From the ninth-floor balcony the view opened at another unremarkable high-rise across the street, followed by few others on all sides. The mountain breeze, sneaked into the city’s center through the towering urban structures and car exhaust, occasionally brought that rare mid-day freshness one imagines would be natural in high-altitude location. The two doves courting each other and, probably, building a nest around the balcony, gave a hopeful feel to the trip.

It was visibly hot, draining all energy and tiring. By mid-day things would turn to the worse by absolutely insane traffic pattern and lack of natural shade. The cars were on top of each other in a Brownian motion, though luckily, managing to advance in the same direction on a one-way street. The breeze also delivered a mix of sounds from a far. Amidst random conversations, some odd noise from what seemed to be a passing protest accompanied by a cacophony of sirens meshed with the sounds of wine-drinking public at a festival along the “wine street”…

Every early, by city’s standards, morning, at about 8AM, a red table would be rolled out in front of a barber shop across the street from the ninth-floor balcony building. That barbershop had two different flags attached to its awning. The red table would be out every morning in a ritualistic manner, rain or shine (well, it didn’t rain much). It was a basic metal summer table, often used in public parks or less-so trendy restaurants for outside seating. Yet, that was the most remarkable part: it was a red table.

Was the table needed to attract new customers or provide the workers with an opportunity for mild gossip before full day’s work? Perhaps both. But every day, coffee was served and barbers, hairdressers, patrons, friends, friends of friends, bystanders, neighbors, and just random tourists… anyone could stop by the red table. The table gave a different perspective than the balcony view of course. The former was a street level, on the ground, connected with the exhausted and expressive drivers stuck in choking traffic jam.

That traffic was due to part of the city center being blocked for either protests or celebrations. Most of the time the two events occurred at the same time, just a block apart and yet always separate from each other. Often, faster than some sports cars, the scooters ran over pedestrians on the sidewalks, which was quite audible up at the ninth-floor but barely making the local news. “You’ll get used to it,” was the common refrain.

The city breathed and exhaled heat. Anyone drinking water from the drinking fountains, scattered along the narrow streets, was up for a new sensation of their life never having had to try water of such distinct taste, coolness, and freshness. In this heat the street fruit sellers watched their produce ripe in a matter of minutes. It was best to enjoy the true taste of apricots and mulberry before the dust settled and choked off oxygen to the tiny worms found in the fruit’s natural core. In this rushing cacophony of sounds and colors, the loudest was the unspoken silence of the flags, out there, on the hill, thousands of them… Seemed the same from a far, the flags trembled and danced in the wind each to their own tune and character as individual they were…

Few steps outside the city there was a different world ripe for discovery. That was the world of mysterious five-thousand-year-old past and three millennia old fortresses the laid the foundation to the city. It was the world of sleeping volcanoes towering the city but invisible from the other parts of the country where the mountains rival that of any other place in their magisterial height, relevance, and history. That was the world of bad roads, crane nests, and most hospitable sincere people living very simple modest lives. It was the world of grand high elevation freshwater lakes and myriads of hiking paths: the world of sheep overrunning highways and picturesque mountain views frozen in time and memory of anyone who might had a misfortune of seeing those cliffs at least once. Every color known to a human eye and every that is yet to be explored would reveal itself in those mountains through the day and late into the night when the moon would take over the sun. But much of that world would largely be left unknown to the urban dwellers busy buying electronic cigarettes and sipping cappuccinos in the narrowly seated cafes.

Back in the city, not counting the tourists, there were roughly four groups at any given moment. The first was active, out there in the sun and immeasurable heat demanding to be heard. The second group was busy either setting up for or attending some event or celebrations or planning Mediterranean vacations. The third was meeting for business lunches or working from remotely in coffee-shops (though at some point one realizes the coffee was losing its taste). And the fourth was busy toiling through the day with philosophical stamina of taxi drivers or that framed by poorly air conditioned offices and the overpaid computer screens. The tourists, some staying longer than others, were everywhere and spread across all four groups; some might argue forming their own movement. Often, the same people would cross over from one to another group multiple times during the day and that was just ok…

Just like the mountainous rivers relentlessly rushing through anything in their way, the evenings brought fresh respite from the day’s heat. The mind was functioning again. People walked the streets late into the night with hope and smiles, meeting up with old and new friends, but also distancing from the reality, persevering through the day. As one climbed up the stairs the air tasted fresher and cooler. That delicate afternoon mountain breeze was now turning into a wind. That was enough for a day.

It seemed that none of the past [or even the present] mattered at that moment. But it was the past that determined absolutely every action, spoken word, and thoughts for everyone at that every split of the moment.

The following day the red table would be out again and city life would resume its cycle. There is no end to history. For now…