The Season Everyone Gets Wrong

Look, everyone wants to visit Albania in summer. I get it. Plazhet, festivale muzikore, guaranteed sunshine, everything open. But here’s what kills me – you’re literally planning your trip around the same three months as every German family and Italian twenty-something.

Winter Albania is when the country actually makes sense.

My neighbor in Tiranë thinks I’m crazy for bringing American friends over in January. “Why not July?” she asks, every single time. Then she’ll spend the next hour complaining about how her favorite restaurant in Sarandë triples prices in summer and how she can’t even park near her sister’s place in Dhërmi anymore. The irony is completely lost on her.

So let me tell you what winter’s actually like, from someone who keeps an apartment near Blloku and has learned exactly which lies tourist guides tell and which warnings to actually believe.

The Ski Situation (It’s Complicated)

Albanians ski. This shocks people for some reason. Like we’re supposed to just hibernate once beach season ends?

Dardhë-Bigëll is our “main” ski resort, and I use that term generously. One T-bar lift, one rope pull thing they optimistically call a “people mover,” about 1.3 kilometers of runs. The ticket price depends entirely on who’s working that day – could be 1,000 lek, could be 1,500. My cousin knows everyone there and pays nothing. This is extremely Albanian. Welcome to the Balkans.

The equipment rental guy has skis from the days of Yugoslavia. They work fine. Albanians are resourceful – we kept Benzes from the 1980s running through the ’97 collapse’, we can definitely maintain ski equipment. Villa Ski-Pista charges €87-130 a night, which sounds insane until you realize it’s the only place with guaranteed hot water and you can walk to the lift. Well, “lift.”

Every winter weekend, half of Tirana drives four hours to ski for three hours. We sit in traffic on Rruga e Elbasanit, complain the entire way, ski badly, eat too much, and declare it was worth it. It absolutely is.

Voskopoja confuses even me. There’s supposedly a ski lift. I’ve seen it twice in fifteen years of going. Working? Once. But everyone goes anyway because the Byzantine churches are incredible and where else are you going to see 18th-century frescoes and then attempt to ski in the same afternoon? The priest there (Orthodox, extremely passionate about both God and raki) will tell you the town used to rival Constantinople. After three rakis, you’ll believe him.

Mali i Dajtit is Tirana’s answer to not wanting to drive to Korçë. Take the cable car (€14 now – yes, FOURTEEN EUROS, which is highway robbery and everyone knows it), hike up with your gear, maybe ski, maybe just drink mulled wine at the rotating restaurant and pretend you exercised. The view’s worth it when the pollution clears.

Winter Mountain Villages

Forget the ski resorts. The real winter Albania lives in villages that Instagram hasn’t discovered yet.

Lëpushë gets buried under 4 meters of snow every winter. Four meters. The road from Shkodër becomes a suggestion around November, and the village basically exists in its own timeline until May. Guesthouse Alpini stays open (somehow) charging $32-50 a night with meals included because where else are you going to eat? My friend’s grandmother lives there year-round. She hasn’t left the village during winter since 1987. Not because she can’t – she just doesn’t see the point.

When the snow hits, locals know exactly which houses will stay warm (stone walls, small windows, positioned correctly) and which ones become freezers. The mobile signal dies completely. The nearest hospital is 95 kilometers away in Shkodër. You better not need it.

Razëm is what happens when Albanians try to make a ski resort but get distracted. King Zog promoted it in 1935 for the “healing mountain air” – classic Albanian medicine that’s somehow also tourism. Now Natyral Razma Resort has an indoor pool and charges €80 a night, which passes for luxury in the Albanian Alps. The road from Shkodër actually stays open (mostly), taking about an hour if you don’t slide off.

The genius of Razëm? It’s at 1,022 meters – high enough for proper snow, low enough that you won’t die trying to reach it. This is peak Albanian practicality.

Valbona in winter splits into two realities. The lower valley near Bajram Curri stays sort of accessible if someone with a snowplow owes you a favor. Guesthouse Mehmeti and a few others keep their wood stoves burning, charging €25-50 including dinner because, again, where else will you eat? But the upper valley? Those villages disappear completely. Çerem, Rragam – they might as well be on the moon from December to April.

The Valbona-Theth trail everyone hikes in summer? Don’t even think about it. The pass sits at 1,800 meters and the avalanche risk is real. Every few years some German tries it with touring skis. Sometimes they make it. Sometimes the helicopter has to come (€90 per flight minute, pay in advance).

Boga became the backup plan that actually works. When Theth closes (and it completely closes – everyone leaves), Boga Alpine Resort stays open 29 kilometers away. They even maintain the road well enough for buses, which in Albanian mountain terms is basically a superhighway. Buni i Bajraktarit up at Qafe-Thore Pass claims to be Albania’s highest restaurant at 1,750 meters. The owner stays open all winter mostly out of stubbornness. Respect.

Thethi, our most famous mountain village, the one in all the guidebooks? Ghost town. Every. Single. Winter. The families pack up in November and move down to Shkodër. The guesthouses board up. The waterfall freezes. The church stands empty. The only way in requires mountaineering equipment and a death wish. This drives tourists crazy – “But I wanted to see Theth in the snow!” Yeah, so did Theth’s residents. That’s why they left.

How to Actually Do This

Rent a 4WD from Rental Car Shkodra (€35-45/day plus €15 for chains you absolutely need). Carry minimum €500 cash – nobody up here has heard of Visa. Book guesthouses by calling someone who knows someone – there’s no Booking.com where we’re going. Get travel insurance that specifically covers “doing stupid things in Albanian mountains” (phrase it better for the insurance company).

January-February: Maximum snow, maximum isolation, maximum authenticity. You might get stuck for a week. This is part of the experience.

March: Snow starts melting, roads start opening, villages start pretending they’re accessible. They’re lying, but less than in February.

December: Snow arrives but nobody’s quite ready. Half the guesthouses haven’t decided if they’re open. Very Albanian energy.

The mountain villages in winter aren’t trying to be the Alps. They’re not trying to be anything except what they are: places where people have survived winters for centuries without caring what tourists think. The wood stove works, the raki flows, the snow piles up, life continues. If you’re lucky enough to get stuck in one during a blizzard, you’ll understand Albania better than any beach vacation could teach you.

Just remember: the same grandmother who’ll feed you like you’re family will also laugh when your rental car gets buried in snow. “City people,” she’ll mutter in Albanian, then pour you another raki.

Thermal Springs (Where Albanians Go in Winter)

We’ve been soaking in thermal springs since before the Romans showed up and tried to take credit for the idea.

Bënjë near Përmet is the one everyone Instagrams. Six pools, Ottoman bridge, mountains. What Instagram doesn’t show: you changing behind a tree in January, hopping between pools because one’s arctic and the next is barely bathtub temperature. Parking is “free” but the guy who materializes from nowhere will charge you 200 lek (2 Euro). Just pay it. The argument isn’t worth it.

My aunt swears by Llixhat e Elbasanit for her arthritis. She’s been going every January for twenty years, stays at the same hotel, uses the same thermal pool, complains about the same cracked tiles. Park Nosi charges 100 lek (€0.90) for 15 minutes in a private cubicle that hasn’t been updated since it opened in 1932. The water’s legitimately therapeutic though – 56-60°C at the source, full of minerals that actually do something. Or it’s placebo. Either way, my aunt’s arthritis improves.

Peshkopi’s springs will destroy your jewelry. The sulfur concentration is so intense that silver turns black instantly. Only gold survives. Water emerges at 39.5-43.5°C – body temperature, which feels weirdly perfect. Hotel Termal is built right on top – you can literally hear the springs at night. Or maybe that’s the raki. Hard to tell after dinner.

Sarandaporo near Leskovik requires commitment. The road’s been “improved” (meaning they threw some gravel on the worst parts), but the last 2km is still a disaster. Every Albanian with a Mercedes from 1995 will tell you their car can make it. Your rental Fiat cannot. Trust me on this.

Cities Without the Tourist Circus

Tirana in December tries so hard to be European it’s almost endearing. The Christmas tree in Sheshi Skënderbej looks like a committee decision because it was – I know someone on that committee. The market stalls sell “traditional” crafts that are definitely from China, but also genuinely good byrek and excellent raki disguised as mulled wine.

New Year’s Eve, though? We do that right. The entire city pours into the square, there’s a free concert (usually someone famous from the ’90s), and fireworks that would bankrupt a small American city. You’ll kiss fifty strangers on both cheeks at midnight. This is mandatory.

BunkArt 1 and 2 finally make sense to foreigners in winter. These bunkerë weren’t built for summer tourism – they were built for nuclear paranoia. BunkArt 1 has 106 rooms across 5 floors. My parents’ generation remembers the drills. The House of Leaves has surveillance equipment from 18 countries, won some European museum award, and the heating barely works, which adds to the Communist-era authenticity you’re paying to experience.

Beratit empties out beautifully in winter. The thousand windows actually get good light around 3 PM – golden for exactly twelve minutes if you’re lucky. The Muzeu Onufri (open Tuesday-Saturday 9-4, Sunday 10-3 in winter) might have just you and the guard, who’s probably reading a newspaper from three days ago. He’ll give you a tour anyway, cigarette in hand, because Albanians can’t help being hospitable even when we’re technically closed.

Gjirokastër looks like a revenge fantasy against color. Everything’s gray stone except the red roofs. The castle costs either 200 or 400 lek – they raised prices in 2025 but not all the guards got the memo. Or they did and don’t care. Both are possible. The Skenduli House needs advance booking in winter, but just knock. Someone’s always home, and they’ll show you around while their lunch gets cold because turning away a visitor would kill their grandmother’s ghost.

Korçë actually likes winter. The café culture doesn’t stop just because it’s snowing. If anything, it intensifies. Everyone moves inside, the windows fog up, and philosophical arguments that started in 1912 continue over Turkish coffee. They call themselves “Little Paris” with a straight face. After a week there, you’ll stop finding it funny.

Food (The Real Reason to Come in Winter)

Summer food is for tourists. Winter food is for survival, which makes it infinitely better.

Tavë kosi only makes sense when you’re properly cold. That yogurt-lamb thing that sounds weird to Americans? It’s genius. The lamb slow-cooks while you wait, the yogurt custard gets that burnt top that everyone fights over, and the whole thing costs maybe 800 lek at the expensive places. In someone’s house? You’ll get it with a side of life advice and probably their daughter’s phone number.

Fli takes three hours minimum. You sit there, watching someone’s grandmother layer butter and cream thirty times, wondering if this is performance art. It’s not. It’s just how you make fli. The wait is part of it. You drink raki, complain about the government, solve world problems, eat fli, forget what you were upset about.

Mountain tea (çaj mali) is just weeds from above 1,800 meters, boiled until the water turns yellow. Every region swears theirs is best. Theth claims theirs cures everything. Korçë says theirs prevents everything. My great aunt said the store-bought stuff would kill you. She lived to 100, so maybe listen to her. You boil it 2-3 minutes or steep it covered for 10 minutes – fight about which method later.

Raki in winter isn’t drinking, it’s medicine. The first shot comes with morning coffee. This shocks Americans. What shocks Albanians is that Americans think 9 AM is too early for raki when it’s -2°C outside. My uncle keeps his in the freezer and claims it prevents flu. He’s never had flu. Correlation or causation? Who cares, pass the bottle.

Infrastructure Reality Check

The coast dies in winter. I mean it. Ksamilit in January looks like everyone evacuated for war. One restaurant stays open, run by someone’s cousin who drew the short straw. The beaches are gorgeous and empty, but you’ll eat the same fish soup every day because that’s all they’re making.

Mountain roads are gambling with physics. Thethi? Closed November to May, despite that beautiful new asphalt from 2021. They shut it December 9 last year, opened May 27. Valbona? Worse – sometimes July before it opens because it sits at 1,800 meters and nobody’s clearing that.

Të Qafa e Llogarasë “stays open” which is technically true if you don’t mind driving through active weather events. Watch the locals – if someone in a 1985 Mercedes with no chains passes you going 80, the road’s fine. If even the locals are pulling over, turn around immediately.

Furgons in winter follow quantum physics. The one to Korçë costs 1,500 lek and leaves “when full.” Full might mean 9 people. Might mean 16. Depends on the driver’s mood, how much luggage everyone has, and whether someone’s transporting chickens. The chickens don’t pay but they do count as passengers.

Hot water in budget places is philosophical. It exists in potential, like Schrödinger’s cat. You won’t know until you turn the tap. Pro tip: shower at 2 PM when the sun’s been hitting the roof tanks. Any other time? Good luck.

Budget €50 a day and you’ll live well. €20 if you eat like locals and know which cousin runs which guesthouse. €100 if you hit the tourist-priced places or buy rounds of raki for new friends. You will buy rounds of raki for new friends.

When to Actually Come

December: Christmas markets, moderate cold, infrastructure mostly works. Tirana puts up lights and tries to be festive. It’s actually quite sweet, like watching your dad attempt TikTok dances.

January: Peak winter. Cold everywhere, snow in mountains, thermals feel amazing. Ski resorts actually have snow. Everything’s cheap because you’re competing with exactly nobody for hotel rooms.

February: January but lonelier. Even Albanians think you’re weird for traveling then. Perfect if you hate people.

March: finally spring. One of my favorite months in Albania and also my birth month so I’m a little biased. The weather starts to warm and plants start to bloom. March 14 is Dita e Verës (Summer Day, yes, Summer Day in March, don’t question it). UNESCO recognized our red and white bracelet tradition as intangible cultural heritage, which is hilarious because half of us can’t explain why we do it. You wear the bracelet until you see the first swallow, then tie it to a tree and make a wish. The wish is usually for actual summer to arrive.

Some Advice Nobody Else Will Give You

The castle photos everyone takes? Better in fog. Kalaja e Rozafës at 6 AM when you can’t sleep because your hotel’s heating died? That’s when you get the shot. Berat’s windows need overcast light, not the sunny postcard garbage. Llogara Pass is spectacular for exactly five minutes between storms. Be ready.

Don’t refuse raki. You can sip it, you can pretend to sip it, but don’t refuse it. It’s not about the alcohol, it’s about accepting mikpritjen. My American friends always try to refuse politely. Adorable. Futile.

That grandmother skiing in traditional dress? She’s not doing it for tourists. She’s skiing to the store because it’s faster than walking. The traditional dress is because it’s warm and she’s owned it for forty years. This is normal life, not a show.

The thermal springs really do help with joint pain. It’s not just minerals – it’s sitting still for an hour without your phone because you’re scared it’ll fall in the sulfur water. Revolutionary concept, I know.

Truth

Winter Albania isn’t trying to impress you. The infrastructure breaks, the weather betrays you, half the stuff you planned might be closed.

But you’ll share someone’s grandmother’s fli recipe (she’ll never give you the real one), soak in the same thermal springs Romans used, have an entire Vendi i UNESCO-s to yourself, and pay less for a week than one night in a Swiss ski resort.

You’ll understand why we complain about our country constantly but get offended if you do. Why we leave but always come back. Why we’ll feed you until you beg for mercy then get insulted if you don’t eat more.

My neighbor still thinks I’m crazy for bringing friends in winter. But last January, she saw my American friend from Texas trying to navigate black ice in Skanderbeg Square, arms windmilling like a cartoon character. She laughed so hard she invited us in for coffee. Four hours later, we left with three jars of homemade ajvar, her son’s phone number (he’s single and has a German passport), and invitations to her sister’s wedding.

That doesn’t happen in July.

Just bring socks. More socks than any reasonable person needs. Then double it.

The socks thing isn’t cultural wisdom. It’s just fucking cold and the heating’s unreliable.

Trust me on the socks. You can thank me later.