The sun is bright, the bright asphalt is blinding, the Vjosa river winds next to the road, its bright blue looking like it was generated by an AI, too intense to be real. The river and its banks have been protected by the Albanian government; it is one of the few rivers in Europe that have not yet been straightened and tamed. More or less intact bridges lead over it at irregular intervals. Two cars stop at the entrance to one of these, an old Mercedes 190 and a second one that also looks as if it came off the assembly line in the 1980s. People get out of both, trunks are opened, plastic bags are exchanged back and forth, people too, then the Mercedes starts moving and drives over the suspension bridge paved with concrete slabs, which we hardly dare climb with our e-bikes. Signs in Greek announce the place names, and we feel as if we have just witnessed an old-fashioned smuggling operation. But Greece isn’t on the other side, even though our phones connect to Greek networks for many kilometers along the river. There is a Greek minority there, but it is still Albania.
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