nights in the alleyways where buskers play wet guitars and the mirror warms your face
woke up at 6:47 am because the busker in the alley next to my hostel kept playing that damn clave rhythm all night long.当时the mirror outside my room was reflecting the streetlights and making this weird warm glow. i didn’t care. i rolled out of bed and just started walking because the air felt like it was whispering secrets.
the weather here? i checked my phone and it’s exactly that 28.23 degrees, like some tropical sauna someone forgot to turn off. felt like the kind of heat that makes your skin cling to your bones. i wore that faded band t-shirt from high school and it was a disaster but hey.
someone told me that the buskers here are actually ex-convicts learning to play music. i don’t know if that’s true. sounds like a cruel urban legend. but then again, how deep do you want to dig when you’re just here to see a guy play a broken guitar under a cracked awning?
i stopped at a street food stall and ordered something that looked suspiciously like last year’s mistake. the vendor didn’t smile. they just nodded. i ate it anyway because starving. the heat made my backpack sweat. my perspiration was dripping onto the oldest phone in my pocket. not a smart move.
getting direction help was a nightmare. asked three people where “main street” was and two of them just laughed and pointed to a random alley. the third one said ‘you’re lost, but that’s okay. the city knows how to hide places.’i wanted to believe them but i questioned everything. anyway, i found a spot to sit by a construction site and felt like i was in some giant suspended pile of concrete. things got quiet there for a bit.
someone told me that the locals here hate tourists who take selfies at every landmark. i almost got into that trap. i saw a guy taking a picture of the same statue three times in a row. must’ve wanted it for his soul. i walked away.
there was this weird calm after sunset. the air smelled like fried snacks and wet concrete. i sat there for hours listening to the busker’s music. they played songs i didn’t understand but the rhythm was good. maybe that’s why people stick around?
i’ve heard that the area around this hostel is DGAF about tourists. the neighbors? they’re more interested in fixing their leaking roofs than pretending things look nice for cameras. which is fine. i kind of liked it. no fake smiles, no ‘excuse me, what’s your name’?’ nonsense. just heat, music, and the hum of a city that doesn’t care if you’re paying attention.
someone warned me about the night buses. they said to never take the 1260173 because it’s run by people who want to charge you extra. i took it anyway. it was okay. the driver was talking in some local slang about a nearby market. i pretended i understood and nodded. he probably just wanted to sell me spices.
i checked a tripadvisor page for nearby cafes and found this place called →. it’s got reviews that are just ‘food was good’ and ‘the owner hates me’. i don’t know what to make of it. went there anyway. the dal makhani was amazing. really good. the owner did not smile. i left with memes in my head.
another review on yelp said that the local bookstore is run by a guy who used to be a poet. i went there and the guy just gave me a book without asking for money. it was about fish. weird. i kept it.
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