Đezvas and Lots of Mascara
At the end of Ferhedia street, the pedestrian shopping thoroughfare, a young vendor scowled and crouched under a plume of balloons that billowed in the gentle midday breeze. It provided him shade as the temperature soared to 38 degrees Centigrade. A UNHCR banner commemorating human rights was strung high across the road. A branch of the Bank of Iran stood nearby. Sarajevans hoofed past, some in a hurry, most not.
It was Wednesday. Tables and chairs lined the streets in Sarajevo’s old city, umbrellas hoisted up. At noon, locals began to stream in, ordering coffee from traditional đezvas poured into miniscule coffee cups, where the delicious bitter black substance rests above a thick molasses of coffee grounds– the same way that Dad has been preparing coffee since I can remember.



