The following entry was written by Jerome Parker, who lives in Korca, in eastern Albania. I think he captures the experience of many of us in speaking the language. I have edited some for clarity (I hope) and added translation in parenthesis. Thanks Jerome.
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The dyqan, pronounced dooshan, is a store or shop. Thirty feet from the entry way to my apartment block is this green, family-owned dyqan where I try to buy as much of my food and other needs. They apparently decided that instead of a gated front, a dyqan would be more profitable, but money is not the subject; communication and my relationships with neighbors is.
I live in the lower right quadrant of Korca, and my apartment actually blocks the street from the main road to the north where we find Birra Korca. The street extends southeast, and on or adjacent to the street are six other dyqans all serving their neighbors and we hope making a positive cash flow.

This is the youngest daughter, whose name I have forgotten. She speaks a little English while her elder sister, Anisha, is a fourth year highschool student who speaks English very well. When I try to speak Shqip, they want to practice English. Ah, well.

But neither momma nor pappa speak English, and all of us have had to accommodate one another though momma sticks to Shqip.

I needed laundry soap, and I prepared for my shopping by writing out my request. Our dictionary only cites the word “soapa” for laundry soap, so I used my standard statement, “I want to wash my clothes”, and I added “I need soapa.”
In Shqip this is: Une dua te lauj rroba. Une kam nevoje soapa.

I walked across dirt and rocks of our courtyard and lane, pushed the red bell button on the upper right corner of the wall. In a few seconds, mamma hustled down the steps of the house, slid on her slides, and scurried to the shop.

Mengjes. (good morning)
Mengjes. (good morning)
Si ke kaluar (how are you)
Mire (good)
Po ju (and you)
Mire (good)
Kohe eschte bukur (the weather is nice)
Mire. (good, or yes I agree)

After our greetings, I took a deep breath and said, “Une dua te lauj rroba. Une kam nevoje soapa.” (I want to wash cothes. I need soap.)

The lady tilted her head to the right, and stared uncomprehendingly at me. Because my language teachers and just about everybody else in Albania say that my pronunciation is lousy, I reset my brain and tongue and said: “Une dua te lauj rroba. Une kam nevoje soapa.”

Mamma tilted her head to the left, and the look of zero comprehension did not change.

This time I grabbed my shirt, shook it, and said: “Une kam nevoje soapa per rroba.”

This time when she tilted her head back to the right, a light fluttered in her eyes and she said: “Ah, detergent!”

Mire, po, po, (good, yes, yes) I replied as she offered two small boxes of different brands. Laundry soap is very expensive in Albania, and I always buy small. I selected the brand named “Ariel”.

Time and laundry go by, and about a month later I went to the dyqan to buy more detergent.

I walked across the dirt and rocks of our lane, pushed the red bell button on the upper right corner of the wall. In a few seconds, mamma hustled from house, slid on her slides, and scurried to the shop.

Mengjes. (good morning)
Mengjes. (good morning)
Si ke kaluar (how are you)
Mire (good)
Po ju (and you)
Mire (good)
Kohe eschte bukur (the weather is nice)
Mire. (yes)

This time I said: “Une kam nevoje detergent.” (I need detergent)

Momma tilted her head to the right, and stared uncomprehendingly at me. I repeated my standard “une dua te lauj rroba. Une kam nevoje detergent.” (I want to wash clothes. I need detergent)

Momma tilted her head back to the left with that blank look, again, and I was lost. Then I pointed to the floor where she stores the detergent, and I said, “une dua Ariel.” ( I want Ariel)

The light of understanding switched on. She smiled, and she exclaimed, “Ah, soapa per rroba!” (Oh, soap for clothes.)

I have nothing more to say.