My plan was to spend the evening catching up on my blog posts. I was so far behind, and being this overly ambitious is not always good for my peace of mind. But when I went down to the common room to rinse off my apricots and figs, the rain was pouring down outside and I’ve always had a weakness for heavy rain. Especially going out in them, barefoot, feeling the water fall on my face.
Out on the hostel terrace, which was situated on top of the roof of the lower neighboring building, the water was gathering in puddles. On the long wooden couch, in the shelter underneath the balcony one floor up, two of my fellow tunnel tour participants were sitting. I asked if I could join them with my fruits for a while, and then I just didn’t feel like leaving.
Sitting there, sheltered from the rain but with my feet sticking out (the couch was very deep, so my feet really did stick out, toes straight into the rain), I ate my figs and my apricots. Rain fell on my Bolivia tatoo, not cold, only leaving a fresh taste in the air. The boys from the tour were talking about tourist nationalities that bugged them. The German guy, who’s name I can’t remember anymore, disliked Australians – for their cheerfulness and their drunkenness. Sebastian, the Danish guy, thought Americans could be pretty rude. I told them about my not very pleasant experiences with nineteen-year-old Germans in Canada.
The discussion meandered on, touching upon my studies and development aid in African countries, about becoming a consultant and making a lot of money (both boys were economy students), and then we dived right into Kirkegaard. Next to economy, Sebastian was also studying philosophy, and him being a Dane I thought the Kierkegaard anniversary (Kierkegaard was born 200 years ago this year) could be an appropriate subject. It turned into a crash course in existentialism for the German, as both Sebastian and me were partial to the existentialist take on ethics, after which we were joined by the other Danes and the young hostel receptionist and the discussion turned to football. To that, I didn’t really have anything to add, but I was content sitting there, listening, feeling the drops of rain run down the sore soles of my feet.
Eventually, someone mentioned food. I wasn’t really hungry, but if I was to go to eat, it would have to be real Bosnian. The German had already eaten and the other Danes didn’t feel like walking down to the old town, where the Bosnian food serving restaurants were, but Sebastian was game. We were in Sarajevo, after all.
It was already eleven at night and still pouring outside, but I had my umbrella and Sebastian borrowed one from the hostel. When we entered the old town, the prayer call went out from the mosque, and when we passed it, the whole courtyard in front of it was filled with people. It was the first night of Ramadan, and now all the Bosniaks were praying as the start of their fasting. The immam was singing the prayer monotonously through the speakers and all the people in the mosque and out in the courtyard were kneeling, lowering their upper bodies and touching their foreheads to the ground, standing up and going back down again in unison. We stood there in the rain, Sebastian and I, under our umbrellas, watching the prayer through the mosque gates. The prayer song and the movements of the participants was hypnotizing.
We found a restaurant that still served food and I had a delicious lentil stew. Sebastian told me that he was planning to read all the Nobel litterature price lauretes, which is funny because I’m doing the same myself. I told him about my love for libraries and he said he preferes to own books. I told him about the Japanese fusion tapa restaurant in Vancouver, and he said that the food in Indonesia is very hot, tear producing hot.
And I just started thinking to myself: where were these boys when I was young and innocent? I’ve met a couple of them now, during the last year, young men with dreams and ideals. I used to be like that, when I was 17, 20 – but the boys I met then were either older or already cynics and I thought I needed to be cynical too and less exuberant in order to be cool and attractive. And now, I think I’ve passed the age when it’s charming to build castles in the sky, have big plans and get away with it. A part of me wished I could go back, be 20 again and run my fingers through Sebastian’s beautiful dark hair.
I blame the rain. Summer rains always do funny things with me.
After finishing our food, we met up with the other Danes, took a beer at a bar and then went back
to the hostel terrace to continue our talk about food and extraordinary travel experiences. Sebastian fell asleep on the couch, but his friends also had many stories to tell and we were joined by an American who was a student of international relations and I didn’t get into bed until after three.
The next morning, I went out for a midday walk and just missed the Danes when they left the hostel to go to Mostar.
I didn’t get to say goodbye to Sebastian and his friends. But he was an essential part of the most magical night of my trip (I can say that now, because I’ve been through it all). I will carry him with me, along with the feeling of the rain on my feet, walking through the dark Sarajevo streets underneath my umbrella, listening to the Ramadan prayer. He will be remembered, put away in that little place I have for perfect moments in life. Maybe that is the best that could have happened.
Katja Malmborg 