a new address

The smell of barbequed meat, of sewage, of shisha. Kids running through the twisted narrow streets squirting each other with water guns in their hands. Teenaged soldiers lounging about casually chatting with assault rifles in their hands. Church bells and muezzins alternately calling the faithful to pray. Tourists, pilgrims and locals mingle. The sound of my plaid little old granny shopping cart clacking on the irregular white cobblestones and clunking on the uneven steps. Through a small wooden door and into a courtyard filled with all variety of plants and up three flights of stairs to my sanctuary in the Old City.