Parading in a World Made of Clay

Mingling in Baku has been one of the hardest things, and not just because I’m usually the tallest person when entering a room. I am obviously a Westerner, a woman alone finding a bit too much joy in her meals and coffee breaks and in the world parading in its own rhythm just for her pleasure. In the past 4 days I’ve received special treatments, attempts for communication in broken English, and tons of – mostly kind – stares. The people I met asking me where I come from did not wish to take my money or earn my attention, they just wanted to connect. Don’t we all carry a craving for this feeling?

(The old city of Baku in clay, snuggly fitting in my palm.)

There is so much beauty in this world, almost equal with its pain one might say, and sometimes it’s hard to believe these two exist simultaneously. The past couple of weeks have been a reminder of my own personal conflicts – just one of the gifts the road offers aplenty – and honoring the beauty and the pain equally without being dragged into choosing sides can be messy, but absolutely doable. Witnessing the similarities and the differences between me and you makes me feel less alone in a world that all it wants is to connect its parading pieces, while at the same time it craves to set them free from a rhythm that does not work for all.