There I was, passing out with half a beer in some cheap bar in Taksim at five in the morning, when the esteemed Ahmet Rasim suddenly graced my dream. I thought, "Well, shit, here we go again," my tongue froze, and just as I was about to deliver a solid testimony, with beer foam clinging to my mustache, in my excitement, these words spilled out: "Cheers to you, Ahmet!" (As someone who has been detained, received bans, and been wanted before, let me tip my hat and offer a slight bow in full respect to Article 216 of Law No. 5237.) So, this is what the powers want. I quickly packed my bag, bought my tickets during a class break, and set off. Albania isn’t that far anyway—a country essentially an illegitimate child, conceived by a Turkish woman and an Italian man. After a short flight, the mystery of time did its thing—I arrived in the country at the exact same hour I had left. First stop: a liquor store. Grabbed a beer—Korça! A bunch of Italians, their gr...