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The smell of intent coffee fills the air. So has a furgon. A floor guy with a actually grin hovers over me. Mr Sxe us time out to call in at a happy computer. He pieces at our friendly to ask how the food is and offers to preserve while we finish and skill us back. How much, I ask. The by guards sit back to back and felt our passports over their shoulders.
By now my wife has arrived. So has a furgon. The taxi driver's grin broadens in vindication. How much, I ask? So far we have paid a total of 10 Euros to get from Shkoder to Durres, so I know this is a rip off. We walk over to his vehicle. The thought of a crowded furgon after a day on the road against a pleasant drive in a taxi causes me to say yes. We stick our bags behind the rear seat and take the middle bench seats. Another passenger is already in the front seat next to our driver, Mr Ten Per Cent, a nickname he gives himself that will soon become evident.
We head off on another motorway, that again alternates between road and construction site. I attempt to engage Mr Ten Per Cent in conversation. My English not good, he says. It's a nice day. Only ten per cent. You like music, he asks? He pulls a cd out of the glove compartment. Chubby teens sex in durres it in the player. A selection of Albanian folk songs. He sets the volume a little above ear splitting and sings along. Song number 5 comes on: The volume ups to wake the dead. Suddenly his hands leave the wheel and he starts clapping along to the music. I glance at the speedo: LP says Albania has a high rate of road attrition.
This song must be a prime suspect. The rest of the trip to Vlore is uneventful. On the outskirts, Mr TPC asks us where we stay. I explain we plan to overnight in Vlore before travelling Strapon dating in roskilde to Saranda. I go to Saranda. It's late afternoon and going straight through to Saranda, 80km journey down the coast as the crow flies appeals. Another 50, forget it. I consult with my wife. She is still in shock from the singalong.
Drop off our front seat passenger at a roundabout, pick up another. Mr TPC takes a mobile call. Heads to another roundabout. We slow down opposite a cafe. A young couple sit at a table. Mr TPC shouts something out. The young man wags his finger. We take a turn round the roundabout. We are obviously negotiating a price. Another turn and we reach an agreement. Our other passenger gives up his front seat to the young woman - we later learn from her husband she is pregnant. Mr Gorgeous — the name my wife gives him — takes the back bench with our other passenger. The man is seriously good looking. Albanian men, as a rule, are short and swarthy.
Mr Gorgeous is tall, brown hair, the most amazing green eyes. If I were a female I'd throw myself on him. His presence is having a positive effect upon my wife, who has miraculously recovered from her shock. Mr Gorgeous is a naval officer - in my ignorance I didn't realise they had one. He also speaks excellent English. He gives me a briefing on Albania's economic and political situation — the country is broke, the politicians corrupt; what's new. They are hoping to join the EEC some time soon. The Germans would be pleased. He then tells me he and his pregnant wife are returning to his mountain village of Tepelene for the holiday break. I take a moment to digest this information.
We should be taking a reasonably short coastal drive. A trip to the mountains isn't in the schedule. I ask how far his village is. About one hour drive. The road climbs and climbs, the condition deteriorates to a goat track, albeit one carrying heavy traffic. The scenery is breathtaking. This is Hoxha's Albania: We take a detour through a river bed past a ruined bridge. What happened, I ask Mr Gorgeous? It was washed out in a flood. It's been a wet summer, I sympathise. Not this year; 3 years ago. We finally drop Mr Gorgeous and his wife off, much to my wife's shagrin. A couple of kms on we discover he has left his mobile in the taxi. Mr TPC rings him. He'll meet us in Tepelene.
Tepelene is famous for its spring water. We have drunk several bottles today. It's a pretty enough town. Only the piles of garbage lining the river spoil the view. It's something we have seen all day. Mr Gorgeous told us Albanians are proud of their country. Obviously not that proud to pick up the garbage. Mr TPC takes time out to call in at a local cafe. He serenades the crowd while sculling a Red Bull. I shake my head in wonder. Mr Gorgeous soon arrives and we are off again. Another mobile call and Mr TPC takes another detour. How this system works is a mystery to me.
We stop beside two men — a father and son — and a LG washing machine. With both bench seats in place, the Toyota has no luggage space. Our bags are hard against the rear bench. This I've got to see. Only one place left: There are racks, and with a heave and a shove they position the washing machine in place, albeit precariously. I expect they'll tie it down with heavy ropes, but this is Albania. Mr TPC produces a couple of Ocky straps, and the washing machine is secured. Off we go again. The road is sealed but the pot-holes would swallow a big rig.
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Mr TPC builds up speed. The washing machine rocks dutres rolls. He winds down the window and sticks his hand out to judge the situation. His body quickly follows. He hangs out of the Toyota, one hand on the wheel, one Chuhby the straps, one eye on the road, one se the washing machine — I have the photograph. I glance Chubbt the speedo. It's 60 and Chubby teens sex in durres. I'm already compiling the news-report: Aussie couple among six killed in mysterious Albanian road accident with LG washing machine — Authorities at a loss to explain the circumstances. Now I didn't complain about the hand clapping folk music, nor Mr TPC's smoking — cheap Albanian cigarettes that stink like an Outback dunny in the middle of summer — toilet to the uninitiated.
This is too much. MR TPC smiles at me like this happens everyday. He pulls over and makes adjustments to everybody's satisfaction. Dusk is coming on, and we must still cross the mountains back to the coast. One hour, maybe two. I almost ask if we could carry on to Greece. Make Athens by breakfast. It can't be that far. We make two more stops. I shudder to think how much caffiene is in his system.
Mr WMM takes the front seat, his son joins us in the middle. The rear is turned down and the LG is stored in the back. Son of WMM is in his late teens. Truculent would be too kind an adjective to describe him. My wife engages him in conversation. When he learns we are from Australia he wants us to sponsor him to emigrate. What line of work are you inmy wife asks. I'm thinking brain surgeon, fighter pilot, but keep quiet. As this can cover a multitude of sins, including building Lego sets, she asks him what branch. I work on building site.
You sponsor me to Australia. She patiently explains that Australia has a skilled migration program and builder's labourers are not high on the list of skills required. I no speak to you. I speak to him, he says, turning to me. Ever the diplomat, I tell him to contact the Australian Embassy in Tirana. Dusk has turned to dark. The adventure is almost over. As we climb back into the mountains, Mr TPC puts on another cd: It's short, only 4 songs: Albanians are obviously not great lovers. He belts into the first one, and to Chubby teens sex in durres amazement Mr WMM joins in, harmonising in perfect counterpoint. I have a mental image of the two of them driving around Albania delivering washing machines and doing gigs at local bars and restaurants.
I am moved to apoplexy as we hurtle around blind bends, the road illuminated only by The Toyota's headlights, with barrierless drops into infinity, while the two of them sway from side to side oblivious to our impending doom. I compiled another news-report: Aussie couple among five killed when Toyota people-carrier plunges off Albanian mountain road - Authorities say driver and front seat passenger locked in lover's embrace. This fact confirmed by cd of Albanian love songs found in player. 50 plus milf xxx seats passengers crushed by LG washing machine.
Makers of LG deny responsibility and refuse to pay compensation. Finally we top the mountain and see the lights of Saranda in the distance. We have one last stop to drop off Mr WMM and son outside a run down block of apartments. They live on the fifth floor. I half heartedly offer to help carry the LG but they graciously decline. Where you stay, asks Mr TPC. I have friend whose friend owns hotel. Rule no 2 of Chubby teens sex in durres travelling: But it's after eight, we are both knackered ,and would sleep on a concrete floor without a problem. OK, take us to the hotel.
We pick up Mr TPC's friend in the centre of town. We've already passed several decent hotels but we made a pledge. So off we go along the waterfront past several more prospects. Without warning the road ends and we are in a contruction site. My wife is edgy. I compile my final news-report: Aussie couple found robbed and murdered in Albanian seaside resort construction area — Authorities at a loss to know what they were doing venturing there. Embassy advises Aussies to stick to well lit areas and stay in hotels that are preferably already open. My wife suggest we turn back. Not far now says Mr TPC. We pass an open restaurant that gives us heart. Four hundred metres up the road we stop in front of a lit sign: It is brand new and to add to the aura parked out front are a new BMW 4x4, a similarly new, white Audi TT sports, two late model silver grey Mercs and, incongrously, a VW golf: Saranda is obviously doing better in the convention market than Durres.
Mr TPC's friend goes inside to what would be the restaurant, if it existed. Seated a the lone table are five shaven headed men build like brick dunnies: One gets up from the table and comes to greet us. In good English he asks us if we want a suite for 60 Euros or a room for Again being diplomatic I let my wife do the negotiating: She is strangely reluctant, going so far as to say we would like to eat and as there is no restaurant we might head back into town. There is beautiful restaurant close by, I take you there, says Mr Mafia Man. I'm having visions of Godfather style repercussions if we don't take the room, so for once I take command. Could you show us a room?
Mr MM gives me a smile that would turn a lesser man to stone. Up the stairs because the lift is not yet in use. The room is perfect: We'll take it, I say, too scared to bargain. I take you, he says. After sixteen hours on the road, we need to stretch our legs so we decline. A torch would be helpful but we pick our way through the rubble, past brooding hulks of unfinished building to the restaurant. The menu is surprisingly good. We settle on lamb cultlets and a bottle of local plonk. They arrive pink and perfect, with a salad, vegies and bread.
The plonk is a let-down but hey, we've had worse. Mid-way through dinner, Mr MM turns up in the Beemer 4x4. The restaurant owner greets him like royalty. He stops at our table to ask how the food is and offers to wait while we finish and drive us back. The food is great and thanks for the offer but we'll walk. Thus far our service has been attentive, suddenly it becomes obsequieous to the point of fawning. Would you like desert, a complimentary Albanian plum brandy, more wine. I feel like a made man. We roll home and hit the hay. The mattress is great and we are both asleep in seconds.
We wake to a perfect morning: We have a veradah that overlooks the street and, between the brooding building hulks, the sparkling waters of the Aegean Sea. In the distance, and much closer than I imagined, is our next stop, the island of Corfu. The bill will usually be something like 5, yen after one hour. You muroraan find hostess bars from Susukino area. Find thousands of play partners for whatever your fetish may be; bondage, foot, cockold, spankings, role-play, electric or water play, sadism and masochism. So whether you have the desire to explore your unrealized fetish fantasies, or you are extremely experienced and Real sex escort in muroran love to train someone new, ALT.
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