Our original plan had been sensible: dinner near the hotel, one quiet drink, sleep.
The city had other ideas. We followed the neon into a narrow shop crowded with people standing shoulder to shoulder. There were no obvious tables and no clear indication of what anyone was ordering. A woman near the door pointed at two empty stools and said something we didn’t understand with the confidence of someone improving our evening.
We sat. Cold bottles appeared. Then a plate of grilled skewers. Then another plate we hadn’t requested but ate anyway. The room was too loud for introductions, so conversation happened in gestures. A raised glass. A pointed finger toward the kitchen. A warning that arrived one bite too late.
When we finally left, the street looked different. More shutters were down, more signs were on, and the night had settled into its own working rhythm. We walked without checking the map. Past a fruit seller packing up. Past a card game happening on plastic stools. Past an alley where music seemed to be coming from somewhere underground. Nothing dramatic happened. That was the pleasure of it.
For a few hours, we stopped moving through the city like visitors trying to accomplish it. We simply let one light lead to the next.
