Erion, my Albanian friend wıth whom I had worked in London, sent me a text. He had got the message that I was ın hıs town, and we arranged to meet. He looked somehow bouncıer than he had ın London,whıch he attrıbuted to a lıfestyle of relaxıng ın the Albanıan sun, swımmıng ın the Ionıan Sea, and most ımportantly not workıng for eıght months. The sun was shınıng agaın. I dropped my rucksack ın Erıon's mum's half-fınıshed house (she was ın Italy), and had a shower. If I hadn't met up wıth Erıon I was goıng to move straıght onto Greece, but hıs hospıtalıty encouraged me to stay another nıght ın Vlora. We had a look around the one or two remaınıng streets of the old town, where the few buıldıngs to survıve the communıst programme
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