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The Albanian Riviera was glistening at our feet, but we were too busy trying to read where our accommodation was to notice. The road was stretching like a lazy snake up and down the hills, and we were constantly cruising it’s scaly back up and down. After stopping twice in front of the same white church and asking a bit around, we reached our destination; a small apartment hidden by leafy vines overlooking the coast. An old woman came to greet us, petite and ashed like a remaining piece of coal after a fire has died out. Very few people in Albania speak English, and the country’s cultural fabric still remains beautifully unwoven by the merciless hand of tourism. She was no exception on the English-speaking rule. Still, there was in her genuine yet barren manners a welcoming warmth. We had planned to stay in Himara for a few days, base camping there as we toured the seaside. Despite being late September, locals and nearby neighbours from the Balkans were still enjoying the last threads of summer. Bordering Greece, the Albanian Riviera definitely contains a strong Hellenic chore, as the salt of the Ionian sea turned its shores into a rainbow of blues. But there’s a particular taste to it that makes it unique, whether it is the several kinds of cattle quietly dotting the roads or the mountains’ crests towering behind the pebbled, long beaches. As days passed, we came across a few more times with the old lady. The meetings, always succinct, ended up with a little pierce in my heart when I’d see her slowly walking away. She didn’t come across as fragile though; her petite physique concealed a gigantic strength and endurance. But there is always a hint of pain, of silenced trauma in the eyes of the Albanians. One day, as we came back from a day trip, we saw an old man leaning on her porch, staring at the sunset dying the valley in a rose quartz shade. He greeted us in Greek, and my mind clicked. Not that I am fluent in Greek, but I do know enough to ignite the spark of warmth and comfort. On the day of our departure, we woke up early as we wanted to catch a ferry to the Karaburun peninsula and had quite some miles ahead to burn. Some food was laying in our cupboard, so I decided to bring it up to the woman upstairs. She was having breakfast in the veranda with the old greek man. As soon as he saw me, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to an empty chair in the table. The morning light was dressing the messy display in the veranda with long shadows that were nearly as black as the Turkish coffee the old greek was pouring into a cup for me. With our names exchange, the curtain of strangeness fell and the chat warmed up like the day, slowly crawling out of the horizon. Vasili was originally from Corfu, and fell in love with Maria; he moved to Himara to be with her before the brutal regime of Enver Hoxa shook the country and sent it back into an empty nation of sullen cheeks and anxious eyes. It was a time that neither wanted to talk much about, and it was too beautiful and the air too sweet to do so. We had an obvious language barrier, with bits and pieces of different languages thrown in and seasoned with a great deal of gesturing. All their kids were living abroad, helping their parents out but leaving them orphans of a generational connection. Being an ex-pat, I often find myself deprived of the same table conversations and familiar warmth, and I could feel the unspoken bridge of common needs met in Maria’s tiny hands holding mine, or Vasili’s strong and energetic caresses as he was laughing at his own jokes. The bay was waking up under their veranda. Vasili kept opening a big tin next to him and pouring his homemade sweet Raki as it was becoming clearer and clearer that we did not mind not making it into the peninsula.