Secluded Beaches

If you’re anything like me, you’re always searching for that perfect beach—somewhere away from the crowds, where nature’s beauty shines in its purest form.

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St Andrews Bay Karaburun Peninsula, Albania

Show Summary

Boat Only Beaches

On my last Albania visit, I made it my mission to explore Albania’s southern coastline, away from the typical tourist hot spots.

I’ve found some jaw-dropping secluded beaches that you can only get to by boat. So grab your captain’s hat, we’re going on a nautical journey you won’t forget.

Grama Bay (Gjiri i Gramës)

Located in the southern part of the Karaburun Peninsula along the Ionian Sea, Grama Bay, also known as Gjiri i Gramës, offers a tranquil retreat away from popular tourist destinations like Sarandë.

This bay is one of several captivating inlets comprising the western Ceraunian Mountains on the Albanian Riviera.

With a maximum width of about 100 meters and an average depth of 200 meters, the bay is surrounded by imposing coastal cliffs and features pebbled beaches.

Despite its allure, the area remains untouched, offering minimal facilities and limited road access.

Grama Bay is renowned for its crystal-clear turquoise waters and stunning scenic views.

For those looking to enjoy a meal or a drink, a local bar restaurant provides grilled fish, lamb, snacks, and beverages.

Additionally, the bay is part of the Karaburun-Sazan Marine Park and has earned the status of a natural monument.

Grama Bay Albania 1024x768

Why Visit?

Grama Bay is not just a picturesque location but also a site of historical and cultural importance.

The bay is primarily known as a tourist place and for the engraved inscriptions on the surrounding coastal cliffs dating back to antiquity.

It served as an important harbor and shelter for sailors during classical antiquity.

The vertical cliffs and rocks feature numerous carved inscriptions in Ancient Greek, Latin, and Medieval Greek.

  • Location: Southern Albania, along the Albanian Ionian Sea Coast
  • Accessibility: By boat only
  • Unique Features: Engraved inscriptions in surrounding coastal cliffs, part of the Karaburun-Sazan Marine Park

What to Do

Grama Bay offers more than just a beautiful beach; it’s a playground for history buffs and nature lovers alike.

Whether you’re interested in snorkeling in its clear waters or exploring the ancient inscriptions on its cliffs, there’s something for everyone.

  • Swimming: The clear waters are perfect for a refreshing swim.
  • Hiking: For the more adventurous, there are hiking trails around the bay that offer panoramic views.
  • Picnicking: The beach is a perfect spot for a romantic picnic.

How to Get There

Reaching Grama Bay is part of the adventure. Whether you’re hiking through scenic trails or cruising on a speedboat, each mode of transport offers its own unique experience.

You can either hike from Palasë, which is a 4-hour medium-difficulty hike, or take a speed boat.

Boats are available from Dhërmi, and the trip takes about 30 minutes. Private boat charters are also an option.

Tips for Your Visit

Visiting Grama Bay is an unforgettable experience, but preparation is key. From the best times to visit to essential items to pack, we’ve got you covered.

  • Best Time to Visit: Late June to early September, when the sea is calm for boating and the water is warm for swimming.
  • What to Bring: A camera for capturing the stunning views, sturdy shoes for exploring, and some snacks.
  • Safety: It’s advisable to go with a local guide who knows the area well.

Gjiri Shen Andreas (St. Andrews Bay)

Shen Andreas Bay is a secluded paradise located on the Albanian Riviera, near the small village of Palasë.

It’s part of the larger Llogara National Park, making it a natural haven rich in biodiversity.

The bay is accessible either by a challenging hike or by boat, offering two distinct ways to reach this hidden gem.

St Andrews Bay Karaburun Peninsula, Albania

Why Visit?

The bay’s secluded nature makes it an ideal destination for those looking for an off-the-beaten-path experience.

For the adventurous, a challenging hike to Shen Andreas Bay offers significant elevation gains and losses.

The hike can take up to 10 hours depending on your fitness level. Alternatively, for those looking for a more relaxed journey, boats are available to take you to this tranquil bay where you can enjoy nature at its finest.

  • Location: Albanian Riviera, near Palasë
  • Accessibility: By hiking or boating
  • Unique Features: White pebbled beach, secluded atmosphere

What to Do

Gjiri Shen Andreas offers a range of activities for nature enthusiasts. From swimming in its clear waters to hiking in the surrounding Llogara National Park, there’s no shortage of ways to connect with nature.

The bay is renowned for its white pebbled beach and crystal-clear waters, framed by towering cliffs that offer a dramatic backdrop. The beach itself is pristine, making it a perfect spot for swimming and relaxation.

  • Swimming: The clear waters are perfect for a refreshing swim.
  • Hiking: For the more adventurous, there are hiking trails around the bay that offer panoramic views.
  • Picnicking: The beach is a perfect spot for a romantic picnic.

How to Get There

Reaching Gjiri Shen Andreas is a versatile experience. Whether you choose to hike through Llogara National Park or take a boat, each route offers its own set of natural wonders.

Tips for Visitors

Whether you’re hiking or boating to Gjiri Shen Andreas, preparation is crucial. Here are some tips to make your visit as enjoyable as possible.

  • Best Time to Visit: The optimal time for hiking to Shen Andreas Bay is during the spring and fall months, specifically from March to May and September to November. Boating is best enjoyed during the calmer sea conditions of late spring to summer and early autumn.
  • What to Bring: If hiking, pack sturdy boots, plenty of water, and snacks. For boating, sunscreen and a hat are essential. A camera is a must in either case to capture the stunning scenery.
  • Safety: The hike is challenging, so it’s advisable to go with someone who knows the area or to use a reliable GPS route. If boating, ensure that the boat operator is experienced and knowledgeable about the area. Always inform someone about your plans for safety reasons.

Gjiri Anglezit (English Bay)

Gjiri Anglezit, also known as English Bay, is a secluded haven on the Karaburun Peninsula. The bay got its name from English submarines that used it as a docking point during World War II.

Today, it’s not just a tranquil retreat but also a hotspot for Albania’s top models and influencers, making it the most Instagrammable beach in the country.

Gjiri Anglezit 1024x768

Why Visit?

If you’re seeking both solitude and a touch of glamour, Gjiri Anglezit is your go-to destination.

Its remote location ensures a peaceful atmosphere, while its status as a favorite among Albania’s top models adds a dash of allure.

Whether you’re looking to capture stunning photos or simply relax in an idyllic setting, this bay has it all.

  • Location: Karaburun Peninsula, Vlorë County
  • Accessibility: By boat only
  • Unique Features: Secluded pebble beach, turquoise waters, Instagram-worthy scenery

What to Do?

This picturesque bay is framed by steep cliffs and features a small sandy beach that contrasts beautifully with the turquoise waters.

The water starts shallow, perfect for swimming and wading, and gradually deepens, offering excellent opportunities for snorkeling and diving.

Gjiri Anglezit is not just a place to relax but also a hub for underwater exploration. From snorkeling to diving, the bay’s clear waters offer a unique opportunity to explore Albania’s marine life.

  • Swimming: The clear waters are perfect for a refreshing swim.
  • Photography: The bay’s stunning backdrop makes it a perfect spot for photography.
  • Snorkeling: The clear waters offer excellent opportunities for snorkeling.

How to Get There

Getting to Gjiri Anglezit is a journey worth taking. Accessible only by boat, the trip itself offers stunning views of the Albanian coastline.

  • By Boat: Local operators from Vlorë offer trips to Gjiri Anglezit.

Tips for Your Visit

A trip to Gjiri Anglezit is a photographer’s dream, but knowing when to go and what to bring can make all the difference in your experience.

  • Best Time to Visit: March to May and September to November for hiking; late spring to summer for boating.
  • What to Bring: Swimwear, sunscreen, and a hat for boating.
  • Safety: Opt for a local boat operator familiar with the area.

Gjiri Dafines (Dafina Bay)

The bay is part of the Karaburun Marine Area and offers an unparalleled experience of Albania’s natural beauty.

It’s a place that’s often described as a “paradise” by those who’ve had the chance to visit.

Nestled along the Albanian Riviera, this bay is accessible only by boat, making it a perfect getaway for those looking for a more private beach experience.

The bay is surrounded by lush forests and rocky cliffs, providing a picturesque backdrop for sunbathing, swimming, and snorkeling.

Dafina Bay Albania

Why Visit?

Dafina Bay is not just a destination; it’s an experience that offers a unique blend of adventure and tranquility.

The bay’s secluded nature makes it a perfect spot for those looking to escape the crowds and connect with nature.

The sunset views here are particularly mesmerizing, making it a must-visit for photographers and nature lovers alike.

  • Location: Located on the Karaburun Peninsula, this bay is a breathtaking natural wonder.
  • Accessibility: Best accessed by boat due to challenging hiking conditions.
  • Unique Features: Known for its rugged terrain and stunning sunset views.

What to Do?

The bay is surrounded by rugged terrain, making it a challenging but rewarding destination for hikers.

The hike to the bay starts near the Marmiroi church in Orikum and takes you through a ridge, offering stunning views along the way.

However, the last part of the hike is particularly challenging due to the absence of a proper trail, requiring you to navigate through dense thorny forests or rocky ridges.

  • Hiking: For the adventurous, you can attempt the challenging hike to the bay.
  • Sunset Viewing: The bay offers mesmerizing sunset views, perfect for photographers.

How to Get There

Dafina Bay, located on the Karaburun Peninsula, is a breathtaking natural wonder that’s best accessed by boat or hike.

  • By Boat: Trips are available from Orikum.
  • By Hike: A challenging route starting near the Marmiroi church in Orikum.

Tips for Your Visit

Gjiri Dafines is a secluded paradise, but it’s essential to plan ahead. From safety measures to must-have items, here’s what you need to know.

  • Best Time to Visit: Late June to early September.
  • What to Bring: At least 6 liters of water, sturdy shoes if you plan to hike, and a camera.
  • Safety: If hiking, go with a local guide due to the challenging conditions.

Kakome Bay

Kakome Bay is a secluded spot that offers a tranquil escape from the more crowded beaches of Albania.

Located along the Ionian Sea, this bay is surrounded by olive groves and pine forests, providing a serene backdrop for relaxation.

Accessible only by boat, Kakome Bay is a haven for those looking to connect with nature and enjoy the simpler things in life.

Kakome Bay Albania 1024x668

Why Visit?

Kakome Bay is the epitome of tranquility. The bay’s isolation ensures that it remains unspoiled, offering a serene atmosphere that’s perfect for those looking to escape the hustle and bustle of modern life.

The ruins of the old monastery add a touch of mystery, inviting you to explore and ponder the passage of time as you enjoy the natural beauty around you.

  • Location: Nestled in the southern part of Albania, near the Greek border, Kakome Bay is a secluded paradise.
  • Accessibility: Only accessible by boat, which adds an extra layer of exclusivity to your visit.
  • Unique Features: The bay is surrounded by olive groves and dense pine forests, offering a unique blend of sea and forest scents. The bay also has a rich history; it was once a monastery site, and some ruins still remain.

What to Do?

Kakome Bay is a haven for beachgoers and water sports enthusiasts alike.

Whether you’re interested in sunbathing on its sandy shores or exploring its waters through snorkeling, there’s something for everyone.

  • Exploration: Wander around the ruins of the old monastery.
  • Swimming and Snorkeling: The clear waters are perfect for a refreshing swim or snorkeling adventure.

How to Get There

The journey to Kakome Bay is as serene as the destination itself. Accessible only by boat, the trip offers a peaceful escape from the hustle and bustle of daily life.

  • By Boat: Boats are available from Sarandë, and the journey takes around 30 minutes.

Tips for Your Visit

Kakome Bay offers a tranquil escape, but a little preparation goes a long way. Here’s how to make the most of your visit.

  • Best Time to Visit: Late June to early September.
  • What to Bring: A camera, swimwear, snorkeling gear, and some light snacks.
  • Safety: Always go with a local guide or a reliable boat operator who knows the area well.

Filikuri Beach

Filikuri Beach is a hidden gem located along the Albanian Riviera.

Known for its golden sands and azure waters, this beach is a paradise for sunbathers and swimmers alike.

The beach is accessible only by boat, ensuring that it remains relatively uncrowded even during the peak tourist season.

The surrounding cliffs offer opportunities for cliff diving for the more adventurous.

Filikuri Beach Albania 1024x683

Why Visit?

Filikuri Beach is a sanctuary for those who truly appreciate natural beauty.

The golden sands seem almost untouched, and the clear waters offer a visibility that’s perfect for underwater exploration.

The natural shade provided by the cliffs is a unique feature, allowing you to enjoy a full day at the beach without worrying about the harsh afternoon sun.

  • Location: Located near Himarë, Filikuri Beach is a hidden gem along the Albanian Riviera.
  • Accessibility: The beach is only accessible by boat, making it one of the most secluded spots in the region.
  • Unique Features: The beach is known for its golden sands and crystal-clear waters. The surrounding cliffs offer natural shade, making it a perfect spot for a full day of relaxation.

What to Do?

Filikuri Beach offers a unique blend of relaxation and adventure. From sunbathing on its secluded shores to exploring the nearby rocky landscapes, this beach provides various ways to enjoy Albania’s natural beauty.

  • Sunbathing: The golden sands are perfect for sunbathing.
  • Cliff Diving: For the adventurous, the surrounding cliffs offer a thrilling diving experience.

How to Get There

Getting to Filikuri Beach is a rewarding journey. Accessible only by boat, the trip offers an opportunity to disconnect and immerse yourself in nature.

  • By Boat: Boats are available from Himarë, and the trip takes about 20 minutes.

Tips for Your Visit

Filikuri Beach is a hidden treasure, and knowing what to bring and when to go can enhance your experience tenfold.

  • Best Time to Visit: Late June to early September.
  • What to Bring: Sunscreen, a hat, and a good book.
  • Safety: If you plan on cliff diving, make sure to check the water depth and potential underwater hazards.

Ksamil Islands

The Ksamil Islands are a group of four small islands located in southern Albania, near the town of Ksamil.

Known for their stunning beauty and crystal-clear waters, these islands are a popular destination for tourists looking for a unique beach experience.

Accessible only by boat, the Ksamil Islands offer a range of activities including snorkeling, diving, and paddleboarding.

Ksamil beaches. Four islands 1024x682

Why Visit?

The Ksamil Islands offer something for everyone. Whether you’re a beach bum, a foodie, or an adventurer, these islands have got you covered.

The close proximity to the mainland means you can easily go back and forth, making it possible to enjoy multiple aspects of beach life in a single day.

  • Location: Just off the coast of the Ksamil village, these islands offer a unique island-hopping experience.
  • Accessibility: Easily accessible by boat from the mainland.
  • Unique Features: Each island has its own unique charm, from sandy beaches to rocky outcrops. Some even have small restaurants where you can enjoy fresh seafood.

What to Do?

The Ksamil Islands are a hotspot for water activities. From kayaking between the islands to snorkeling in the crystal-clear waters, these islands offer a variety of options for water enthusiasts.

  • Island Hopping: Spend the day exploring the unique features of each island.
  • Seafood Dining: Enjoy fresh seafood at one of the island restaurants.

How to Get There

Reaching the Ksamil Islands is a breeze, thanks to the multiple boat services available from the mainland. Each trip offers stunning views of the Ionian Sea.

  • By Boat: Short boat trips are available from Ksamil village.

Tips for Your Visit

The Ksamil Islands are a popular destination, so planning your visit carefully can help you avoid the crowds and make the most of your time.

  • Best Time to Visit: Late June to early September.
  • What to Bring: Camera, swimwear, and some local currency for the island restaurants.
  • Safety: Always wear a life jacket when hopping between islands.

Gjipe Beach

Gjipe Beach is located at the end of the Gjipe Canyon, a geological wonder that adds to the beach’s allure.

Known for its stunning rock formations and clear waters, Gjipe Beach is a favorite among adventure seekers.

The beach is accessible only by boat or a challenging hike through the canyon, making it one of the more adventurous destinations on this list.

Gjipe Beach 1024x768

Why Visit?

Gjipe Beach is where rugged natural beauty meets serene seascapes. The beach is framed by a stunning canyon, which you can explore if you’re up for an adventure.

The waters here are some of the clearest you’ll find along the Albanian coast, making it a prime location for snorkeling and underwater photography.

The beach itself is a mix of sand and pebbles, and the lack of crowds makes it feel like your own private paradise.

  • Location: Situated between Himarë and Dhermi, Gjipe Beach is a secluded paradise along the Albanian Riviera.
  • Accessibility: The beach is accessible only by boat or a challenging hike, making it a true hidden sanctuary.
  • Unique Features: Known for its stunning canyon backdrop and crystal-clear waters, Gjipe Beach is a natural wonder.Deep Dive:

What to Do?

Gjipe Beach is a unique destination that offers both adventure and relaxation. Whether you’re interested in hiking through the Gjipe Canyon or simply relaxing on its secluded beach, there’s something for every type of traveler.

  • Canyon Exploration: The Gjipe Canyon offers a unique hiking experience.
  • Snorkeling: The clear waters are perfect for exploring the underwater world.

How to Get There

Getting to Gjipe Beach offers two distinct experiences: a challenging hike through Gjipe Canyon or a relaxing boat ride. Both routes offer breathtaking views and a sense of adventure.

  • By Boat: Boats are available from Himarë and Dhermi, and the journey takes about 20-30 minutes.
  • By Hike: For the more adventurous, a challenging hike from the main road can also get you there.

Tips for Your Visit

Gjipe Beach offers both hiking and boating options, so knowing what to pack and when to go can make your trip even more enjoyable.

  • Best Time to Visit: Late June to early September.
  • What to Bring: Hiking boots if you plan to explore the canyon, snorkeling gear, and a camera to capture the stunning scenery.
  • Safety: If hiking, make sure to have a reliable GPS or a local guide. For boating, ensure the operator is experienced.

Krorez Bay

Krorez Bay is a secluded paradise near Saranda, Albania, known for its untouched beauty and serene environment.

Accessible by boat the bay offers activities like kayaking and bird-watching. Ideal for those looking to escape the crowds, Krorez Bay is a must-visit for nature lovers.

Krorez bay
Paradise beach of Kroreza or Krorez on the Albanian Riviera in Saranda.

Why Visit?

The untouched beauty of the bay offers a sense of tranquility that’s hard to find elsewhere.

Whether kayaking through its calm waters or bird-watching in the surrounding hills, Krorez Bay offers a unique blend of activities catering to all travelers.

So, if you’re looking to escape the crowds and connect with nature, this bay should be at the top of your list.

  • Location: Krorez Bay is near Saranda, in the Vlore County of Albania. It’s a part of the stunning Albanian Riviera, offering a tranquil escape from the hustle and bustle of more touristy spots.
  • Accessibility: While not as easily accessible as other beaches, the seclusion adds charm. You can reach it by boat from Saranda, a 40-minute ride. The bay is perfect for those looking to escape the crowds and enjoy a more serene environment.
  • Unique Features: What sets Krorez Bay apart is its untouched stretch of white pebble-sandy beach backed by rolling hills and clear azure waters. The bay is so pristine that it feels like stepping into a postcard. The area remains largely untouched, making it a perfect spot for nature lovers.

What to Do?

Krorez Bay is an ideal spot for those looking to engage in water sports or relax on the beach.

From kayaking in its calm waters to bird watching in the surrounding hills, this bay offers a range of activities for all interests.

  • Kayaking: The calm waters are perfect for kayaking, offering a unique perspective of the bay’s beauty.
  • Bird Watching: The surrounding hills are home to a variety of bird species, making it a haven for birdwatchers.

How to Get There

The journey to Krorez Bay is a scenic adventure. Accessible by boat from Sarandë, the trip offers panoramic views of the Albanian Riviera.

Boats are available from Saranda, and the trip takes about 40 minutes. Some tours offer a full-day experience that includes stops at other nearby attractions.

Tips for Your Visit

Krorez Bay is a serene getaway, but knowing the best time to visit and what essentials to pack can make your trip truly unforgettable.

  • Best Time to Visit: The summer months are ideal for a visit, offering warm weather and clear skies.
  • What to Bring: Pack light as space on boats is limited. Essentials like sunscreen, water, and a camera are recommended.
  • Safety: Always check the weather conditions before setting sail. The bay is secluded, so make sure to take the necessary precautions.

Your Turn to Visit

There you have it—a comprehensive guide to some of Albania’s most secluded and awe-inspiring beaches, accessible only by boat.

Each of these hidden paradises offers something unique, from the historical engravings at Grama Bay to the Instagrammable allure of Gjiri Anglezit.

Whether you’re an adventurer at heart, a nature lover, or simply someone looking to escape the crowds, these beaches offer a slice of untouched beauty that’s becoming increasingly rare in today’s world.

So, why settle for the usual tourist traps when you can experience the unspoiled splendor of Albania’s coastline?

Pack your bags, grab your captain’s hat, and set sail for an unforgettable journey. With our detailed guide in hand, you’re well-equipped to explore these hidden wonders responsibly and fully. It’s your turn to visit and trust us, you won’t regret it.

Remember, the best adventures are those that take you off the beaten path, and these secluded beaches are the epitome of untamed beauty waiting to be discovered.

So go ahead, make your plans, and let Albania’s virgin beaches be your next great escape.

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Chapter 6

The Winds of Change

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Albanias Turbulent Transition

Thunder rolled across Kennedy Airport's rain-slicked tarmac as I stood at the gate in July 1987, my diplomatic passport heavy in my breast pocket like a stone. Five years of representing Albania at the United Nations had taught me to wear authority like armor, but today that armor felt paper-thin. Beyond the terminal's vast windows, an Alitalia jet waited to carry me home to a country that had begun to view me as foreign, perhaps even dangerous.

The whispers had begun weeks earlier. My replacement at the Albanian Mission, Sazan Bejo, arrived bearing veiled warnings over coffee that tasted suddenly bitter. "Be careful, Ilia," he'd murmured, eyes scanning the Manhattan café for potential listeners. "Things are... complicated at home." Letters from Tirana carried cryptic messages between their lines. My brother, who had always been my protector since childhood, wrote of "unusual interest" in my return. My cousin, a driver for foreign dignitaries, overheard conversations in hotel lobbies that made him say: "They are watching your arrival closely."

Though these warnings lacked concrete evidence, they hung over me like the storm clouds gathering outside the terminal windows. The thought of seeking political asylum had flickered briefly in my mind during sleepless nights, but my daughter remained in Albania, still living under the watchful eye of the communist regime. What retribution might fall on her innocent head if I refused to return? I kept these fears from my wife, whose dark eyes nevertheless reflected her own unspoken anxiety.

"Final boarding call for Alitalia Flight 457 to Rome, continuing on to Tirana," the announcement sliced through my thoughts. I tightened my grip on my carry-on bag and turned to my wife and young son. The moment of decision had arrived.

Two weeks earlier, I had shared a final dinner with Dr. Mike Zotos, a dear friend and Columbia University-educated psychologist whose Greek heritage connected him to the Balkans in ways few Americans could understand. The restaurant's warm lighting had softened the edges of our conversation, but not its substance.

"They're recalling you because you've become too independent," Mike had said, a wine glass held halfway to his lips. "You've seen too much of the outside world."

"Perhaps," I replied, studying the tablecloth's pattern. "Or perhaps they simply need me elsewhere."

Mike's skeptical expression had said everything. Over the years, he and his wife Tulla had become like family to us, their home a sanctuary of warmth and understanding. Years later, after I had returned to America as a graduate student in Wisconsin, the news of Mike's passing would reach me through Tulla's tearful phone call, a reminder that some bonds transcend politics and borders.

Under orders, my wife, young son, and I now boarded the plane. The cabin's stale air carried the scent of cigarettes and cheap cologne. As we took our seats, I felt the weight of two worlds pulling at me – the America that had expanded my horizons, and the Albania that still owned my future. The aircraft shuddered as it lifted into the gray New York sky, and I wondered if I was flying toward my destruction.

Tirana's airport greeted us with the familiar scent of diesel and dust. My eyes scanned the terminal for plainclothes security officers, searching for the telltale bulge of shoulder holsters beneath ill-fitting jackets. To my cautious relief, there were none waiting. Yet the absence of any Foreign Ministry representative to greet a returning diplomat spoke volumes about my uncertain status.

Instead, a lone official Mercedes – an old model showing the wear of diplomatic service – idled at the curb. The driver nodded curtly; he had been sent by Llambi Gegprifti, the mayor of Tirana, a trusted confidant from my earlier days. This unexpected gesture brought a mixture of comfort and unease. At customs, officers examined our luggage with unusual thoroughness, opening even the small suitcase containing my son's toys. Their faces revealed nothing as they waved us through.

The road into Tirana revealed a city unchanged yet somehow diminished since my departure. The same concrete apartment blocks, the same propaganda billboards celebrating the Party's triumphs, the same old men playing chess in the park – but everything seemed grayer, more worn at the edges. Had Albania always been this way, or had my eyes been altered by America's vibrancy?

The following evening found us in Mayor Gegprifti's home, where the rich aroma of traditional tavë kosi – baked lamb with yogurt – filled the dining room. Gegprifti's past roles as Minister of Industry and Mines and Deputy Minister of Defense had endowed him with a keen eye for political currents. Known for his fairness and open-mindedness, he represented a rare breed in Albania's political ecosystem – a man of integrity who had somehow survived the system's hungry appetite for conformity.

Over glasses of raki, the clear spirit catching the light, we exchanged news and memories. I carefully sidestepped any mention of my troubled relationship with our UN ambassador, focusing instead on diplomatic anecdotes that painted Albania in a favorable light. Yet Gegprifti's perceptive eyes caught the shadows behind my carefully chosen words.

"You seem troubled, my friend," he said quietly as his wife stepped out to check on dessert.

"Just tired from the journey," I replied, the lie sitting heavy on my tongue.

He nodded, respecting my reticence, and smoothly steered the conversation toward lighter topics – his daughter's university studies, the promising olive harvest this year. But the undercurrent remained, electric and unspoken. We both knew that in Albania of 1987, silence often carried more truth than words.

Years later, I would remember this evening with particular poignancy when news reached me of Gegprifti's passing in May 2023, at 81. After being accused of "funds abuse" in 1993, only to be acquitted on appeal, he left Albania in 1995. Later entangled in allegations of crimes against humanity that were eventually dropped during the unrest of 1997, he had lived his final years in modest circumstances with his wife Fanika. The contrast between his simple apartment and the opulent villas of Albania's new political elite, who amassed fortunes through dubious means, spoke volumes about the nation's transformation.

The warm reception at Gegprifti's home evaporated like morning mist when I stepped into the Foreign Ministry the next day. The marble halls, once familiar as my own heartbeat, now felt cold and forbidding. Colleagues averted their eyes or offered smiles that never reached them. Whispers followed me like shadows as I made my way to my old office, now occupied by someone else.

"Comrade Zhulati," the receptionist said, the formal address telling me everything I needed to know about my changed status. "You are expected at the Department of Political Intelligence tomorrow morning at nine. The Party Secretary will be present."

I nodded, keeping my face carefully neutral. So it had begun – the reckoning I had feared since receiving my recall orders.

"The Party never forgets, Comrade Zhulati," she added, her voice lowered. "Neither its heroes nor its... disappointments."

That night, I sat at our apartment window, watching the lights of Tirana flicker in the distance. My wife moved quietly behind me, unpacking our belongings, arranging our sparse furniture into the semblance of a home. Neither of us mentioned tomorrow's meeting. Some fears are too large for words, casting shadows that swallow conversation whole.

My path to the diplomatic posting in New York had been fraught with political obstacles from the beginning. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs, discovering my wife's family ties to a political prisoner – her uncle, imprisoned for the crime of criticizing the regime's prioritization of bunkers over housing – had initially blocked my appointment. Only President Ramiz Alia's direct intervention, recognizing my linguistic skills and diplomatic potential, had secured the coveted position.

Yet even in New York, thousands of miles from Albania, the regime's paranoia had reached across oceans to monitor my every move. My predecessor at the UN Mission, the party secretary of the Department of Political Intelligence, had spent more time monitoring Albanian émigré radio broadcasts than engaging in actual diplomacy. His English had been rudimentary at best, his diplomatic skills nonexistent. I, by contrast, had focused on building bridges, delivering speeches, exercising Albania's Right of Reply in UN committees, and cultivating relationships with journalists and diplomats from across the political spectrum.

Our approaches could not have been more different, and therein lay my vulnerability. I saw Albanian émigrés not as enemies of the state but as disillusioned patriots who still loved their homeland, if not its government. This view, which I had dared to express in a confidential memo to President Alia, was heresy in a system where ideological purity trumped pragmatic engagement.

That evening, a knock at our door startled us. A colleague from the Ministry stood outside, his face tense with unease. "I was in the neighborhood," he said, the transparent lie hanging between us. Over coffee and raki, we exchanged pleasantries until my wife discreetly withdrew to put our son to bed.

"They sent me to gauge your defense for tomorrow," he finally admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "The department is...concerned about your testimony."

I thanked him for his honesty, for risking his own position to warn me. "Tell them I will speak the truth as I see it," I said simply. "Nothing more, nothing less."

After he left, I sat alone in our small living room, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of Tirana after years in Manhattan. A dog barked in the distance; someone's radio played folk music through an open window; a couple argued in the apartment above. These ordinary sounds of life continuing, oblivious to the political currents that might soon sweep me away, brought an unexpected comfort. Whatever happened tomorrow, Albania would continue its slow, painful evolution toward whatever future awaited it.

The Department of Political Intelligence occupied the fourth floor of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building, its windows narrow as if suspicious of too much light. Inside, the smell of floor polish and stale cigarette smoke mingled with the distinctive scent of fear – a smell I had almost forgotten during my years in America.

I was ushered into a conference room where a long table dominated the space. Deputy Prime Minister Isai sat at one end, his presence a clear indication of the meeting's importance. Though we had met several times before, his greeting was curt, his eyes avoiding mine. The party secretary opened proceedings with ominous formality.

"Comrade Zhulati, this meeting has been convened to address serious concerns about your activities during your posting in New York."

The Party Secretary of the Ministry of Interior, an elderly man whose face seemed permanently set in disapproval, took over. His voice, weathered by decades of tobacco, scraped through the room like a rusted blade.

"We have reports that you have been contaminated by Western influences," he began, emphasizing each syllable as if teaching a child. "Your interactions with Albanian émigrés – known enemies of our socialist state – raise questions about your ideological commitment. Your conversations with American journalists, particularly with the Voice of America's Dr. Biberaj, suggest a dangerous susceptibility to imperialist propaganda."

As he continued cataloging my supposed transgressions, I studied the faces around the table. Some showed genuine ideological fervor; others merely performed the expected outrage; a few – mostly younger officials – kept their expressions carefully neutral, revealing nothing.

When my turn came to speak, I rose slowly, feeling the weight of every eye in the room. The silence stretched taut as a wire.

"Comrades," I began, the familiar address feeling strange on my tongue after years of 'ladies and gentlemen' at the UN. "I have served Albania with unwavering loyalty for my entire career. In New York, I represented our nation with dignity and effectiveness, raising our profile in international forums where previously we had been invisible."

I turned to address the party secretary directly. "You claim I have been influenced by Western decadence, yet offer no evidence beyond my professional contacts with journalists and diplomats – contacts essential to my role. You suggest my conversations with Dr. Biberaj indicate disloyalty, yet have you actually read his analyses? They are often more nuanced and fair to Albania than many European commentaries."

Regarding the émigrés, I argued that the world had changed. "Albania in 1987 is not Albania of 1950. The geopolitical landscape has shifted, and these scattered communities no longer pose the threat they once did. Many simply wish to reconnect with their homeland, to contribute to its development."

I reminded them that I had voiced similar views directly to President Alia, demonstrating my commitment to honest counsel even when politically inconvenient. "What benefit would it serve Albania to continue treating every expatriate as an enemy? What diplomatic advantage does such isolation bring us?"

Turning to the party secretary, a man whose diplomatic achievements were negligible, I drew the contrast with my own record. "During my time in New York, I delivered numerous speeches in the UN General Assembly and its committees. I exercised Albania's Right of Reply against Britain on the Corfu Channel issue, defending our sovereignty in a forum where such defenses are heard by the entire world. I built relationships with key journalists who now cover Albania with greater understanding."

My voice rose slightly as I reached my conclusion. "What interests could possibly have been harmed by these efforts? After decades of isolation, my work has enhanced Albania's standing and visibility. The world is changing around us, comrades. We must adapt our diplomatic approach to this new reality or risk being left behind."

I saw Deputy Prime Minister Isai's expression shift slightly – a momentary flicker of recognition, perhaps even respect. Several younger officials nodded almost imperceptibly. But the hard-liners remained unmoved, their faces set in ideological stone.

The meeting concluded with a formal reprimand – a mild punishment by Albanian standards, but a black mark on my record nonetheless. As a final act of petty retribution, they reassigned me to the Italian desk, deliberately reducing my role. Yet their shortsightedness soon became apparent as the political landscape shifted. Within months, they found themselves forced to rely on my expertise, expanding my responsibilities to include the crucial U.S., German, and British portfolios.

That evening, I sought out Mayor Gegprifti, my most steadfast ally in the system. Over dinner at a small restaurant where the owner knew to give us a private corner, I recounted the day's events. Gegprifti listened carefully, his weathered fingers turning his wine glass in slow circles.

"You spoke the truth to them," he said finally. "That is both your greatest strength and your most dangerous flaw, my friend."

He shared that he had jokingly asked Interior Minister Isai how many medals I deserved instead of a reprimand. "Isai almost smiled," Gegprifti added. "Almost."

Later, I learned that Gegprifti had cornered Foreign Minister Malile at a diplomatic reception, championing my cause with the persistence of a man who understood power's mechanics intimately. This intervention, combined with Deputy Prime Minister Isai's awareness of my reputation among foreign diplomats, allowed me to retain my position despite the formal censure.

Just weeks after my return, in late August 1987, an unexpected visitor arrived in Albania. Professor Charles Moskos, the distinguished Northwestern University military sociologist, appeared with his wife Ilka. Though the Department had assigned another guide to the American academic couple, Moskos insisted that I accompany them – a request that raised eyebrows but could not be refused without creating a diplomatic incident.

The real purpose of Moskos's visit was transparent to those who understood the subtle language of diplomatic gestures. He had come to ensure I hadn't been imprisoned or worse. His presence sent a clear message to the regime: this Albanian diplomat had powerful friends watching out for his welfare.

Acting Prime Minister Isai, demonstrating unexpected political finesse, personally arranged for me to escort the couple and secured them rooms at Tirana's finest hotel. Deputy Prime Minister Isai called me to his office and ordered me to take Professor Moskos for a special dinner at Dajti Hotel, the best hotel in Albania at the time, a place reserved for dignitaries and diplomats. I took with me also my office friend who had met with Prof. Moskos and his wife Ilka first. During the dinner, Prof. Moskos reiterated the importance of restoring diplomatic relations between Albania and the US and urged that I inform president Alia to take a decision over this important matter. I promised Professor Moskos that I was going to write to president Alia about Professor Moskos coming to Albania and about his appeal that Albania restore diplomatic relations with the US, something important for its strategic and economic development of the country.

The next morning I went to meet again with Prof. Moskos for coffee. Prof. Moskos told me that his wife Ilka was pretty sick from an ear infection for the whole night and asked me if I could get her to an ear specialist.

I immediately arranged for her treatment at a hospital in Tirana, remaining by her side to ensure she received proper care. Moskos's gratitude was profound and genuine. As we walked the hospital corridors together, he squeezed my shoulder.

"We were worried about you, Ilia," he said quietly, when no one else could hear. "Word reached us about your... difficulties."

"I'm still standing," I replied with a small smile. "For now."

"Keep standing," he said, his academic demeanor giving way to something more urgent. "People are watching, and they care what happens to you."

This brief exchange, five sentences total, communicated volumes. In those words lay the assurance that I wasn't forgotten, that beyond Albania's isolated borders, people of influence were aware of my situation. It was a lifeline thrown across ideological divides, a human connection that transcended Cold War barriers.

As 1989 dawned, the winds of change blowing through Eastern Europe became impossible to ignore. Gorbachev's reforms were reshaping the Soviet Union; Poland was negotiating with Solidarity; Hungary was dismantling its border fence with Austria. Yet in Albania, hardliners clung desperately to power, seemingly oblivious to the tectonic shifts occurring around them.

The accusations against me – of being "poisoned" by American ideology and harboring dangerous sympathies for émigrés – revealed how profoundly my accusers misunderstood global affairs. Their worldview remained frozen in the Stalinist ice age, unable to adapt to the thawing international environment.

The irony was not lost on me. Before my return to Albania in late 1987, I had witnessed the Czechoslovakian Prime Minister deliver a historic speech at the UN General Assembly advocating for greater freedom. The thunderous applause that followed had included my own enthusiastic contribution, much to the bewilderment of my Eastern Bloc colleagues. Now, in Tirana, my attempts at pragmatic diplomacy were met with suspicion and scorn by men who had never set foot outside our borders.

By early 1990, the first real cracks were appearing in Albania's hermetic isolation. When Interior Minister Simon Stefani succeeded Isai, I sensed an opportunity. During a meeting in his office – the same office where I had been reprimanded years earlier – I made a bold declaration.

"Minister Stefani," I said, "I will participate in the proposed Vienna summit with Professor Moskos only if President Alia explicitly endorses our efforts toward rapprochement with the United States."

Stefani, momentarily taken aback by my audacity, promised to consult with the president directly. For two days, I waited in a state of suspended animation, unsure whether I had overplayed my hand.

When Stefani summoned me back to his office, his expression gave nothing away. He handed me a document bearing President Alia's official seal.

"If Mr. Zhulati firmly believes that Professor Moskos' colleagues genuinely seek to restore ties between Albania and the United States," the presidential directive read, "assure him that Albania is equally ready for formal bilateral negotiations."

With a wry smile that cracked his typically stern demeanor, Stefani remarked, "You've become quite indispensable, Ilia."

That evening, I shared the news with Mayor Gegprifti over dinner at his home. "Any idea why I'm unexpectedly traveling to Austria?" I asked playfully as we awaited our appetizers.

His puzzlement turned to astonishment as I revealed our mission to finalize the time and place for initiating Albanian-American diplomatic reconciliation. "Oh, that is wonderful!" he exclaimed, his face suddenly years younger. "This is very important, Ilia!" We raised our glasses, toasting to a future neither of us had dared imagine possible.

To my surprise, Gegprifti had been completely unaware of this diplomatic initiative. It seemed President Alia had kept secret meetings with Moskos confidential for five years, from 1985 to 1990, even from his Foreign Minister, Reis Malile. This revelation puzzled me, especially considering Malile's criticism of my views on the émigré community during our contentious meeting in New York in 1986.

I could only conclude that President Alia, ever the strategic thinker, was playing a delicate game. The power struggle between conservative and reformist factions within the Politburo remained fierce. Alia's private desire to establish diplomatic relations with the United States was balanced against his fear of alienating Enver Hoxha's widow, Nexhmije, who still wielded considerable influence among the old guard. By keeping these diplomatic overtures secret, he maintained plausible deniability while testing the waters of international engagement.

Vienna in early April 1990 greeted me with a riot of spring blossoms and a sense of possibility that had long been absent in Tirana. My old friend Ilir Cepani, First Secretary at the Albanian embassy, met me at the airport with a warm embrace. As he drove me through the imperial city's streets, past buildings whose elegance made our Stalinist architecture seem all the more grim by comparison, Cepani chatted about local diplomatic gossip, blissfully unaware of my mission's true purpose.

On April 3, 1990, I entered the elegant Hotel Imperial to meet Professor Moskos for lunch. The restaurant's crystal chandeliers and velvet draperies created an atmosphere of refinement that felt almost surreal after years in Albania's austerity. Prof. Moskos rose as I approached, his face alight with anticipation. After exchanging pleasantries about our families, he sensed from my demeanor that I carried significant news.

"Professor Moskos," I said with a smile I couldn't suppress, "this lunch is on you today."

He laughed, his academic reserve momentarily dissolving. "Don't worry, I have a blank check from the U.S. government."

As the waiter poured a celebratory wine – not the sort one found at casual diplomatic lunches – I raised my glass. "We won," I declared, meeting his eager gaze across the starched tablecloth. "I am here on behalf of President Alia to inform you that Albania is ready to restore diplomatic relations with the United States."

Our glasses clinked, the sound crystalline and perfect, echoing the triumph of years of quiet diplomacy. Empowered to choose the time and place for formal talks, Moskos didn't hesitate. "How about the first week of May at the headquarters of the United Nations in New York?" he proposed.

I readily agreed, feeling the weight of history in that simple nod. After decades of hostility and isolation, after countless missed opportunities and false starts, the door was finally opening.

"I'm going straight to Washington tomorrow," Prof. Moskos declared, his voice charged with purpose. "By this time next week, the wheels will be in motion."

As we left the restaurant and walked through Vienna's cobblestoned streets, a lightness entered my step that had been absent for years. The following day, over coffee at a café near the Hofburg Palace, Moskos shared encouraging news from his American government contacts.

"Ambassador James Woolsey sends his regrets for missing our meeting," he said. "But he wanted me to assure you of Washington's unwavering support for Albania and Kosovo. His exact words were: 'No one will touch them.'" This promise would prove prescient in the years to come, a diplomatic lifeline during the region's darkest hours.

The conversation then took a lighter turn as Moskos mused about possibly becoming the first U.S. ambassador to Albania "if my wife would allow it," he added with a chuckle. Though said in jest, the comment revealed the depth of his commitment to bridge-building between our nations.

As we parted, I sensed the bittersweet nature of our farewell. Our paths were diverging – Prof. Moskos to Washington to formalize what we had begun, I would return to Tirana to navigate the treacherous political currents that still threatened to capsize our fragile vessel of diplomacy. Yet the impact of our work would endure beyond our personal journeys.

Upon my return to the Albanian embassy in Vienna, I discovered that my friend Cepani had weathered an interrogation from Professor Lazeri, President Alia's special advisor. Lazeri, whose academic arrogance was legendary, had been incensed to hear me referred to as "Professor Zhulati" during my visit – a title he considered his exclusive domain. Cepani, demonstrating the diplomatic skill that had earned him his posting, had smoothly explained that I had once been his English teacher, a harmless clarification that nevertheless failed to soothe Lazeri's wounded pride.

Back in Tirana on April 8, 1990, I briefed President Alia on the positive reception of Albania's overture. Four days later, he publicly declared Albania's willingness to establish diplomatic relations with both the United States and the Soviet Union – a dramatic shift that left many in the diplomatic community stunned.

The first formal meeting between Albanian and American delegations in early May 1990 at UN Headquarters proceeded with cautious optimism. Decades of mistrust could not be dispelled in a single session, and Ambassador Pitarka, heading our delegation, returned to Tirana seeking further clarification on specific terms.

Behind the scenes, I wondered how President Alia's advisor, Professor Lazeri – that staunch conservative with his deep-seated suspicion of all things Western – would react as these developments unfolded. Perhaps Alia, demonstrating the strategic acumen that had kept him in power through turbulent times, was deliberately keeping his advisor in the dark until the agreement was too far advanced to derail.

Despite initial momentum, the machinery of the Albanian bureaucracy ground painfully slowly. It wasn't until March 15, 1991, nearly a year after our Vienna meeting, that Foreign Minister Muhamet Kapllani officially signed the memorandum restoring diplomatic relations. This moment represented the culmination of six years of careful work by Professor Moskos and myself, a partnership that had begun in whispers and culminated in formal recognition.

As I watched the signing ceremony, broadcast on Albanian television, a complex emotion washed over me – pride in what we had accomplished, certainly, but also a wistful awareness that Albania opening its doors to America was already changing in ways none of us could fully predict. The future stretched before us, unwritten and uncertain, but at least now we would not face it in isolation.

The shadows of the past still loomed large, and the challenges of rebuilding trust after decades of hostility remained daunting. Yet as spring bloomed across Tirana in 1991, hope began to take root alongside the flowers. The future of Albania was being rewritten, and I had played my small part in that transformation.

During these years of diplomatic maneuvering, my academic aspirations had quietly persisted, a parallel life waiting in the wings. In 1987, I had contacted Thomas Bishop, a linguistics professor at New York University, and his Albanian-American wife, Helen, about visiting Albania once diplomatic ties were restored. The prospect filled them with excitement – Helen would be returning to her ancestral homeland, a journey of both geographic and emotional significance.

Our initial encounter in New York had been facilitated by Leonidas, an Albanian-Greek restaurateur who frequented our events at the UN mission. His own story was emblematic of the diaspora's complexity: fluent in Greek and English but not his native Albanian, he had fled with his father before liberation in 1944, leaving behind his mother and sisters. His annual pilgrimages to Albania continued until his mother's passing, each visit a bittersweet renewal of severed ties.

When the Bishops finally visited in 1990, I arranged for them to be officially invited as "friends of Albania." Over dinners in Tirana, we exchanged stories that spanned continents and ideologies. The Bishops' eagerness to explore Helen's heritage filled me with hope that the barriers between Albania and its far-flung children might finally be dissolving.

During one particularly candid conversation, I confided in Professor Bishop my own academic aspirations. With characteristic generosity, he offered to leverage his connections at the Sorbonne on my behalf. Weeks later, as Albania continued its halting progress toward openness, a letter arrived at my doorstep in Tirana – an invitation to join the prestigious Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Historiques et Physiologiques as an assistant professor and doctoral candidate.

This opportunity represented more than personal advancement; it offered a graceful exit from Albania's increasingly volatile political scene. As 1990 drew to a close, I found myself at the convergence of two paths: one continuing my work in Albania's diplomatic service during this historic transition, the other pursuing academic scholarship in Paris. Both promised to contribute to my homeland's development, though in vastly different ways.

The foundations I had helped lay for diplomatic relations with the United States were beginning to bear fruit. Yet increasingly, I sensed that my future contributions might come through academic rather than diplomatic channels. The Sorbonne invitation represented a bridge between worlds – a chance to bring Western knowledge back to an Albania desperately in need of new ideas and approaches.

As spring approached in 1991, a different Albania was emerging from decades of isolation – an Albania taking its first tentative steps toward democracy, even as I prepared for my own journey of transformation. The diplomatic breakthrough with the United States, culminating in our Vienna meeting and the subsequent formal recognition, had fulfilled my promise to Professor Moskos. Now, as Albania navigated the turbulent waters of democratic transition, a new chapter beckoned from the City of Light.

I stood at my ministry window on my last day before departure, watching Tirana's streets below. The same buildings stood as before, the same mountains ringed the horizon, but everything felt charged with potential. Change had come to Albania at last – halting, uncertain, but undeniable. And change was coming for me as well, carrying me toward Paris and whatever future awaited beyond.

[End of Chapter 6]

 

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