We walked though an old souk in Tripoli today that I’ve never been to before. It was the market, and even though everyone was speaking Arabic, and the stone corridors were thousands of years old, it did oddly remind me off the Haymarket in Boston, and other American street markets I’ve encountered over the years.
The smell of dried Zataar mingled with the scent of freshly roasted nuts, right next to gutted raw fish and a skinned lamb hanging from a butcher hook. The open street was hooded by haphazard tarps and rusted sheet-metal, both of which helped to enclose the smoke from cigarettes dangling from the mouths of customers and vendors alike.
My grandfather knew I would like to visit such a place. It was the perfect thing to see my last day here.
And for my last night, I must try to sleep.