Our small group sits down for a 9 p.m. meal, a part of the evening that, after several lengthy days of riding, we’ve now affectionately coined “dirtbag dinner.” This now-familiar ritual has yet to happen in anything other than our mud-stained bike garb, the dust on our faces an added accessory from the day.

They say you haven’t experienced the Balkans until you’ve sipped raki with someone who’s made it themselves. I look to my left as I hear the familiar sound of glass clinking glass. I watch as the liquid of Albania’s traditional spirit, made of fruit brandy, is poured into thimble-sized cups and strategically placed around a table that’s already overflowing with food. Our host, a local music teacher and guesthouse owner, moves with the grace of someone who has done this thousands of times before.

Sharing raki is a cultural experience ingrained in the Balkans region, peeling back layers to make way for community and tradition. The clear-colored spirit embodies the hospitality of the people, and this particular distillation on offer is stored in an old Jack Daniels’ handle, as if we needed more proof that it was homemade and created to share.

“Gëzaur is how we say cheers,” says Orgest Noka, our guide.

Glasses in the air, we all chant the Albanian word in unison, the days-old camaraderie of the group already solidified in a way that only happens after hard days on a bike. I take a sip, as is custom. We all do. It’s a little hard to swallow—a powerful punch that’s potent as it works its way down my throat. When it settles low in my belly, I have a moment to savor its distinguishable, complex flavor, fiery and warm. As I sit with the lingering taste of the raki, I realize this experience represents much of life in this region. There’s no polish. It’s wild and intense, but also raw and unforgettable. Like that first sip of raki, the Balkans don’t ease you in; they grab you by the throat. Our first taste was in Kosovo.