albania, with a history of 2,000 years. It’s also called the “City of 1,000 Windows.” As I cross the city, I understand why. In the old part of the city, the houses are built with large, dense windows. From any angle you look, you mostly see windows.
I continue along the Osumit River, on a narrow road winding between villages. The road hugs the stream, then climbs up to the villages. It descends again and hugs the stream. These isolated places fascinate me. Riding a motorcycle here, with no car traffic on the road, feels like discovering a secret.
My stomach starts reminding me that it’s been a while since my last meal. I don’t have the energy to cook, so I decide that at the next restaurant I see, I’ll stop.
I pass through a small village. A guy is washing his truck, engrossed in his work, not noticing me. Suddenly, without intending to, he splashes water on me. Somehow, I manage to dodge it, smile to myself, and keep going.
I pass by a restaurant, but something doesn’t feel right, so I decide to move a bit further. A right turn, then a left, and oh, here’s a restaurant by the roadside, between tall trees and by the stream. Just the way I like it – a secluded restaurant.
I park the motorcycle close to the window.
The menu has dishes that look good, and I choose a hot goulash soup, and a vegetable stew whose name I don’t know, along with white rice, which goes well with the soup. Exactly what I need right now.
The waitress arrives. I order and understand from her that this is a family-run restaurant. They live upstairs; she’s 16, her little brother is doing homework at a table across from me, and the parents are cooking the food in the restaurant’s kitchen.
The goulash soup warms me from the inside, the flavors remind me of home-cooked food. After eating, I feel tired. I don’t have the energy to continue much further. It’s 15:45, and I’m debating whether to keep going or stop. If I continue, it will likely be too late to find a good spot for the night. Maybe it’s better to find a quiet place by the riverbank.
The bill arrives – 8 euros for a full lunch. Meanwhile, the waitress has returned to being a kid, her little brother has joined her at the table, and their mom is serving them a full meal.
I get on the motorcycle, and at the next spot I see a trail leading down to the stream, I’ll enter and settle in.
I continue riding along the stream, and it’s truly amazing here. The water looks like snowmelt, and the scenery around is wild. The road is bordered by tall mountains. I can’t find a clear trail that leads me to the riverbank. The tall trees around create a magnificent view, and I decide to enter. I make my way through the bushes, supporting the motorcycle with my legs to keep it stable until I reach the riverbank, beneath tall trees offering shelter from the morning dew. A perfect spot. Great, I’ll settle here for the night.
The engine is silent. Only the flow of water can be heard. I lay out the insulation mat, followed by the tent, and place an additional fleece blanket inside. I inflate the mattress and cover it with a thin flannel blanket. On top of it, I spread out the sleeping bag and add an inflatable pillow. I hang the flashlight from the tent’s ceiling—everything is organized and ready. Time to take a walk along the stream. My senses are heightened when I’m alone, and the power of nature is strongly felt. Calmness and tranquility overwhelm me as I return to the tent—what’s that? Goats? Yes, a white goat has come to say hello. Funny, I thought I was alone.
The darkness settles, and the cold intensifies. I enter the tent. Despite the chill outside, it’s warm inside. It’s still early, a good time to read about the route for the upcoming week. The monotonous sound of the flowing river helps me fall asleep. What time is it now? Two in the morning. I get up to pee. It’s freezing outside, so I put on a coat and shoes, walk a few meters away from the tent, and go back to sleep. Only now do I realize how cold it is outside.
First light penetrates through the tent’s fabric. I’ve slept for many hours, and it’s still hard to get up. I curl up a little longer. Unknowingly, two hours pass. Time to get up. I pull myself out of the cozy tent; I need to get organized. Oh, the water is freezing. A face wash in the stream’s water fully wakes me up. A cup of coffee by the riverbank, and I’m back on the road.
I’ll reach the end of the wadi and return to the city – Berat, and from there to Tirana.
I continue along the wadi, which narrows. According to the map, there will be a bend in the stream soon, so I’ll stop there for another cup of coffee and start heading back. A white dirt path leads from the road to the edge of the stream. I choose a sunny spot and stop for coffee. I lift the moka pot off the stove, how nice, two motorcycles are coming toward me. They stop in front of me: “You arrived just in time for coffee.”
While talking over coffee, I hear the story of two young guys who left Germany for a European journey. It’s nice to meet people traveling like me. “Before you go, come take some oranges.” Finally, I’m free from more oranges. I keep eating, but how many oranges can I eat? They continue on their way, I pack up, and start heading back.
I reach the road, and instead of turning left, I think maybe I should turn right, just a bit more, then I’ll head back. I move forward, and there’s a sign: “Permet 35 km.” I remember that near this town there’s a hot spring. Great, I’ll continue to the town. I go another five kilometers, but strangely, the road ends. A dirt road starts and climbs up the ridge. The higher I climb, the more challenging the path becomes. Did I make a wrong turn? I check the map – no, I didn’t.
I enter a section with rocks; the road curves left and climbs. Is that what I think it is? A small blue Toyota Yaris coming toward me? A young couple stops next to me: “Is there still a long way to the road?” the guy asks. “Listen, I’m not sure you’ll make it. Further ahead, the road is really problematic. You’ve got at least two more hours with that car.”
“It’s okay, this car can handle anything.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say. Despite that, they continue. Brave guy, I think to myself.
I continue on the dirt road, which becomes much more challenging. I’ve been riding for two hours, luckily I’ve got oranges. I stop, peel an orange, then another, and keep going. I’ve reached the highest point of the ridge. From now on, it’s all downhill. The road takes me down the ridge, and it becomes wider and easier. Before I get on the road, I stop to eat another orange.
Is this real? A huge caravan is coming toward me. I signal them to stop. A German couple in their 70s sits, enjoying the beauty of the road. “It’s not a good idea to continue on this road,” I tell them.
“We want to reach the town of Berat,” they say.
“If you continue, in another 5 km the road narrows, and in 20 km it will become dangerous. You won’t have anywhere to turn around.” Their smiling expressions turn into ones of worry.
“You can take the main road, three hours and you’ll be in Berat.”
They move forward 10 meters, then turn around.
I continue toward the hot spring. A dirt road leaves the narrow road and leads me to the spring. “Hey, how did you get here?” The German riders are just parking their motorcycles. I tell them I saw tire tracks along the dirt road and guessed they were theirs.
“If we had known you were riding the road, we would have waited for you,” one of them says.
Good luck explaining to them that I prefer to ride alone, I think to myself.
We enter the hot spring waters, which clean me from the dust of the road. The spring is large, and more tourists arrive to bathe in the water.
Tonight, I’ll stay at a hotel. I return to the town and find a family hotel for 20 euros, including breakfast. It’s a simple, clean hotel. Breakfast is served in the hotel restaurant, overlooking the river.
“Would you like some more tea?” asks the mom.
“Yes, another cup of tea sounds like a good idea,” I reply.
I stay for another half hour, checking the route I’ll take.
I say goodbye and continue toward Tirana. I leave the city and head toward the road that goes through a valley with a stream running through it.
Albania is a small country, but the streams and beauty here are amazing. I continue along the road, stopping to take photos, and keep going until I reach the main road. As I approach the city, the traffic becomes dense. I make my way to the city center, find a hotel, and the most important thing for me is a safe place to park the motorcycle. I unload all my gear from the bike and immediately head out to explore the streets.
I’m surprised to find a pleasant city with lots of cafes and restaurants. The streets are full of people.
At eleven at night, I return to the hotel. The streets remind me of Florentin in Tel Aviv. I walk along a street, with restaurants and pubs full of young people and adults, tables on the sidewalk, good music. The city is alive until the small hours of the night. Tirana is definitely a surprise. Tomorrow, I’ll head north, close to the Montenegro border.
At 9 AM, I’ll go eat something before I head out. I enter a small bakery, buy a cheese burek and a bottle of ayran. Wow, it’s delicious. A hot cheese pie that just came out of the oven, the dough is thin yet still puffed up from the baking. A warm burek with ayran is a great combination. Another cheese burek and another bottle of ayran, and now I’m ready to hit the road.
Albania is a small country. Two hours of riding and I’m in the suburbs of the city – Shkodra, close to the Montenegro border. Tomorrow morning I’ll head to the Albanian Alps.
I see there’s a small campground here. Nine euros for the night, and I have a place to set up my tent. Great, I’ll settle in.
There’s a couple with two young girls in a caravan, and another small caravan. I walk past them on my way to where I’m setting up my tent. “Hey, I’m Vera, and I’m Peter,” I introduce myself. Vera gets excited and tells me she was a volunteer at a kibbutz near Binyamina. The girls are playing on the grass. “I’ll finish setting up, and I’d love for you to come for a coffee,” I say.
I finish setting up the tent, and the door of the small caravan opens. A woman in her thirties says hello. We chat for a few minutes, and then I head back to the tent to prepare dinner.
“Hey, should I bring a bottle of wine?” asks Natalie. “Good idea,” I reply. We sit in a small pergola next to the tent. Natalie tells me she left Holland a few months ago. After buying the small caravan, she quit her job and set off for an indefinite time traveling across Europe. We drink more wine – actually, Natalie drinks more – and talk about our road experiences. She tells me that she struggles with boring routines, but on the road, she’s happy. “I can understand you,” I say. I didn’t notice how time passed, and we’ve already been sitting for three hours. It’s always interesting to meet other travelers and hear their stories.
“I’ve been invited to a party in the city. Tomorrow I’ll continue south,” she says. “I plan to leave early in the morning for the Albanian Alps, so I’ll say goodbye, but we’ll probably meet somewhere along the way,” I say.
The nights are cold, but it’s warm and cozy in the tent.
8 AM, I pack the motorcycle, say goodbye to Vera and her husband, and ride towards the Albanian Alps. The road exits the city, and I ride along the main road. Wait, I have to stop here. There’s a bakery with bureks. I buy an ayran and another cheese burek – now I can continue. It’s amazing, these bureks are everywhere.
I ride north from the city, ten kilometers, and turn east towards the Albanian Alps. I’m riding on a narrow road that passes through a village with stone houses. Before the bend, I’m surprised to see a group of photographers with large cameras on their shoulders. I think they’re filming a movie. A blonde girl and a young guy, maybe they are the actors, come toward me, each holding a jar of honey. They try to sell me honey. “Buy from me,” the guy tries to convince me. The girl says, “No, buy from me.” In the meantime, six video cameramen are focused on me. “How did I get into this situation?” I ask myself, feeling awkward. I don’t want to buy only from one of them. “I’ll buy from both of you,” I say to avoid disappointing anyone. 20 euros for each jar. That’s a lot, almost my daily budget. But I’m already in the middle of the event. To finish it, I take out 40 euros and pay. I’ll give one jar to a family with two little girls.
“Wait, now I want to take a picture of you,” I say. I pull out the camera, and they pose for a photo. And I continue on my way. Just when I thought I was done with the oranges, now I’m stuck with two large jars of honey. Maybe this is a TV game show? Weird.
I’m progressing towards the mountain range, into a forest of red autumn leaves. Soon I’ll reach the peak, and from there, I’ll begin the descent into the valley and the village of Aldoba. The landscape is dramatic, I feel small in front of the power of nature around me. Riding through the red autumn forest feels like riding inside a postcard. The road winds and leads to the village in the valley, which reminds me of villages in the Italian Alps—well-kept wooden and stone houses with chimneys puffing wood stove smoke. I turn left onto a white gravel path that leads to a lake. I stop for a moment to think about where to go from here. I thought about staying here for the night, but the cold that will settle in when the sun disappears makes me decide to head back to the campsite. It’s 3 PM, and the sun is hidden behind a huge cliff. I realize it’s going to get even colder than I thought.
While I’m organizing my thoughts, I hear Hebrew. A group of young people from Israel walks by. They just came down from the ridge. It’s a chance to get rid of a few more oranges and also ask them to take a picture of me.
Nice people, they tell me they came on foot through the mountains from neighboring Montenegro. I give them the last of my oranges and a loaf of bread I bought this morning. I won’t need it if I’m going back to the campsite.
Another hour and a half of riding until the campsite. I’d better start descending the ridge. The return journey feels different. I get a chance to see what was behind me when I arrived here, only now it’s much colder. I turn on the handlebar heaters. Now it’s comfortable. A donkey by the side of the road, I stop to take a picture of it, then continue to the campsite. With the last bit of light, I enter the gate to the same spot I was at this morning.
It’s strange, Natalie is still here. Her caravan is parked in the same spot. I walk past Vera and Peter. “I brought you honey,” I say, handing them the jar. Vera and her husband are happy with the surprise.
I finish setting up the tent. Natalie walks past on her way to the showers. “Is everything okay?” I ask. “I have a hangover,” she says. “I drank a lot of alcohol at the party last night. I’ll be on my way soon.” I wonder about the late hour. “It’s okay, I slept all day.” Vera comes over and gives me tofu spread and candies. Peter also arrives, and we stay to sit together. They tell me they left Slovakia a few months ago and plan to stay on the road for a few years. “The honey is very tasty,” they say. I hear about their plans to continue to Greece and Turkey. They go to put the girls to bed, and I spread honey on a slice of bread. Mmm – the honey is really delicious.
Natalie comes to say goodbye. “You have my phone number, if you need help, call me,” I say.
I go into the tent, lie on my back, and it’s nice to lie down after a long day of riding. I hear the diesel engine of Natalie’s caravan starting up, mixing with the sound of the wheels on the gravel path as she drives away toward the road. A thought crosses my mind that it’s strange to go onto the road so late in the evening.
I love these hours in the tent, it’s a chance to rest after a busy day full of experiences.
Eight in the morning, I wake up to the sound of an engine. I go out of the tent, and the family is already in the caravan, ready to go. They need to fix the brake cable that broke. Yes, they told me yesterday they were leaving early. I manage to say goodbye to them. An hour after them, I’m on the motorcycle heading toward the Montenegro border. A beautiful road, passing by a lake and through villages. Wait, there’s a bakery here. No way I’m continuing without eating.
I order a warm, thin bourekas and an ayran drink. It’s small, I’ll take another one. “It’s very tasty, but the problem is it’s fattening,” I tell the seller. “No, it’s not fattening, I eat a lot,” says the seller, who looks slim. “Great, so if I eat a lot, will I look like you?” I ask with a smile. “No, no,” she says while laughing. It’s fine that I eat a lot of thin bourekas. Soon there won’t be any.
I finish eating – the phone rings. “We’re by a very beautiful lake,” Vera says. She sends me the location, oh, it’s 16 minutes away from me. I go back along the way and discover a new, beautiful place I hadn’t been to. The girls get on the motorcycle, I take a picture, and we stay together for another half hour.
They continue to Tirana, and I head to Montenegro.
