In a restaurant without shoes

Visited the old city today. A place where time moves slowly. Strangely, I found myself comfortable there. Comfortable in the dust, the smoke, the heat that stung my skin like bees. Then of course there was "fresh-lime soda." That popped and fizzed into glasses, easing the heat, just a bit.

Lunch was great. In a restaurant with low tables. There were people with caps to cover their heads, beards with a burgundy tinge, people I wouldn't usually identify with too well. But no one seemed to bother the other. No one seemed to mind the apparent differences. Normal as it may sound, I do not find that the case even in the more urban areas of the city. The setting was rustic, to say the least. The fan with its whirring sound was old. There were mirrors, thousands of them, little triangles creating colourful reflections. One could sit there for a while, perhaps even indulge in a bit of afternoon siesta without interference. But it was the quality of the food that seemed so real to me. I see a breed of new and expensive restaurants cropping up in the city which serve food that is very far from quality. Good quality, is still a preserve of old places like this. I could go on writing about it, but to sum it up, there was something about the place that was more real that so many other places that only glitter and shine.

(These are my feet on the divan of sorts at the restaurant. The low wooden tables were placed over this divan.)