Albania Part 2: From Tirana’s Dark History to Christmas Magic

Supporting Friends and Navigating Tirana’s Rainy Streets

Day Two in Albania kicked off with us sitting in on a university lecture we didn’t understand, at a school we couldn’t pronounce: Universiteti Katolik Zoja e Këshillit të Mirë. Our friend gave a presentation. We smiled, nodded, and applauded like we were deeply moved… by whatever it was he said. It was raining. Again. But honestly, at this point, the rain felt more like a travel companion than a nuisance.

After a quick hotel change and a coffee with friends (as one does to pretend they’re sophisticated and not just cold), we decided it was time to see what Tirana nightlife had to offer. Since it was early December and officially offseason, the night started early and by Albanian standards, cheap. A dangerous combination, really.

We stepped out into the night, greeted by jam-packed shop windows flaunting Christmas lights and plots to lure us inside. The city felt like a treasure hunt, large and undiscovered by all, but we didn’t have a map. We did, however, have our own Albanian “tour guide” who spoke exclusively in Italian. Perfect… except that’s my second language, so I mostly tuned out and let Tirana do the talking. Sometimes you need to just explore and stand in awe at what humans can think up and the beauty they’re able to create.

The Wall of Red Hands: A Silent Protest Etched in Tirana’s Heart

Eventually, we passed a wall completely covered in thousands of red handprints; some small, some smudged, some stark and perfect, like someone had just pressed their palm there seconds before we arrived. It stopped me in my tracks. Something about it felt dark and haunting. I pulled out my phone instinctively, not to snap a photo, but to film it. This wasn’t something that could be flattened into a frame; it was something that deserved to be captured in movement. I knew deep down this, what I thought was “street art,” had a profound meaning that I had yet to understand.

Later, I found out it wasn’t just edgy street art. This wall is a symbol of the Mjaft! Movement, Albanian for “Enough!” A civil protest initiative that emerged in 2003, born from public frustration over corruption, poverty, and political mismanagement. The red handprints are a literal cry for justice. They represent a visual, human wall of resistance. Each print represents a voice raised against apathy and abuse. And there we were, laughing and carefree, facing a wall built from silent screams, completely unaware of the grief and fury etched into every print.

In a city that’s been through so much, it’s wild what you stumble across when you’re just looking for dinner and a good time.

Awe and Atmosphere: Exploring Tirana’s Majestic Cathedral and Enchanting Christmas Markets

We eventually found ourselves staring up at one of the most stunning churches I’ve ever seen; the Resurrection of Christ Cathedral. It’s huge, it’s shiny, and it looks like it was just plopped down yesterday, towering over Tirana like a modern-day giant trying to outshine the rain-soaked streets.

Curiosity (and maybe a bit of shelter from the drizzle) pulled us to the massive golden doors. We stepped inside and surprise! There was a mass in full swing. It wasn’t your run-of-the-mill Sunday service; this was an Orthodox Divine Liturgy, probably one of those serious, hymn-heavy pre-Christmas rituals. December 5th isn’t exactly the party night on the Orthodox calendar.

Inside, the space was brilliantly lit by a huge chandelier that practically screamed, “Look at me!” The walls were covered in intricate mosaics and icons, a perfect mix of old-world tradition and brand-new architecture. The choir filled the room with solemn hymns, echoing off the gleaming surfaces and high ceilings.

We stood there, caught somewhere between awe and “Wow, this is heavy,” realizing that in the middle of a city that never seems to slow down, this church was its own quiet rebellion. And honestly? It made us appreciate just how unpredictable this trip was turning out to be.

After soaking in the cathedral’s grandeur, I set off on a straightforward mission: find a bookstore and snag a Bible for my mom. Easy, right? Nope. We found the bookstore, but it might as well have been Fort Knox. Guards stood outside like they were protecting the crown jewels and honestly, they were. Inside, some big-shot author was signing books, and entry was strictly by golden ticket only.

We hovered outside, feeling like uninvited extras in a very exclusive movie scene, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.. yay us. No way we were getting in without a ticket OR causing a scene. So, reluctantly, we abandoned the hunt. Our tour guide promised to track down a Bible for us later, because crashing an elite book party wasn’t on our itinerary. Mission failed… for now.

We walked down the street until I spotted it: a massive Christmas tree, standing proud like the unofficial mayor of the square. Now, I love Christmas. Like, REALLY love it. So rain, cold, and soggy shoes? Details. I was ready to dive in, and honestly? I wasn’t disappointed.

What we stumbled upon were Christmas markets that somehow held onto their magic despite the cold and damp. The locals running the stalls protected their products with plastic, but it still felt magical. Twinkling lights, festive stalls, the smell of roasted chestnuts in the air… It was like the city was saying, Yeah, it’s December, and yes, it’s wet, but we’re still here, still celebrating, even without the magic of snowfall (like Krakow).

For the first time, I was ACTUALLY starting to like it here. Albania was quietly working its way under my skin… and not in a bad way.

Bunk'Art 2: The Haunting Faces Beneath the Dome - Remembering the Forgotten

After weaving through the festive chaos of the Christmas markets, we found ourselves standing in front of something completely different: Bunk’Art 2. From the outside, it’s a brutal, concrete monolith, but stepping inside reveals a world steeped in fear and despair. Bunk’Art 2 is one of thousands of Cold War-era bunkers built during the ruthless dictatorship of Enver Hoxha in the 1970s. Constructed amid a suffocating atmosphere of paranoia and isolation, these bunkers were meant to protect against nuclear annihilation, but in reality, they became symbols of a regime’s obsession with control and suspicion. Over 170,000 of these cold, impenetrable structures were scattered across Albania, blanketing the country like scars on its skin.

Inside Bunk’Art 2, you don’t simply enter… you descend into a living nightmare. Just beyond the entrance, you step into a dome-shaped chamber and look up. The ceiling is covered with hundreds of black-and-white portraits, hauntingly still. Men, women, even teenagers, all frozen in time. Victims of Albania’s secret police, the Sigurimi. People who were arrested, tortured, disappeared, or executed under Enver Hoxha’s dictatorship.

And then, it starts.

A recording plays, over and over, naming the dead.

One name.Then another.And another.

There are no dramatic effects, no flashing lights. Just a steady, relentless litany of names echoing through the chamber like a metronome of loss. The repetition is hypnotic, almost unbearable. You stand beneath that ceiling of faces and realize: these weren’t just casualties of war. These were victims of fear, of suspicion, of an ideology that demanded cooperation and silence, then punished those who didn’t comply.

But more than anything, I felt haunted by the sound of those names: repeating, relentless, unignorable. It took me back to the slow, methodical recitation of names echoing through the corridors of Auschwitz. It reminded me of the 9/11 Memorial Museum, where the names of the lost are spoken aloud in a sacred rhythm: an act of remembrance so intimate, it feels like a prayer.

Discovering the Powerful Legacy of Bunk’Art 2

Further in, the air is stale and oppressive, thick with the ghosts of countless souls trapped in silence and fear. The only sounds are haunting echoes and unnerving audio installations that claw at your mind, reminding you that this place once thrummed with terror.

The corridors are narrow and dim, winding like a sinister labyrinth designed to trap both body and spirit. Each room unfolds a chapter of cruelty: reconstructed interrogation chambers where screams still seem to linger, cold living quarters where hope was replaced by depression and despair, and exhibits that lay bare the brutal reality of the secret police’s reach. The walls are heavy with stories of surveillance, betrayal, and broken lives: stories that hit you like a train carrying cold steel, heavy and harsh.

This bunker, built to defend a paranoid regime, now stands as a chilling monument to resilience and remembrance. It’s a place where the past refuses to stay buried, forcing you to confront the raw, painful echoes of a nation’s darkest hours.

I stood in that bunker longer than I expected. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the faces on the ceiling. Maybe it was guilt: guilt that I didn’t know these names until now. Guilt that we’d laughed our way through a Christmas market minutes earlier while the ghosts of this city waited underground.

And just when I thought the heaviest part was behind me, there it was. A single sentence on the wall, quiet but sharp: “All those who forget their past are condemned to relive it.”

It hit me like a punch to the chest. The slow, quiet shifts. The rhetoric. The eroding of facts. The vilification of dissent. How familiar it all sounds when you’ve just walked through the bones of a dictatorship.

This wasn’t just history. This was a warning.

And just like that, Bunk’Art 2 carved itself into the same part of me that never forgot Auschwitz… and never walked out of the 9/11 Museum the same.

If you're curious how those moments unfolded; how grief, memory, and silence shaped those experiences; you’ll want to read those stories next.

When we finally surfaced from the depths of Bunk’Art 2, our brains were still spinning: ghosts of dictatorships past clinging to our coats like the rain outside. We walked in silence at first, because we were just again reminded how fast freedom can disappear.

Capturing the Pink Facade of the Ministry of Agriculture and Food That Saved Our Night

But of course, we couldn’t help ourselves… we stopped for photos. Because just outside the bunker stood the Ministry of Agriculture, a gorgeous building that didn’t hold much significance to us, but the façade was just to beautiful to NOT take a photo in front of. Its bold white diamond pattern shimmered in the drizzle like a cake that was iced by a civil servant with a flair for the dramatic. And honestly? It was conic. Creepy, but iconic.

After photots, we made our way to Kripe dhe Piper. And let me tell you…if fear built the bunker, then food rebuilt our will to live. That dinner? Absolute redemption. This made us forget the heaviness of the bunker and the fact our clothes were drenched from rain outside.

Snapshots from the Car: The Pyramid of Tirana and the Peace Bell

After dinner, bellies full and moods slightly revived, we piled back into the car, still drenched, still a little emotionally fried. As we drove through the soaked streets of Tirana, we passed the Pyramid of Tirana, glowing like a futuristic spaceship left behind by communism and rebranded by Gen Z. Naturally, we snapped photos through rain-streaked windows, because getting out of the car was not an option. The rain was still falling relentlessly outside, and we were just drying out.

Just in front of the pyramid stood something quieter but heavier: the Peace Bell.

It’s easy to miss if you don’t know what you’re looking at, but once you do, it stops you cold. This isn’t just some symbolic art installation. The bell was cast from over 20,000 spent bullet casings, collected by children after the violent chaos of Albania’s 1997 civil unrest - a time when the government’s collapse, fueled by financial pyramid schemes, triggered an armed uprising that left the country on the edge of collapse.

The children of Shkodra’s Zadrima community gathered those casings, turning remnants of violence into a monument for peace. The bell was installed in 1999, and it stands as a haunting contradiction: born of bullets, but built to ring for hope.

It didn’t need to toll while we were there. Just seeing it, wet and glinting in the floodlights, was enough. A quiet, metallic reminder of what happens when systems crumble and what it means to build something better in their place.

Karaoke Chaos: Finding Tirana’s Unexpected Nightlife

Later that night, because apparently emotional whiplash is part of the itinerary, we found ourselves at an Irish pub that was absolutely alive. Not "cute little pub with a guitar guy in the corner" alive. No, this place was full-blown INSANITY in the best way. Locals were doing karaoke like their lives depended on it, drinks were flowing with absolutely no regard for tomorrow, and the entire place buzzed with that perfectly electrifying energy that only happens when it’s cold, late, and no one wants to go home yet.

Honestly? It was exactly what we needed.

We sang along, we laughed way too hard, and for the first time all day, we weren’t thinking about bunkers or bullet casings or the ghosts of regimes past. Just voices cracking on 90s and 2000s ballads.. Eminem, Brittany Spears… you name it… and we couldn’t help but feel absolute joy at meeting such amazing people during this wild experience.

Eventually, after way too much fun and way too many off-key karaoke performances (some of which I’m definitely not proud of), we finally stumbled out of that raucous pub. The rain hadn’t let up, but honestly, we didn’t care. We turned back toward the hotel, slightly buzzed, thoroughly exhausted, and maybe just a little bit more alive than when the day had started.

Turning In, Anticipating Krujë: From Skeptic to Fully Invested Traveler

As the city lights blurred past the windows, my mind wasn’t on the night, but on what was waiting for us tomorrow. Krujë. A place with ancient walls hiding history I knew nothing about… I never even heard of Krüje before.... Something about it pulled at me, a quiet insistence I couldn’t ignore.

I was changing. What began as skepticism was twisting into something else… something deeper. I wasn’t just along for the ride anymore. I was invested.

Tirana, you unpredictable little legend… you really know how to flip the script on my emotions.

If you wondered how we stayed connected, AIRALO! Use code TRICIA0509 for an extra discount... see you part 3!