Reside my memories. Silent memories. Wonders of a tresspasser. Dreams of a wanderer. Distant sole aspiration of an old soul. Lost in the endless search of an non existing identity. Confusion of vulgarity and elegance. Endless intersections and crosspassing. No resolution.
In these houses, I have memories. Scattered ones. Whenever I passed or visited I taste the agony at some corner of the heart. As if I had lived there during a past life. I connect. Deeply and intensily. Can any connection be any other way? I love and humbly know every single stone and entrance. Every single apartment and name. Hours I spent on the stairs. Previously playing freely and later smuggling myself there. Sitting on the stairs. Reading or just visiting. The stairs. Not the people. The elevator. Not the souls. I am sure they know me and remember my smell. I am sure. I search for my marks there, but there is none. I never actually left any. On purpose. Or maybe just that I have no mark. Not important and insignificant. Is not it enough to smell the damp old air, watch the intricate designs, gasp at the hidden beauty, carress the frightened architecture.
I am not sure which is my favourite. Each and every has its identity that luckily preserved throughout the years through the people living there, who either are not from here, or who has chosen to preserve the slaughtered life.
10 Ahmed pasha street, is Fou'ad serag Pacha's palace. Not a relative! tha's for sure, but something else. The dining room still there. Red. Status at entrance greeting the coming and the going. Right and left, huge halls, elognated ceiling, amazing chandelier, paintings. Stairs to heaven. Rooms to paradise. Stained glass that beats with life regardless the old age. 3am Mustafa! Annoying guardian who for sure knew nothing just because of the inherited ignorance of Nasser's arrogance.
10 Burgas, the elevator is my favourite.
10 Al-Tulumbat street, now called 'etihad al muhameen al arab' street. Why? No clue. The stucco at the entrance and the facade are my mates.