The other night I had a dream that went like this: I was in Bosnia, and I was trying to get to Mostar. In my dream, unlike in real life, Mostar was surrounded completely by water, as if the river that bisects the city had become a great moat, or a lake that turned Mostar to an island. To get to the city in my dream, I needed to take a boat. I was with an old friend, and we needed to go there so that I could show her the city. We boarded a small sailboat with several other people whose faces I can’t recall; a man stood at the helm to steer, feet planted wide on the wooden planks. I sat in the front of the boat as we moved quickly across the water. I could feel the wind – it was summertime warm – and I held on to the base of the sail so that I could lean out over the bow and drag my fingertips through the clear blue cool water. We made it across, and stepped out onto the dock with the other passengers beside other similar boats. We walked up from the dock, the landscape dry and hot, though with hints of lush green in the corner of my eye at the water’s edge. We made it to the street, and with a rush of giddiness I realized that I knew exactly where we were — just down the street from Stari Most, the Old Bridge, on the east side of the river. Like stepping into a tunnel of bowed branches in a forest in order to enter the fairy realm, I knew in my dream that to properly be in the city we needed to cross Stari Most from the west side to the east side. I could see the Old Bridge ahead of me, kept catching glimpses of it through the buildings and trees; I could feel the heat of the sun on my skin, could smell the dry air and the scents of the marketplace that I knew was just across the river, could feel the warmth of the street cobbles beneath my sandals. I was filled with the most buoyant joy to be there, and such an exciting anticipation and urgency to cross the Old Bridge again. Just before I woke up, I had started to run towards the west side of the city, into the marketplace and quiet neighborhoods that I knew were there, every step of the way familiar to me as if I had walked those streets yesterday instead of nearly two years ago. Ahead, I could feel Stari Most waiting.
When I woke, before I opened my eyes, I held Mostar in my mind for a few moments. I imagined that I was waking up in the hostel where I used to work; I imagined that I could hear the call of the muezzin echoing through the streets and drifting in through the window. I imagined getting up and lighting the stove in the tiny kitchen that doubled as hostel reception to boil a pot of eggs for the guests to have for breakfast like I had done each morning. I imagined, later in the day, walking through the streets, across Stari Most, into the marketplace, imagined, again, feeling the warmth of the cobbles beneath my sandals. I was comforted, more than anything, to find it so alive in my mind, so solid and bright and real after so many years.
SGBRSH 