Traveling to Albania, I make a stop half way in Metsovo, a small village pressed into the mountain side on the eastern edge of the Pindos Range of Greece. I arrive there red as a strawberry and sweating profusely. My small Suzuki Jeep is a wondrous beast full of low gear power but with no AC she offers no comfort on summer’s hot highways.
The town square in Permet, Albania is lively on a summer’s evening. Kids are whizzing by on bicycles and scooters and little and big girls stroll across the square hand-in-hand. Young mothers are guiding their little ones who are eager to try out new legs with a free sprint around the cascading fountain. Cafes on the square are filled to capacity.
“Passport please,” demands a policeman as he approaches my Jeep. We're at a roadside pullover near Kefalohori, Greece just a stone's throw over the Grammos mountains from Albania. In these parts, I can't remember a time I have NOT been asked to show my papers or open the trunk of my car.