My Voyage To Albania Fueled By The Remembrance Of My Grandfather

This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at U Conn chapter and does not reflect the views of Her Campus.

July 29, 2025, is a date I will never forget. After 21 years, I would finally take flight to experience the land of my origin. Though I was fluent in Albanian, with immense pride for my culture, I never had a huge desire to visit my country. 

Listening to my grandparents’ stories about life in Albania under communism — their reflections on today’s struggles, with the older generation burdened by low pensions and rising prices, and the younger generation departing in search of work — I felt content to learn about Albania only from the comfort of my home. 

Then earlier this year, my grandfather passed away, an inevitable fate that was and still is extremely hard to accept. His burial took place in Albania and as the months went by, I grew to miss him more. I knew I had to visit his grave to give my soul the solace it was desperately begging for. I told my family about my wishes to visit him, and my grandmother surprisingly and instantly offered to come with me.  

She always told me how she hated visiting her hometown of Berat because of the terrible living conditions. Yet she made the sacrifice to travel and stay with me for almost two weeks during the peak of summer.  

After I booked our plane tickets, every day that neared closer to our trip, she would warn me about the unbearable heat, the poor conditions of the family home, and concerns about the safety of the food and water. No matter what she told me, I was still excited to finally reunite with my grandfather — at least in spirit.  

July 29 finally came and we embarked on a long journey starting from Boston Logan International Airport to Istanbul Airport in Turkey to finally landing in Tirana International Airport in Tiranë, Albania. I was ready and optimistic. After a two-hour taxi ride from Tiranë to Berat, we were dropped off in downtown and slowly but surely hiked our way up a very steep hill to the family house. 

Original photo by Anna Heqimi

I enjoyed climbing that hill as it made me feel nostalgic, like I had been there before, walking the same path my grandfather would walk when he lived there more than 30 years ago. After stepping on only rocks, seeing the houses joined together and the many family-run restaurants, we finally arrived. My great aunt, who is currently living there, was waiting for us. She greeted us and as soon as we entered, I was excited to explore. That excitement quickly turned to horror and disgust. Everywhere the walls were pealing, a squat toilet was right underneath the shower, and my great aunt forbade me to open the kitchen doors for fears that the rats might escape. I looked at my grandmother, who asked me why I looked surprised after she warned me for weeks.  

The house was basically falling apart. The bed was slanted, the floorboards creaked, and the stairs were ready to collapse. I felt like I was not only in a new country but in a new time period. Yet, I quickly adapted and remained grounded by my purpose to reunite with my grandfather. 

The following day was a walk down memory lane. My grandma gave me a tour of the city, creating a vivid picture in my head of how she lived when she was my age. She even took me to the neighborhood she grew up in and showed me her childhood home. She showed me where she used to work, the school where my grandfather used to teach, and explained to me what once was and no longer is. I felt as if I was transported to her time and was living her life through the passion yet melancholic way she explained everything.  

At the park my grandparents used to spend the majority of their free time at, my grandma showed me a little fountain that had three streams of water coming out of it. She told me that the locals drink this water, and I immediately tried it. It was the best water I had ever tasted. From then on, I refused to buy bottled water and would just fill up a bottle at that very fountain. I was becoming a true local. 

When it came time for lunch, we decided to go to Cuci’s, a family-run restaurant where my grandfather was great friends with the owner. When we arrived, we introduced ourselves to the owner, Cuci, where he immediately gave us his condolences and sat with us while we ordered some food. We sat at the same table my grandfather sat at the very last time he ate with Cuci. My grandmother and I both ordered Supë Magjericë, a soup made with rice, liver and intestinal parts of goat, lamb or beef. It was the most delicious soup I ever tried. While we were eating, Cuci brought us halva on his behalf, a sweet treat that is often eaten after the passing of a loved one. I held my tears as he told my grandmother and I how much I resembled my grandfather. 

After lunch, we decided to hike up home since we were beginning to feel the effects of jetlag. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I took a four-hour nap each day during my 13-day stay, after every lunch. 

In the U.S., I can’t take naps even if I wanted to. But in Berat, I fell victim to “gjumë berati,” or how the locals like to joke that the air makes people sleepy during mid-day.  

Four days in and the moment I longed for finally came: I was going to visit my grandfather. We woke up early and took the bus to the graveyard, the decorated and elevated tombstones engulfed two large plots of land.  

When we finally found his grave, I sat down, stared, and was speechless. I was stoic, I could not believe that the man who once took long walks with me, gave me long history lessons, would tell me jokes and riddles, was underneath the ground, lifeless. I looked at my grandma, she spoke aloud as if she was talking to my grandfather, “te erdhi Anna,” she said, her voice cracking. “Anna came to visit you.”

The first time I visited his grave, I did not speak. Time stopped and a wave of hopelessness drowned me. After some time just sitting there, we decided to leave. I was in a state of shock the entire rest of the day. I refused to accept that the rest of my life would be without him. I blocked out every emotion. 

Two nights later, I told my grandmother that I wanted to see the exact place where my grandfather was born and grew up in, we climbed up a ridiculously steep hill to “Kala,” seeing the living community overlooking all of Berat. She showed me his childhood home and where the local children would play, and a wave of peace sprouted within me. It was like I could feel my grandfather everywhere I explored “Kala.”

The next time I went back to my grandfather’s grave, I sat down, stared, and began to recount all of my experiences and observations, telling him about what I thought about “Kala,” the people, the food. I spoke as if he was actually listening to everything I was saying. The more I went to his grave, the more talkative I became. I would spend hours just sitting there talking with him, and on the last day, a wave of sadness overwhelmed me. I told him I would be returning to the United States, I told him my plans for the school year, and the classes I would take. My final words to him were “të dua shumë” meaning, “I love you very much” and “mirupafshim” which is “goodbye.” As we were leaving, I made sure I walked ahead of my grandma, because a waterfall of tears was beginning to form. 

To truly reunite with my grandfather, I had to experience his past, connect with the place he passionately embraced, and follow in his footsteps.

My journey was one of deep reflection and profound connection. Albania will always be home to me. The spiritual pull that led me to my grandfather’s grave became a transformative experience, allowing me to truly embrace my cultural roots and relive the beautiful moments my grandfather and I once shared.