Vlorë: Where History Meets the Horizon
In a place that has reinvented itself for 25 centuries, I started to see my own reinvention differently.
I sat on a bench near the Independence Monument, watching locals pass by. Children playing. Couples walking. People going about ordinary days in a place that once saw extraordinary change.
The monument stands 17 metres high, marking November 28, 1912 - the day Albania declared independence from the Ottoman Empire. I'd come to Vlorë for practical reasons: affordable, coastal, warm. But the history kept stopping me in my tracks.
Why History Matters When You're Starting Over
When I talk to people considering a move abroad after 50, they often focus on spreadsheets. Cost of living. Healthcare. Visa requirements. I did too. But walking through a place that has witnessed the rise and fall of empires taught me something the spreadsheets couldn't.
Reinvention is always possible. Vlorë has done it repeatedly.
The ancient Greeks called this place Aulona. The Normans took it in 1081. The Venetians in 1205. The Ottomans in 1417. And in 1912, it became the birthplace of Albanian independence. Each wave brought destruction and renewal. The city adapted, absorbed, and rebuilt.
If a place can reinvent itself this many times, so can I.
The Independence Monument
I found myself returning to that monument several times during my stay. The first time I saw it, I was just taking photos. The second time, I sat on a bench nearby and let the ordinary life of the city wash over me.
It struck me that independence isn't just a political concept. At this stage of life, we're declaring our own kind of independence - from careers that defined us, from expectations that constrained us, from the assumption that our best chapters are behind us.
The Mosque of Muradije
One morning I walked to the Mosque of Muradije, built around 1542 during Sultan Suleiman's reign. The architect was Mimar Sinan, one of the most renowned builders of the Ottoman empire. Albanian, incidentally.
The old castle of Vlorë was demolished in the early 20th century to pave the streets. But this mosque remains. Cubic prayer room. Distinctive brick-and-stone walls. A minaret built of carved stone.
What survives and what doesn't is rarely about strength. It's often about timing, luck, and whether people decide something matters enough to preserve. That felt relevant to the choices I'm making about what to carry forward and what to leave behind.
The Climb I Didn't Make
The Castle of Kanina sits on a hilltop overlooking the city. 379 metres up. The views are supposedly extraordinary - the bay where the Adriatic meets the Ionian, the city sprawling below. People have been fighting over that vantage point for 25 centuries.
I didn't climb it.
Part of me felt I should. The old me would have pushed through the heat, ticked the box, collected the photo. But I've been learning something about this untethered life: you don't have to do everything. Not every experience needs to be optimised.
So I chose the waterfront instead. Slower. Cooler. More my speed that day.
Kanina will still be there next time. And there will be a next time. That's the thing about not racing through places anymore - you can leave something for the return visit.
The Water
Ultimately, the draw of Vlorë is the water. The bay stretches 19 km long and 16 km wide, offering natural shelter. Guarding it is Sazan Island, separated from the mainland by a 4.8 km strait.
I spent an afternoon near the Lion Fountain, known locally as Uji i Ftohtë - Cold Water. Located just south of the harbour, this spot has been a place of relaxation for centuries. In 1848, the artist Edward Lear wrote about the pleasure of lying on a rug here, enjoying the ice-cold water that sprang from the rocks and poured into the sea.
I sat in roughly the same spot, watching the same water meet the same sea, and thought about how many people have come here to pause, to think, to figure out what comes next.
What This Place Taught Me
Vlorë gave me more than affordable living and good weather. It gave me context.
When you're considering a major life change at 50 or beyond, doubt is constant. Am I too old for this? Have I left it too late? What if it doesn't work out?
But walking through a place with this much history - where people have been starting over, adapting, rebuilding for millennia - those questions start to feel smaller. Not unimportant. Just smaller.
The bay is still there. The mosque still stands. Kanina waits for next time. And there's room for one more person trying to figure out what comes next.
