ori.worm

27.3.25

when Tirana's rain begins to let up, the men fold their umbrellas, carrying them at their sides like rifles. an Albanian walking alone wears a severe face, but when meeting others, they quickly brighten - the barista steps in front of the counter to hug a customer, the women at the hotel desk laugh through the afternoon, a pedestrian walks a tourist to their destination instead of merely giving directions.

i find i am the opposite, warming to the city as i roam alone. just as wearing a blindfold heightens my other senses, losing the distraction of a travel companion has sharpened the world. standing on a street corner, i become aware of how delicately i eat my byrek, catching wayward phyllo flakes before they fall to the pavement. under the fluorescent lights at Flower's restaurant, i watch beads of water on my table come together like shy guests at a party. sitting at a cafe, i cling to the last scene of an Albanian novel, hanging onto the affecting words, and when i close the book my throat feels heavy and numb.

at the House of Leaves museum, i learn more about panopticons from the Sigurimi exhibits than i did from a 10-week course at UChicago. i lose focus on the displays and contemplate what has only recently begun to change: Tirana's few skyscrapers, the roads climbing through the mountains, the movement for a Bektashi microstate. after Hoxha's regime, it feels like the country spent 30 years keeping the brakes pressed to the rails, but only recently the momentum slowed enough to go into reverse and begin the journey to a different place...