On The Write Path

Along ancient trade route the Ottomans built

I saunter up narrow streets with barely a sidewalk, fearful that the traffic behind me will not yield to my age or roller bag. Local people just stride by confident, oblivious. I must be getting old.

I need to trust. This is a town along ancient trade routes the Ottomans built. Life matters here. Stray cats and dogs know it. They rely upon the unrelenting kindness of human strangers. Why can't I?

As I pass the local ice cream hang out, I promise myself to come back later. The prices are right. Life may be precious but the food is cheap. Fruit markets snug the curb. Manitje is on the menu. Those spicy meatballs wrapped in phyllo and baked entice me, but I'm on a mission. Where is the apartment that I'll sleep in tonight?

Ah... above the döner shop named Bazar! Apartment Bazar is up a flight of white stairs, clean, easy to climb. The apartment... is wonderful! Two sofas, a table, a kitchenette, a washing machine... time to do laundry. The bedroom has a double bed.

This place would be great for families but I travel alone.

Time to go back down the hill to the river and cross over to restaurants and tea and coffee shops. The city may be over 400 years old like the inn, Amir-Agin Han, but it's vibrant at night. The streets are full of young and old, men and women, the open happy faces of a peaceful people. Backgammon anyone?

I wish my friends who are fearful of Muslims could visit here. For this town is definitely Muslim. The pristine white interior of the Altun-Alem Mosque built in the 16th Century stands open. A calico cat greets me in the courtyard asking to be petted. Yet, others live here as well. I do not see oppressed people. I do not feel depressed. The call to prayer does not instill fear.

After a good night's rest, I wander around, have my ice cream served with a smile, know that I will come back.

© Kåre Enga (14.novembra.2019) [176.xxx]

A memory of Novi Pazar, Serbia. Septembra.2019.

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