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So goooood to see you, my old friend! I first met Alma years ago, when I was leading a tour in Bosnia and she was our local guide. She has a painful personal history and a huge heart, two things that seem to go together. Alma and her husband were living in Mostar with their toddler on May 9, , when they were rocked awake by artillery shells raining down from the mountaintop.
They persevered through the next few years as bombardment, siege, and street-by-street warfare ripped their city apart. And Alma is all of these things in abundance. Anyone who meets her is struck by both her generousness of spirit and her forthrightness. Alma speaks her mind in the way of someone who knows mortal danger firsthand and no longer worries with niceties. And she has mastered the art of giving outsiders insight into Bosnian culture.
A way of life. The streets were cobbled with river stones — round as tennis balls and polished like marble — that threatened to turn our ankles with each step. Finally we reached a cozy caravanserai courtyard that felt very close to the Ottoman trading outpost that Mostar once was. We settled in at a low table, and the coffee arrived: A small copper tray, hand-hammered with traditional Bosnian designs. An oblong copper pot, lined with shiny metal and filled with black coffee. A dish containing exactly two Turkish delight candies, dusted with powdered sugar.
And two small ceramic cups, wrapped in yet more decorative copper. The server deliberately poured coffee into each cup. I reached for mine too eagerly. Alma stopped me. Patiently, Alma explained the procedure — and the philosophy — of Bosnian coffee. People spend lifetimes perfecting their own ritual.