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W hat struck me at first was how very normal Lazarat, Albania seemed. A gas station, a couple of cafes. School kids waiting for the bus. Slowly, I drove up into the hills. And then quickly, Lazarat became very, very, abnormal. At first, is was just a whiff. The aroma was familiar.
Oh, occasionally the early evening, but usually the late evening. Or the mid-evening. Just the early evening, mid-evening and late evening. Occasionally, early afternoon, early mid-afternoon, or perhaps the late-mid-afternoon.
Oh, sometimes the early-mid-late-early morning. But never at dusk! Never at dusk, I would never do that. In any case, the smell enveloping Lazarat was somewhat familiar. Sweet, enticing, cannabis sativa. The Chronic. Back Yard Boogie. Mary Jane, Skunk, Weed, Cannabis, Hash, Snickle-Fritz — whatever your friendly street corner hook-up calls it, the point is — we could smell that dank. Lazarat is not on the tourist map. For good reason. Unusually, I had actually done a small amount of research before heading into what is undeniably the illegal drug capital of Europe.
The internet is filled with stories about SWAT teams, machine gun fire, drug lords, Albanian mafia, and vast, enormous, mind blowing, quantities of Marijuana. Advice I would take on board, and respectfully ignore.