The first Sunday in a new city is a strange thing. The alarm doesn't pull you out of bed, the shops are half-shuttered, and the streets have this slower rhythm that makes you feel like you're finally allowed to breathe. Here in Tirana, that rhythm is a kind of music. I woke up in my flat in Komuna e Parisit, the district the expats have apparently claimed as their own, and for the first time since I landed, I didn't have a single piece of paperwork to chase. No bank forms, no SIM card to register, no queue to stand in. Just a day to be somewhere. I made a coffee in the tiny kitchen, opened the balcony door, and let the city come to me.
The flat I found is a one-bedroom, a 1+1 they call it, in a building that's seen better decades but has a certain charm. The rent is about 38,000 lek a month, which works out to roughly four hundred and fifty dollars in the old money. That's less than I'd pay for a week in some European capitals. The water pressure is a gamble, the elevator only works half the time, but the balcony catches the evening breeze, and the neighbours' laundry lines create a kind of improvised art installation. I'm told this is the real Tirana. If you're thinking of making the move, start looking in Komuna e Parisit. It's tree-lined, walkable, and you're minutes from the Grand Park. Just be prepared to climb a few flights of stairs.
përshëndetje from the balcony of my new life, by the way. It feels good to say that. But the morning was too good to waste indoors, so I headed out. There's a ritual in Tirana, especially on a weekend, and it happens at Pazari i Ri. The New Bazaar. It's a covered market that's been there since the 1930s, renovated a few years back, and it's where the city feeds itself. I walked through the aisles, past the fruit stalls piled high with figs and watermelons, past the fishmongers with their silver catches on ice, and past the women selling wheels of cheese that smell of the mountains. I bought a byrek – spinachy, flaky, still warm – and a chunk of gjizë, the soft white cheese they use in everything. It cost me about 150 lek. A dollar fifty. For breakfast, that's a steal.
The market was busy, which surprised me for a Sunday. Families were doing their shopping, old men were gossiping over tiny cups of coffee, and there was this constant hum of haggling. A woman in front of me bought a kilo of tomatoes, and the seller threw in a bunch of basil for free. That's the way things work here. It's not just a transaction; it's a conversation. I stood by the fish hall for a while, watching a man gut a sea bass with a knife that moved like it was a part of his hand. He saw me watching and held up the fish, grinning, asking if I wanted to take it home. I shook my head, laughed, and walked on. Maybe another day.
The thing about a Sunday in Tirana in August is the heat. By midday, the pavements are radiating, and the city seems to hold its breath. That's why the locals do what I did next. They escape. They go to the coast, down to Durrës or even further, or they do the weekend ritual of climbing Mount Dajti. There's a cable car for exactly that purpose, the Dajti Ekspres, that takes you from the edge of town up into the hills, a thousand metres higher in about fifteen minutes. The station is a bit out of the centre, so I flagged down a taxi. The base fare is around 300 lek, and the whole trip cost me about 800. Three bucks to ride in air conditioning across town. I'll take it.
The cable car ride is one of those moments that makes you fall for a place. The city unfolds beneath you like a map you've been trying to read for days. The colourful rooftops, the green splash of the Grand Park, the white pyramid of the Hoxha museum squatting in the middle of it all. As you rise, the air changes. It gets cooler, thinner, and the smell of exhaust fades into pine. At the top, there's a plateau with a hotel, a few restaurants, and some walking trails. I got myself a coffee – about 200 lek, which is steep for this country, but you're paying for the view – and sat on a bench, looking down at the city I'm starting to call home.
Dajti is the classic escape, and I can see why. It's a fifteen-minute ride to a completely different climate. There's a reason the mountain is known as the balcony of Tirana. You can hike for hours up there, or do what I did, which is find a quiet spot and just stare. I watched a family set up a picnic on a patch of grass, three generations arguing good-naturedly over a blanket, and I felt that thing you feel when you're new somewhere. A mix of being an outsider and a strange sense of belonging. The city below looked almost peaceful from that height, all its chaos reduced to a gentle hum. But I knew the chaos was still there, waiting for me to come back down.
I took the cable car down in the late afternoon, when the heat was starting to break. The ride back is when you get the full postcard view. The sun was catching the glass of the newer buildings, and the whole city seemed to glow. I got off at the station and decided to walk a bit before heading home. I cut through the Grand Park, the 289-hectare green lung of the city, where people jog along the Artificial Lake and couples do their xhiro, that slow evening stroll that's practically a national sport. The park was full of life, kids on bikes, teenagers kicking a ball, old men playing chess on a stone table. It's the best free thing in Tirana. And it's exactly where you go when the city walls start to feel too close.
I ended my walk at a café that's become an instant favourite. It's called The Back Room – Specialty Coffee, tucked away in Blloku, and it's a different world from the espresso bars. The music is low, the tables are filled with people on laptops and serious conversations, and the coffee is taken very, very seriously. I ordered a pour-over, which cost me 250 lek, about two and a half dollars, and it was worth every qindarkë. I sat by the window, watching the Blloku crowd drift by. These streets used to be off-limits to ordinary Albanians. This was Enver Hoxha's compound, the Politburo's playground, and now it's where a barista will spend ten minutes explaining the notes of a Kenyan bean. If you want a sense of how fast this country is changing, sit in Blloku for an hour.
Dinner was a simpler affair. I found a place in Blloku called Jarna Traditional Restaurant. I wasn't sure what to expect, but the name promised something local. I sat at a small table on the terrace, and the waiter, a man with the face of someone who's seen a few summers, recommended the fërgesë. It's Tirana's own dish. Peppers, tomatoes, and gjizë cheese, all baked in a clay pot until it's bubbling. It's rustic, honest, and exactly what you need after a day of walking and cable cars. The meal, with a side of bread and a glass of local red, came to about 1,100 lek. Eleven dollars for dinner in a proper restaurant. You'll pay three times that in Rome for food that has half the soul.
As I walked home, the evening had that deep summer feeling. The terraces were full, the air smelled of grilled meat and cigarette smoke, and a few stray cats watched me from the parked cars. I stopped at a small shop to buy water and a bag of figs for breakfast, and the old man behind the counter wished me 'natën e mirë' with a smile. It's small things like that, the everyday greetings, that make a place feel less foreign. I got back to my flat, put the figs in the fridge, and stood on the balcony. The city hummed below me. I checked my phone and saw a message from a friend back home asking if I'd found what I was looking for.
And I had to think about that. I didn't come to Albania for a week of sightseeing. I came to live here. And this is the part I want you to take with you, whether you're just visiting or thinking about making a leap. On Sunday, I learned that this city works on a rhythm. A slow, human rhythm. The markets, the mountains, the parks, the coffee. It's all about finding your spot, the corner where you become a regular. For me, for now, it's a balcony in Komuna e Parisit and a market I'll visit every weekend until I've tasted everything. Tomorrow I'll start thinking about the Riviera, about Butrint and its ancient ruins, and the wild Vjosa valley. But tonight, I'm just here. And that's enough.
So if you're listening, wherever you are, I hope you find a Sunday that feels like this. A day that asks nothing of you but to be present. Tirana gave me that today, and I'm grateful. The city is still new, still surprising, still full of mysteries I'll spend the summer uncovering. Good night from the balcony. Falaminderit për dëgjimin. Until next time, keep exploring, keep being curious, and let the rhythm find you.
P.S. – I almost forgot the most important part of the day. I finally bought the bus pass. The municipal smart card, for the city buses. It cost me about 1,500 lek for a month, which is a flat-out steal. No more fumbling for coins or trying to explain to a driver that I don't have change. I swiped it for the first time this morning on the way to the market, and let me tell you, it was more satisfying than it should be. Small win. Ceremonial. That's the real city magic.
I'll be back in your ears tomorrow. But for now, I'm going to listen to the cicadas and watch the last light fade over Dajti. It's been a Sunday well spent. Goodnight, and mirë se vini to Tirana, even if from afar.
The days here have been teaching me what it means to settle in. Every place I put my feet, I leave a bit of my expectation behind. Tirana is not a city that performs for you. It just is. And I think that's why I'm falling for it. The flat, the market, the mountain, the coffee. It's all a slow dance, and I'm learning the steps. Until tomorrow.
That's it for the second day from the Albanian capital. Përshëndetje, and see you on the next one.