I have wanted to set down my fading memories of my trip to
Albania for some time. What finally prompted be to get on with
writing them was a brief conversation I had with a
whose surname is Hoxha. He was a little younger than me, but
old enough to remember what life was like living in Enver
Hoxha’s Albania. After I had related a number of anecdotes
about my trip, he turned to me and said:
“You must write these things down. No one believes me
when I tell about how terrible it was living in Albania in those
times, but they will believe you, an observer from the outside
world.”
I hope that I have not stretched your credulity beyond reasonable
limits.
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