In the Old City

In the morning, J. and I played tourist in Lahore’s gated old city, which is one giant, twisting bazaar. We followed our noses into the spice section, redolent with cardamom and chilies, and past copper shops and fabric stalls, the latter which littered the muddy streets with fallen glitter and sequins.

I was forced to squeeze against the sides of the narrow roads to avoid tuk-tuks, motorcycles, and horse-drawn carts. J., a security guy and chivalrous to a fault, took the danger position on the outside, but he had to suddenly leap behind me to avoid a rampaging motorbike.

“I was nearly run down by a motorbike,” he muttered, wiping his brow.

“Considering all you’ve gone through in Afghanistan and beyond,” I said after his third iteration, “that would have been ironic.”

He glared at me. “Ironic? It would have been tragic!”