Thousands of people have marched to protect this stretch of Albania’s coastline. But before I could understand the protests, I had to understand the place itself. What I found was a landscape shaped by empires, transformed by isolation, and slowly reclaimed by nature—where abandoned bunkers, migratory birds, and centuries of history now exist side by side.
We left the United States with no itinerary, no deadlines, and no clear destination beyond Rome. Six months later, after crossing three continents and five countries, we’ve discovered that the most valuable lessons of travel have little to do with the places themselves and everything to do with the people, moments, and perspectives found along the way.
What happens when life finally slows down? Through street dogs, wildlife at Tirana Lake, and the overlooked rhythms of daily life in Albania, this story reflects on observation, simplicity, and learning to notice what most people walk past.
In the mountains north of Tirana, a search for the elusive Balkan lynx led us through the mining town of Bulqizë, into snow, fog, and wild terrain, and toward an unexpected friendship that became just as meaningful as the animal we hoped to find.
It started as a perfect moment. Still water, a hunting pelican, everything in rhythm. And then it broke. Not with noise, but with something far more familiar.
The roar of lions carries across our neighborhood in Tirana almost every morning. Curious to meet the animals responsible, Jess and I spent an afternoon exploring the Tirana Zoo — an experience filled with wildlife encounters, muddy misadventures, and a few unexpected lessons about conservation.
For $22 round trip, we expected a simple day trip. Instead, Albania delivered roaring waterfalls, brutal climbs, surreal turquoise water, and two deeply skeptical construction-site puppies. Lake Bovilla and Gamti Mountain proved that the best adventures often begin with mild suffering and end with unforgettable views.
In Tirana, a deeply rooted idea called Besa shapes daily life — a quiet understanding that honor, integrity, and kindness are not optional. The result is a city that feels remarkably at ease.
A month in Hammamet, Tunisia taught us that travel isn’t always rainbows and butterflies. Between illness, stubborn weather, budget friction, and a steady undercurrent of hypervigilance, we learned what it means when a place doesn’t hold you gently—while still finding gifts in rooftop light, shared food, and a lightning storm we’ll never forget.
The storm did not pass through Hammamet.
It stayed.
Over days of relentless rain and unbroken lightning, the city flattened under water and sound. Streets vanished, thunder struck without warning, and buildings remembered what they were made for. This was not spectacle—it was endurance.
