Four Days in Oaxaca

Snagged by the lure of a city apart, still dominated by tradition, where old women weave colorful tapestries on the street and vendors proffer a wide variety of insects for human consumption, where Mezcal flows like golden water and the spirit of the Zapotec still pervades modern life--we headed to Oaxaca City.

We found all these things and more, albeit scattered throughout a buzzing metropolis where modern ideals mix aggressively with traditional appearances to create a dynamic--and yes, unique--cityscape. Oaxaca is not the mythical city of the cloud jungle we were hoping to find, but its reality as a modern state capital makes up for any bubbles burst.

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Our journey began, as often happens, in the bus station several hours before the city awoke. A reasonable and friendly five-minute taxi ride brought us and our backpacks to the Zocalo, the city's market center. Still before 7AM, an army of street vendors was already busy preparing atole and tamales for breakfast and laying out the day's wares.

We had a hostel reservation but forgot to bring a map, forcing us to wander in the general vicinity of the address before passing the right door. Outside the market square we funneled into narrow avenues speckled with potholes, punctuated by an ad-hoc traffic-light system that makes crossing the street a gamble.

Road weary after forty-five minutes of frustrated wandering, we finally saw the sign for Azul Cielo. We rang the doorbell and were ushered into a lobby that gave way to a serene courtyard full of tables, chairs, and foliage of all kinds. As we've seen before in Mexican hostels, we were not permitted to enter the courtyard or any common facilities until the check-in time of 1PM (unless we paid an additional fee), so we gathered our valuables, left our packs in the lobby, and emerged once more into the fray of civilization.

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By now the city was entirely awake. Bumper-to-bumper traffic covered the roads, making walking difficult and breathing harsh. To make things more complicated, we had a job to do: buy bus tickets to Guadalajara, our next destination.

Oaxaca City has two main bus stations: one for the comfy, air-conditioned, entertainment-supplied 1st-class buses, and one for the stiff, sweaty 2nd-class buses. Hoping to save about $10 USD, we opted to try the latter. To get there, we threaded our way past the Zocalo and into seedier, smoggier streets lined with a different breed of vendor, hawking batteries and boxers instead of handbags and t-shirts. As we neared the west end of the city center we escaped the facade of tourism entirely, entering thick crowds of local Oaxacans living their day-to-day lives--buying bread, going to the bank, drinking coffee. Despite clouds of bus exhaust and the din of shouts and horns, there was something entirely refreshing about this neighborhood: it felt like a city to be lived in, not to be looked at.

Still, the bus station itself was jarring. Surrounded by puddled dirt streets and dusty parking lots, the 2nd-class bus station loomed like an unfinished Communist landmark dropped into a refugee camp. A cocktail of odors from all stages of metabolism accompanied us to the entrance. Inside the station was cool, dark and empty. The standard Mexican bus station half-circle surrounded the terminal, and a dozen or more bus companies vied for our business with bright signs and enthusiastic spokespeople. We got the information we needed and promptly left, deciding to try our luck at the 1st-class station--though we ultimately did return to the 2nd-class station to buy our tickets, and we have no complaints about the ride.

We spent the rest of our afternoon wandering lazily along the calle turistica, photographing churches and sampling a variety of street foods. We discovered that the city sprawls for miles along the valley, but that the central zone is very compact and walkable. A surprising number of pedestrian-only streets can be found between the Zocalo and Parque El Llano, diminishing the potency of exhaust fumes, and the same neighborhood hosts a variety of museums, galleries and landmarks.

Having successfully passed the check-in time, we headed back to enjoy our hostel's exclusive courtyard, kitchen area and bathrooms. The atmosphere didn't disappoint, but we didn't linger--Oaxaca City had plenty more to show us and feed us before the sun went down.

We spent the following days exploring the city on foot. We perused MACO, the Oaxaca Museum of Contemporary Art, which displayed an impressive selection of entries to a recent national competition. The top floor was dedicated to the Los-Angeles educated, Guadalajara-based Eduardo Sarabia, whose cross-medium exhibition used humor and absurdity to comment openly on delicate issues in Latin America. We found a complementary, if unsettling, photography exhibit nearby at the Centro Fotográfico Álvarez Bravo, which presently decorated its walls with stark images of heroin addiction in the border city of Juarez. We went in and out of half a dozen churches, including the home base of the city's patron saint, Soledad, whose coffers were overflowing for the holidays.

To get the lay of the land, we hiked up a seemingly endless staircase to reach the Guelaguetza Amphitheater. Perched at the base of a steep hill, this massive, imposing and modern structure is visible from almost any vantage point in the city below. It was built to hold 11,000 people, but is only used a handful of times each year--most notably for the region's Guelaguetza (or "gift-giving") festival. Completely empty save for two security guards, the theater and its grounds harbored an eerie, otherworldly atmosphere. The terraces to the side of the main attraction, however, afforded stunning, panoramic views of the city's central neighborhoods, as well as the steep hills flanking Oaxaca Valley.

For an even more expansive view and our archaeological fix for the trip, we signed up for a 20-minute bus ride to Monte Alban, a partially excavated city nested on a hill overlooking Oaxaca Valley. The seat of the Zapotecs for nearly 1000 years, Monte Alban is an impressive testament to pre-Columbian civilization in the Americas. While not as surreal as Machu Picchu or as vast as Teotihuacan (outside Mexico City), Monte Alban still offers an important glimpse into a society completely removed from our own. The trip is easy from the city center, and is worth the trouble just for the hill's unobstructed panoramas of the modern metropolis below.

On our last day we were ejected from our hostel at 11AM and had over twelve hours before our bus departure, so once again we gathered our valuables and took to the streets, cafes and markets for a fully immersive day in the city. Sunset found us resting on a bench in Parque Labastida, snacking on elote while a troupe of elementary-school students gathered for a Christmas play. As gypsies, wise men, reindeer and more than a few Josephs and Marys skipped around the park, a neon-pink Hummer Limo pulled up on a side street. While the driver slowly negotiated a tight intersection, the young players ran to the scene brandishing their smartphone cameras, shouting about quinceañeras and fiestas in general. As the sky grew darker we saw several more limos follow the same path--apparently more than one local girl was celebrating her passage into womanhood in the same way. Eventually a signal from the nearby bell tower prompted the performance troupe to forma broad column and march into the church, with camcorder-toting parents escorting on all sides.

Satisfied with our dose of Oaxacan Christmas, we scrounged up change for one more elote and prepared to run the gauntlet, through the real city, back to the 2nd-class bus station.  

From Sea to Shining Sea: Reflections on My American Road Trip

With Stephanie staying in Europe to walk the Camino Portuguese, I needed something equally epic to show for the remainder of my summer. I needed to do something gutsy, unique—and preferably really, really American. Somewhere between the Accursed Mountains and the sun-drenched fields of western Albania, I decided on The Road Trip.

Part 1: The Car

The "Go Cart" in Chappell, NB

I've lived in the adult world of jobs, paychecks, rent and restaurants for close to seven years now, but none of it has ever necessitated a car. First, I've always lived in places with excellent transportation (or in some cases, places where parking a car costs more than an apartment). Second, I've spent all my spare cash, for as long as I can remember, on plane tickets. One year, I calculated that a full 37% of my (admittedly small) income had gone to Delta Airlines. I was rewarded with a wealth of new memories, along with enough frequent flyer miles to exchange for a pleather toiletries bag. While my willful avoidance of bucket seats and steering wheels might appear as a downright un-American aversion to the automobile, I assure you that—as a Michigan native and an avid reader of Hot Rod magazine until the age of 9—I really do love driving. I just happen to almost never do it.

Luckily, providence came in the form of a sister who had just relocated to the West Coast and was able to give up her wheels for a while. Without further ado, I boarded my ship—a 2006 Hyundai Accent, or what my sister lovingly calls "the go cart"—and hit the road at 5:00 AM on a foggy Oakland morning. First stop: Sunset Beach, San Francisco.

Part 2: From Gridlock to Desert

Characteristic morning fog covers San Francisco

Call me naive, but I thought the 5:00 AM start time would let me cruise through the sleeping city and to the beach—a scant 11 km away—with time to spare. 3 hours and half a tank of gas later, I reached my destination with a new perspective on transportation, city planning and climate change. My mind is completely boggled, to this day, as to why so many Americans put themselves through the commute (a strange euphemism for this masochistic orgy of emissions) on a twice-daily basis.

The rest of the day was comparatively easy: meandering through the Sierra Nevada Mountains, past fabled Lake Tahoe and into a steady stream of motorhome pilots heading east to seek their fortunes in Reno; past Reno and into the deserted plains of Nevada, and onward over miles and miles of straight, flat roads.

I set up camp the first night in a KOA in the strange "border town" of Wendover, which straddles Nevada and Utah on the brink of the Bonneville Salt Flats. The town was comprised of a casino, a grocery store and a small strip of hotels and fast-food restaurants. I celebrated my first day with a single-serving bottle of wine and a Subway sandwich, and as the sun disappeared behind the mobile homes I wondered why, in this vast nation just under 2.5 centuries of age, anyone had thought it was a good idea to colonize such an inhospitable plot of land.

Part 3: Salt

At the first signs of dawn I packed up, traversed the Utah border and spent the early morning staring into the sun as it rose above the salt flats. I couldn't imagine a better time to speed past these mirror-like expanses of lifeless swamp, reflecting in perfect technicolor the warm hues of the sky and the pale, crusted mountains in the distance. The highway here is barely elevated, and the salty earth on both sides seems every bit as navigable as the blacktop, making the 85-mph speed limit seem painfully slow. Utah's constant roadside reminders to avoid fatigued driving have a formidable enemy in the state's soothing and hypnotic landscape.

Mountains reappear east of Salt Lake City

Nearing western Utah, I was abruptly brought out of my trance by the stench of the Great Salt Lake. While certainly beautiful, this aberrational ecosystem fosters a thriving bouquet of bacteria and other pungent lifeforms that—combined with the rotting remains of thousands of seagulls—casts an inescapable aura of decay across a large swath of the Southwest. Photogenic, yes, but I stowed my camera because I'd stopped here before. I smiled at the memory of racing barefoot through clouds of Salt Lake gnats with my girlfriend. Incidentally, we drove to Vegas that same day and got married.

By the time I could re-open the air vents I was already in Salt Lake City. I'd been here before, too, and I remembered being struck by the city's diversity. While certainly still the Mormon stronghold it was established to be, SLC is an enthusiastic mix of beer-swilling outdoorsmen, cosmopolitan entrepreneurs and, of course, the darker side of the West as embodied in the meth-pocked girls and the boys who yell at them, congregating near dingy hotels just south of the polished downtown. SLC is still new, but it's very much a real city.

Soon Salt Lake City was behind me, and I was well on my way to the winter-sports paradise of Park City. At this point, in a simple logical association between Olympic cities, I was reminded of the Sochi games, and thus of the 10 CDs of Russian lessons I'd brought with me. I popped one in as I passed into Wyoming and the landscape perceptibly changed from ear-popping mountains to rolling fields of grass; I had finally reached the comfortable monotony in which I would reside for the next three days.

Part 4: America and Me, a Mini-Essay

As you may have guessed, this road trip wasn't done in the style of Jack Kerouac (or Tom Green, for that matter). I didn't have any benny tubes or tea, nor did I bring girls or good friends to laugh and fight with; I wasn't there out of desperation, ennui, or to reconnect with a lost love. I was there to drive, to stay awake and in control during all daylight hours, and to reach my destination in less than four days. Of course, I was also there to see my country inch by at 80 miles per hour, to experience the full breadth of this isolated chunk of the map that, I had been told, was partially mine. I'd replaced Simon and Garfunkel with где находится Красная площадь, and I wouldn't say I was "going to look for America," but I was certainly keeping my eyes open in case it popped up.

My relationship with my home country has always been strained. While I grew up in a rural and decidedly patriotic corner of the Midwest, my parents often took a contrarian standpoint to local views. They avoided church services, even when it meant I wasn't allowed to attend the local preschool, and they offered lectures—in parallel to those I received in school, on Abraham Lincoln's racism, Thomas Edison's thievery, and the inhuman cruelty of WWII's explosive conclusion. I was bred with a natural irreverence toward patriotism, and an instinct to scoff at things most Americans hold sacred.

It wasn't until years later, when I was living in Budapest, Hungary, that I realized how quintessentially American this perspective really was. I found myself enjoying bragging matches with all sorts of nationalities about whose country is more harmful or more backwards. Oh, the people in your village have more eyes than teeth? Well, my neighbors used local pets for target practice (unfortunately true!). Budapest is building ghettos to separate Roma from the rest of the city? America institutionalized racial segregation until 1968! You think Russia has an income gap? Check the facts, мой друг! I win this round by a landslide.

But wait, look at me—I'm actually a really cool guy! By attempting to dispel rumors that America was comfortable, progressive or modern, I crafted my own identity as a self-made man—except that the wealth I accrued was cultural. I shed the poverty and moral bankruptcy handed down by generations of dubious American values and in their place invented my own cosmopolitan, global outlook. At least the way I like to tell the story, I've come from nothing and, through my own sweat and blood, molded myself into a successful, well-rounded person.

Was I the first to follow this trajectory? Absolutely not; in fact, I've modeled my own story on the basis of America's legends. After all, the stories I've heard most are those of the cowboys, entrepreneurs, rockstars and presidents whose paradigm is more quintessentially American than fast food. From Abraham Lincoln to Johnny Cash, true Americans don't just achieve, we achieve despite. The more I criticize America, then, the more I highlight my ability to rise above its influence...and the more American I become.

Part 5: Wyoming

Rock Springs, WY: Pacific Union depot

Wyoming gets its own section because, frankly, I like it. For what Wyoming may lack in roadside scenery, it makes up in culture—not the Louvre kind of culture, but something more immediate and organic. In many ways it reminds me of Eastern Europe: humble, but full of unique charm and scenery; always a bit gritty, and always ready for a party.

Just a lesson or two into my Russian curriculum, I stopped in Rock Springs, WY for a quick lunch of cheese and raw kale, and I parked in a public lot across from two bustling bars. I was glad to see what appeared to be close groups of neighbors and friends toasting a hot summer day with ample buckets of Miller High Life and ample packs of cigarettes enjoyed both in and out of doors. These were true American dive bars: the kind that even the toughest Williamsburg or Portland kid would fear, and the kind that can only be found in healthy, working-class towns hundreds of miles from the nearest urban center. The sight was refreshing, especially coming from the chain-laden, gluten-free haven of California's Central Coast. I might have joined them if I didn't have a job to do.

Speaking of which, I realized later that I had parked sometime between 10:30 AM and 11:00 AM on a Tuesday. This was evidently the weekday brunch crowd.

Downtown Cheyenne, WY

Even better, I took a walk across a nearby pedestrian bridge overlooking the largest Pacific Union station I'd ever seen (oh yeah, America DOES have trains). On the other side I found a town parade, complete with pickup-truck floats carrying everything from cheerleading squads to Korean War veterans. It's difficult to describe the mixture of emotions conjured by such a sight: something like nostalgia tinged with guilt for leaving home—then with a drop of doubt as to whether either feeling was my own or just borrowed from some football movie I saw in the 90s.

I made a point of stopping in Cheyenne before leaving Wyoming for good. The state's capital and largest city is home to nearly 60,000 individual people—roughly the size of Webuye, Kenya, for reference. I wasn't disappointed. Cheyenne's downtown is a mixture of well-preserved government buildings, pawn shops, urban decay and cowboy stores. While states like South Dakota and even Colorado relentlessly push their uniqueness on visitors through a variety of anticlimactic tourist traps, Cheyenne didn't seem like it was trying to sell anything. I got the feeling that Cheyenne doesn't know how cool Cheyenne is, and I hope no one tells it because it might change.

After Cheyenne, I wasn't long for Wyoming. Nebraska loomed ahead, and I braced myself for the green, straightly plowed fields of the American Midwest. From here to Pennsylvania, the road would look exactly the same as the one that cut through my town in Michigan. For better or worse, I was home.

Part 6: Back in the Midwest

A rainy morning outside Chesterton, IN

The American Midwest, by my observation, boasts the country's largest diaspora. Everyone I've ever met knows someone from Ohio. Everyone on my block in Brooklyn incubated in a state bordering Lake Michigan. Filling condos in San Francisco and lofts in Berlin, Midwesterners have proven their adaptability, curiosity—and will to leave home—many millions of times over. While I count myself among those who left, I still maintain that this is one of the world's most under-appreciated swaths of paradise. First, the much-maligned weather is actually the perfect balance of extremes. Winter is long, but at least it's snow-covered instead of slushy; summer is muggy, but perfect for swimming; spring is short, but it smells really good. Then you've got a cornucopia of natural attractions: the Great Lakes like saltless oceans, the surreal amethyst fields of the Upper Peninsula, the lush forests carpeting everything undeveloped from Nebraska to New Jersey. Last but not least, there's the unyielding cordiality of people everywhere. It's not that they're bound by some cryptic Scandinavian code to be polite to strangers, as New Yorkers would like to think; but rather, in my experience, Midwesterners genuinely do hope you have a good day.

All that said, the highway scenery is extremely monotonous. In my entire trip, the only place I had to stop for a nap was Ohio—and it was just 4 hours after I'd started the day. Highway driving Illinois and eastward is also surprisingly expensive. Tolls are nonexistent in Western states, but between Chicago and New York I racked up nearly $70 in fees. As a proponent of infrastructure investment, I won't complain, but seriously Ohio—a new toll every 10 miles? That's just silly. Knowing I'd be back in a few short weeks I sped through the Midwest, blaring abrasive talk radio to subdue my nostalgia, heading straight for the hills of Pennsylvania and the Atlantic coast.

Part 7: The East

Grey cliffs of Pennsylvania

Some claim that Pittsburgh is part of the Midwest, but they are mistaken; Pennsylvania, in its entirety, is an Eastern state. The speed limit is lowered, rocky cliffs start to show their faces, and the percentage of BMW SUVs quadruples as soon as you cross the border. Still, while Pennsylvania is welcomingly exotic with its rolling hills, pine forests and polished rest stops, it's also disappointingly long to drive through. Thus, by the time I reached New Jersey, I was actually glad to be in New Jersey.

Boasting a long line of celebrities, from Abbott and Costello to Snookie and "The Situation," Jersey has colonized media far and wide for over half a century. The state's motto, "Liberty and Prosperity" blatantly places equal value on wealth and freedom, something that many Americans do but would be loathe to admit. New Jersey is a small and noisy state with a high population of individuals, from a remarkably diverse set of backgrounds, bent on getting rich at any cost. I drove 100 miles across the Garden State diligently, despite constant traffic jams and perilous drivers trading stocks via text message.

Leaving the Holland Tunnel,
entering Manhattan

When I reached Newark, I already felt like my journey was done. The New York metro area often includes all of New Jersey, but its jungle-like infrastructure doesn't start until here. Home to the region's 2nd-busiest airport and an industrial landscape that makes Gary, IN look like Palm Beach, Newark is just the kind of modern Hell that I love. It still took me over two hours and another $13 in tolls to reach the bosom of New York City, but I made the trip with the windows rolled down, taking in the shouts, honks and fumes of the country's densest megalopolis.

When I lived in New York City, I would use my spare time to explore the outer reaches of Brooklyn and Queens via bicycle. Once, with a few friends, I chanced on the discovery of a lonely and secluded beach, flanked by enormous missile silos, somewhere toward the end of Rockaway Peninsula. We went back dozens of times before the weather turned cold, opting for either the 2-hour bike ride or the 3-hour subway trip. We weren't the only ones who "discovered" the beach that summer: Williamsburg 'zines started giving Fort Tilden write-ups, and East Village publications diligently followed. Soon, the narrow stretch of Rockaway Peninsula was a haven for tattooed graphic designers and savvy NYU students—but we didn't mind. To us it represented success: we had discovered it on our own; we had found something new and good in the midst of 8 million restless souls, and that meant it was ours.

I hadn't seen the beach since before Hurricane Sandy, and I wasn't even sure if it still existed, but once I hit Brooklyn I beelined straight for the coast. The beach was there, albeit humbled, its sandy barrier reduced to sidewalk level. No matter—I jumped into the warm water and relished my accomplishment. Somehow, though, I knew that this wasn't my last stop. In a mirror reversal of manifest destiny, I understood why the colonists, the settlers and the pioneers had continued west. I felt the momentum of the journey compelling me to press on, past the sunless horizon and forward to the next discovery.

It wouldn't be a Road Trip without a TIME LAPSE!

  

Back in Podgorica, the Circle Complete

Distant view of the Millennium Bridge spanning the Moraca River in Podgorica, Montenegro

It seems like each day on our bikes has brought new and unexpected challenges, and we've learned to never take the distance on a map as an indicator of navigability by bike. But today, for our last day on the road, we were given the gift of an easy trip to Podgorica. It almost seems like an anticlimax after putting so much sweat, blood and tears into the trip thus far, but mostly we're just glad to be back safe with all of our appendages and most of our gear.

We started the morning with a dip in Lake Shkodra in the small beach town of Shiroka, just 3 km from central Shkoder, then proceeded to retrace our steps to the same town where we'd been left by our saviors in the mountain pickup nearly a week earlier. We were surprised to find how close to the border we were, and laughed to think that we'd spent nearly 10 hours cycling up and down treacherous mountain passes only to finish our day just steps from Montenegro.

Our only challenge was a strong wind that threatened to blow us clear away from Podgorica during the last 5 km, but we powered through it and into the welcoming arms of Hostel Info Podgorica, where we began our journey not long ago. It's hard to imagine all that we've done, seen and learned in just two weeks in the Balkans, and we're glad to be able to leave with such a rich collection of new experiences (and nearly 1 TB of video to prove it).

Tonight I'll enjoy a Nikšićko and some quality Ajvar, but tomorrow I'll already be on a plane headed back to the USA. I wish I could stay longer, but if all goes as planned I'll be back soon enough.

Terrain: Scenic, enjoyable, and an easy border crossing. The trip from Shkoder to Podgorica is about 63 km, but it's worthwhile to spend some additional time exploring the nearby towns on Lake Shkodra. The road to Podgorica is paved and mostly flat, but there are a few kilometers of very manageable hills after crossing into the Montenegrin side. The outskirts of Podgorica are flat and the road passes through several quirky neighborhoods. 

All's Well That Ends in Shkoder

We had another hard day, but with another happy ending—this time, we're proud to say that we toughed it out and pedaled to the end.

View of the Albanian countryside, taken near the town of Ishem

On our way out of our beach we stopped by a grocery store to buy water and ask directions. The proprietor sent for her 12-year-old daughter, who explained that the road we were on lead to a dead end in the mountains, and we had to backtrack nearly 15 km to take the right road. We were confused at the directions, because the only turnoff we'd seen on the way in was a narrow, bumpy road leading straight up into the mountains, and according to our map we were safely in Albania's flatlands.

Not true. The bumpy mountain road was indeed the one we needed, as confirmed by two police officers, four roadside bar patrons, and the original 12-year-old girl from Drac. With no other viable choice, we spiked our water with Powerade powder and started climbing. After four hours we made it to the peak, where I climbed a roof that afforded one of my favorite views from the whole trip, overlooking the vast plains of north-central Albania with rugged mountains in the background. We quickly descended, but again faced Albania's challenging infrastructure in the form of a 10-km dirt road more fit for hoofed than wheeled transport. Finally, after dropping my panniers several times and most likely a filling or two, we reached the highway that led north to Shkoder.

At this point we had lost all hopes of reaching Shkoder today, but the speed with which we negotiated the smooth asphalt of the flatlands gave us strength, and we decided to go for it after all. After another four hours, we saw Rozafa Castle rising in the distance, and we knew were were home. We'll relax here for the night, charge our batteries (literally and figuratively) and tomorrow we'll embark on the last leg of our journey, to Podgorica via Shkoder Lake. 

Terrain: These 90+ km were more challenging than we had anticipated. First we had to backtrack quite a bit from San Pietro Beach (Plazhi San Pietro) to Shkafane to catch the road we wanted to take toward Shkoder. Between Shkafane and Ishem (that little white space on the map below) is all mountains, which caught us by surprise and added a good chunk of commuting time. The roads are good, but mountain after mountain tires you out no matter what; the beautiful scenery kept us going. We passed through many dirt and gravel roads as we approached Bushnesh. Once you hit Lac, there are several options to get to Shkoder. We opted to take paved side roads that passed through villages and afforded nice opportunities to meet with locals and quench our thirst when needed.

From Durres to Drac: Our Own Private Beach Resort

Our private beach resort 

Our plan to cycle a quaint 35 km from Tirana to Durres proved successful, though more time-consuming and less pleasant than we'd hoped. Our main obstacle had been an overpass leading to the highway just outside Tirana, where we hesitated for at least a quarter of an hour before mustering the courage to heft our bikes across a six-lane entrance ramp and into the sea of trucks leaving the capital. Eventually the traffic thinned, the fumes dispersed, and we found ourselves in the sunny port city of Durres.

Taking a break in Durres, Albania

Boasting everything from white sand beaches to a 2nd-century Roman amphitheater, Durres is a prime spot for tourism, and the locals seem to know it. In our time in Albania thus far, we've noticed that English is rarely spoken outside the hospitality industry. Here, however, guards offered directions in English, locals struck up mutually intelligible conversations, and baristas spoke in an accent more reminiscent of Midwestern America than Southeastern Europe. We spent about two hours in the city taking in the sights and sounds and stuffing ourselves with fresh seafood before climbing back in the saddle for our trek northward.

Our goal was to reach the second peninsula after Durres, marked by the small towns of Drac and Shetaj, and we succeeded splendidly. After taking a chance on a winding dirt road just as the sun started to turn red, we came to a dead end in a green meadow just twenty meters from the sea where half a dozen local restaurant workers had set up campers and tents. They invited us to do the same and we gladly accepted, then grabbed a seaside table at the open-air bar to enjoy a Korça or two.

Unlike most free campsites, this one offers us scenery as well as security and comfort. We don't know the exact name of the spot but it's likely somewhere along San Pietro Beach. We've got full stomachs and a magnificent sunset safely captured on our SD cards, and I'm sure we'll sleep well tonight before getting up to hit the road and continue north.

Terrain: We cycled a total of about 83 km on this day. From Tirana to Durres we followed the SH2 national road. SH2 is a highway with heavy traffic and we would have preferred to take smaller roads, but we were short on time and this was the fastest route. From Durres we backtracked to the town of Maminas, from where we cycled along small roads that passed through villages and attractive countryside. Once we got closer to the ocean, the road changed to gravel, two tracks, and back roads. This entire route is flat, which is nice. (But biking on the highway = not so nice.)

Tirana: Albania's Frenetic, Bike-Filled Capital

View from atop the Pyramid of Tirana (#33 of the world's 45 eerily beautiful abandoned places)

We spent our Shkoder morning in the Faculty of Economics talking to Dr. Arjeta Troshani about tourism, economic growth and cycling in Albania. Her unique expertise meshes perfectly with our project, adding depth to our explanation of the underlying factors that play into every aspect of our trip. We were very grateful to have the opportunity to meet with her on such short notice, and we'll certainly touch base with her in the future, both for this and subsequent productions.

To save time, we elected to take a bus to Tirana rather than biking. While the web told us that it was a do-able 90-km trip, we wanted to maximize our time in the Albanian capital to really get a feeling for this fascinating metropolis that, up to now, we'd only read about in patchy blogs and forums. 

Fortunately, our friend from Shkoder, Zhujeta, owns a hostel in Tirana, so we already had our accommodation lined up. There, at Hostel Milingona, we met another American volunteer, Kevin, who had just arrived in the city three days earlier, as well as a small crew of enthusiastic travelers who were eager to share stories and Korças on the hostel's third-floor veranda. We relaxed for the first evening and explored the city, then spent the following day zipping through crowded streets on our bicycles to meet with local NGOs, seeing the sites, and interviewing the gang back at the hostel while a summer storm rumbled in the background.

Bikes galore at the "Bike Bazaar" in central Tirana

Once again, Tirana proved to be a surprisingly bike-friendly city. Despite dense traffic, chaotic intersections and ubiquitous city buses, drivers here seem much more aware of cyclists than they are in American cities, or other European cities—even those with more established cycling infrastructure. Tirana even holds a central "Bike Bazaar," where dozens of seasoned cycle mechanics buy, sell and flip used bicycles. The long avenue leading from the center, Rruga Qemel Stafa, is littered with spare tires, sprockets, frames and puddles of grease. If I wanted to buy a bike in the Balkans, this would be the place to score a sweet machine at a bargain price. 

After another successful stopover, we'll leave Tirana with insightful interviews, amazing footage of the city and its sights, and bellies full of qebap. We plan to head back to the Albanian coast tomorrow morning via Durres, Albania's second-largest city and a major port for ferries to Italy and Adriatic cruises.

Shkoder: Albania's Biggest Little City

The ride from Koplik to Shkoder seemed like just minutes after our ordeal from the previous day. After our day in the remote mountains, we were glad to coast into the city's frenetic streets and finally be among human beings again.

Our first goal was to connect with Dr. Arjeta Troshani, Dean of Shkodra University's Economic Faculty. Stephanie had met her a couple weeks earlier during her time in the Balkans with International Peace Park Expeditions, and she seemed like the perfect person to tell us about tourism and cycling in Albania. With a little help from no fewer than four of Dr. Troshani's colleagues, we managed to set a meeting for the following morning. Energized and relieved by our progress—after all, we'd shown up at the University without prior communication and with no expression of our intentions—we felt like our luck had once again turned for the better.

We set out to capture the essence of Shkoder on camera, and what we found was a bustling, friendly city that seems much larger than just 100,000, overflowing with cafes, markets and, most interestingly, cyclists. Shkoderans from all walks of life—young, old and in the middle—can be seen traversing the broad throughways on two wheels from dawn to dawn. Solid bike lane infrastructure and conscientious drivers maintain a feeling of safety, even in heavy traffic.

While wandering the streets, we were fortunate enough to be hailed by Zhujeta Cima, manager of a local backpacker hostel, who invited us into the homey yard of Mi Casa Es Tu Casa for beers and conversation. We spent most of the evening with Zhujeta and an American volunteer, Aaron, who was in the midst of his first big trip abroad and was clearly enjoying himself in the Balkans.

Hanging out with the crew of Mi Casa Es Tu Casa hostel in Shkoder, Albania

Shkoder had performed well on camera, and had provided for us amply. We turned in for the night with revived spirits and renewed enthusiasm for our trip and our project.