South to the Riviera – Riding the Edge of Blue
From the cliffs above Dhërmi, the Ionian Sea is a living sapphire. The road winds like a ribbon tossed by gods—sometimes cruel, sometimes generous.
We rode past olive trees twisted by salt and wind, past bunkers and goats, past children waving from roadside cafés. Albania’s Riviera isn’t polished. It’s real. Beaches still have pebbles. The food still tastes like someone’s grandmother made it.
At Jale, we swam with salt on our lips and sun in our bones. At Himara, we slept in a guesthouse where the old woman brought us rakia before asking our names.
“This sea,” a man told us in Porto Palermo, “is not for looking at. It’s for remembering.”
He was right.
