Fifth Journey Day 153: Smoke Between Calls

October 10, 2025

Abstract painting of soft smoke plumes in cool grays and mauves, evoking Sarajevo’s valley—chimney smoke rising and calls to prayer drifting over the Miljacka River

"Smoke Between Calls" — A hush of chimney smoke and distant calls settling over the valley.

Date: October 8, 2025
Location: Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

In Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, the day moved in pale autumn light beside the Miljacka River. Minarets, Austro‑Hungarian facades, and tram lines hold the city’s layered memory, while wood stoves and tea glasses mark evening rhythms as the muezzin’s call carries across the valley.

Choosing Stillness Over Sketching

I spent the afternoon by the Miljacka River, sitting where the stone embankment dips low enough for my shoes to touch the water's cool edge. The current was quiet but steady, a steady sound under the traffic and voices above. I didn't sketch anything — I just watched as the bridges divided the river into slow, uneven glints, like sentences that almost repeat themselves.

The Atmosphere of Khareef

Not khareef, but Sarajevo’s own cool, thinned light. The air felt thin, as if it had already passed through several layers of memory before reaching me. Across the water, an old tram stopped on the bridge, and its windows were covered in fog. People moved behind them like shadows on silk — moving smoothly and a little far away. I kept thinking about how cities remember, not through monuments, but through small details that last: chipped paint, bent railings, a smell that returns in the same place every day.

Quiet Moments at a Tea Stall

Later, I walked uphill until I found a small café with a view of the valley. The light had gotten colder by then. Sarajevo seemed closed off — smoke rising from chimneys, the muezzin's call echoing between apartment buildings, a distant echo. I drank black tea with lemon and felt very clear, but not from knowing more. I felt this way because I stopped and looked closely at what was going on.

The Scent of Frankincense

Not frankincense here, but wood smoke and river damp. The city’s breath smelled like chimneys and stone, with a trace of lemon from my cup — a fragrance that returns in the same place every day.

A City in Sync with Rain

No rain tonight, only the river keeping time. I can still hear it in the distance, its sound softened by walls and time. There's comfort in its steadfastness — the way it moves through the city without drawing attention to itself. I think that's what I've been learning: that paying attention can be like praying.

Travel Notes

Weather: 17°C; pale sunlight between drifting clouds; cool air with a faint scent of wood smoke and river damp.
Scents: Chimney smoke threading the valley, wet stone by the Miljacka, a slice of lemon brightening black tea.
Sounds: Quiet, steady current under traffic; a tram pausing on the bridge; the muezzin’s call echoing between apartment buildings.
Reflection: Skipping the sketch made space to notice how the city remembers — in chipped paint, bent rails, and a river that keeps its own prayer.