Sarajevo

There is a line in the pavement of Sarajevo's main street where Ottoman bazaar becomes Austro-Hungarian boulevard mid-stride — 'Sarajevo, meeting of cultures', the marker says, and for once the plaque undersells it. Minarets and belltowers and a synagogue's dome share one small sky; the smell of grilling ćevapi drifts over Baščaršija's coppersmiths; and the hills stand close on every side, holding the city like cupped hands.

The sensible traveller starts at the Sebilj fountain with the pigeons, drinks Bosnian coffee poured from a copper džezva — a ceremony, not a caffeine delivery —, crosses the cultures line on Ferhadija, stands a moment at the Latin Bridge where one pistol shot turned a century, and rides the rebuilt cable car up Trebević for the valley entire. The evening belongs to the čaršija's lanterns and a table that will not let you leave hungry.

The Guide's honesty: the war of the nineties is written on the walls — mortar scars filled with red resin, the roses of Sarajevo — and the city speaks of it with a survivor's calm: listen more than you ask; the Tunnel of Hope earns its half day; and the coffee comes with rahat lokum and no hurry whatsoever — reaching for the check early is the only real faux pas.