A taste of Albania

It is early morning in the ship's Vista Lounge. Passengers cluster. Curtains sway with the sea. I am awake, but thanks to the soft velour lounge chair, I keep remembering sleep.

"You on the Kickin' Corfu tour?" says a man with a backpack and an aluminum-and-rubber cane. "Um, no," I say. "Shore excursion No. 6. I'm going to Albania."

"Albania?" he repeats. It's a country that always seems to come with a question.

"That's right," I say. "Albania."

"Well, better get with your group," he says, giving me a suspicious stare.

I don't tell him more, but in fact I've always been curious about this tiny Eastern European nation. Maybe it's from reading the comic strip "Dilbert" with its made-up outpost, Elbonia. Elbonia mirrors Albania in seeming wildly out-of-the-loop.

Filling in the blanks

But color is coming back to the now-independent free-market democracy. A year ago Albania joined NATO and filed its application for EU membership.

A bit of the Balkan Peninsula, Albania is only slightly larger than Maryland. But there's variety inside that space, including a mountain-studded interior and an unspoiled Adriatic coastline.

Travelers like me, who long for places that don't yet have a Starbucks, are starting to take notice. It is my chance, I think, to fill in the blank.

As soon as I leave my velour chair on the ship, things start happening fast. I'm made to go get my passport. We're the only shore excursion tour group that's changing countries. And I'm tagged with an orange sticker that says, "Holland America Lines Oosterdam #6."

Is this in case I'm lost? I feel like Paddington the Bear.

On the bus

My "Albanian Adventure" tour is listed as lasting a total of seven hours. And it's pricey: $221. "Strenuous," warns the cruise line brochure. "Roads are bumpy. Insect repellent is strongly recommended." All of this makes me think that two, maybe three other passengers will leave the clean and comfortable cocoon of the ship and sign up. But as we roar out of the port, my Orange No. 6 bus is completely full.

Up front is our Albanian guide, a tanned middle-aged man with golden edges around his upper teeth. When he tells us his name, we nod. But it's a difficult sound. Later I sneak a look at his badge: Vangjel Xhani of SIPA Tours. Xhani lives in the capital city, Tirana. He has two backup careers. "I am also," he tells us "a professor and a doctor."

The bus is already stopping. "OK," says Xhani, "now we get on board our ship. Albania next stop."

"Look, dad," says a girl of about 10. "We're going inside that blimp." The ship -- actually a hydrofoil -- has a gently rounded shape that makes it seem like it's been inflated. Instead of carrying us across the Ionian Sea, it looks like it's going to float straight up. "Ionian Lines' Flying Dolphin" says the hand-painted sign.

As we hum and bounce our way across the water, two government officials wearing caps and T-shirts work their way through a rainbow stack of passports, stamping each and calling out the name of its owner. You're supposed to get up from your floppy seat to collect it. For lazy passengers who only shout their name, passports are tossed.

In the town

Soon we are seeing Albania for the first time through a churning mist created by the Flying Dolphin. It is not easy to describe.

The resort town of Saranda means "Number forty" according to Xhani. "Forty what?" shouts out someone in the back of our group. Xhani doesn't answer. The port area alone displays way more than that number of apartment buildings, condominiums and hotels.

When we land and board another bus, I am grinning as I look around. There is a "Mad Men" 1960s look to the simple, glassy structures and the pictures on signs. Saranda reminds me of a building set I had as a kid. And just as with my set, a lot of the buildings are unfinished.

"It is the second thing," says Xhani, who has overheard me. We are on our way to the ancient Albanian town of Butrint. In truth, we are at a standstill. It is midmorning rush hour in Saranda. The bus feels like the interior of a pizza oven.

"Somebody ask," says Xhani, "why the buildings empty. Well, I tell you." There is a silence. "It's a bad bank," he explains. "Bad bank."

A woman up front isn't satisfied with the explanation. "Well," says Xhani confidentially, switching off the microphone and softening his tone. "You see, some investment companies have created pyramid fraud. In the 1990s, the pyramid collapse. People are bankrupt. Do you understand?" We do.

A man with sunglasses is telling Xhani about Bernie Madoff. He seems pleasantly surprised. "We are former Communist country," he announces. "It make some people lazy. But not now. Not now." Xhani waves his hand proudly at the trucks and buses that make up the traffic jam just outside.

"Only few years ago, we have 800 cars in all Albania," he adds. "Now our favorite car? Mercedes!" I don't see any, but I take Xhani's word for it.

Finally we are out of the gridlock and winding through fields and farms. "For the cultivation of watermelon," explains Xhani. We pass an enormous lake or inlet that's speckled with wooden posts for farming mussels. It's as long as a Scottish loch and as blue as the sky.

"Well known, well known!" says Xhani about either lake or shellfish.

Just as we pull into Butrint, Xhani fills us in on a few more facts. It's an hour earlier in Albania than in Corfu. The country has a population of about 4 million. John Belushi and Mother Teresa were of Albanian descent. And, although it's cloudy right now in Butrint, we're told that "each year, Albania has more than 300 days of sun."

Visiting the ruins in Butrint National Park is like getting a private tour of Athens' ancient agora or the Roman forum. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, there are no tickets or lines. In fact, there's no one else around. We're guided by Xhani past the remains of Greek temples from the fourth century B.C. and leftovers from the Roman colony that Julius and Augustus Caesar founded.

It is so eerily quiet at the Lion Gate, a famous doorway with its relief of a lion ripping into part of a bull, that for a second I have the sense that what we're seeing isn't dead. Someone will appear in the doorway. Motion us away. Or, scarier, invite us in.

Sandals are shuffling on gravel. Frogs are peeping from somewhere back in the bushes. A steady humming comes from the mimosa trees above. Xhani motions us to stop and listen.

The hum is just a bass note. Above it is a snappy beat that sounds like it's being tapped out by castanets. On top of that is a kind of chirping that, the more we listen, seems to strain for melody -- simple, repetitive -- but enough to pass as a tune.

Listen, says Xhani again. "Many kind of insect here!"

The group is eager to move on. "Wait, wait!" urges Xhani. But passengers are slapping and scratching. A cloud of gnats is rising out of the grass. Something is biting me on the soft side of my foot, just above my flip-flop.

Finally, waving shirts and jackets, we get away from the swarm. "What was that?" asks a woman waving a spray can of all-natural repellent.

Our brochure points us to a circular baptistry that's more recent than many of the ruins here, dating from the sixth century A.D. Since I always crave detail in these places, I'm glad to see that it's dotted with mosaics. We get to an ancient theater that everyone takes pictures of. Only the Greek gymnasium is disappointing: It is underwater. I can see a fish darting between two submerged stones.

A tasty stop

Back on the little walkway, we encounter a group of locals sipping coffee. Some are resting on benches. All raise palms to greet us. Why are they here? No one is sure. In an olive grove there is a uniformed guard. He smiles. We smile back. He points the way ahead.

A ray of sun picks out a rim of stones in another ruin that looks worth exploring. But we are late for lunch.

The bus driver races us to a restaurant at the top of a hill. Xhani remains seated, knowing about the corkscrew driveway that spirals us up to the patio and eatery. From up here, we can look down on a stretch of yellow beaches and an aquamarine sea that bleeds to green near the shore.

First comes a salad that looks Greek with its cucumbers and goat cheese. Some kind of yogurt sauce is delivered along with bread and the freshest hummus I've ever tasted. I am feeling full.

"Wait!" says Xhani as two or three people push back from their plates. "It isn't finish. Here come the fish!" We end up with two more courses, plus bowls of fruit for dessert.

"You will come back?" says our waiter in slowly perfect English. He is gravely concerned. "Come tomorrow," he suggests. "For special soup."

I'd like to come back, I say. I'd like to try it.

Someday some of us may return to taste the mussels from the saltwater lake. Or buy the watermelons that are grown in Albania's fields.

On the bus, we see a pair of men saluting us from distant tractors. Another time I would like to meet them. To raise my palm. To shake their hands.

But it cannot be today. Xhani is speaking. Passengers are dozing. The Flying Dolphin awaits.

Peter Mandel of Providence, R.I., is a freelance travel writer who also writes children's books.