Glued to the walls are wooden benches with straw mats, and very close to the fire bed inn owners. Calendars, images of Shiva and Durga, a small family altar full of incense, rice, vermilion powder, and flower petals.
But if you eat it, seriously eating, I recommend that you forget these streets somewhat plasticized and its restaurants where, oh surprise, not find any Turkish, but only tourists. Places where menus are expensive, predictable and, too often, cooked without the main ingredient, love.
From 1983 a 2009 attacks, car bombs and suicide girls were the daily norm. And with them a feeling of generalized fear. Everything in town was arrested. Everything? Not. In a small open an old tradition remained oblivious to the fear and prudence of that time; Sunday Galle Face Green.
While the first bottle we racksi2 I ask why Rohit newaris bars are much dirtier than a shoe store or a grocery store. Not knowing what to say shrugs and takes a sip of rice wine.
Eating on the street is much more than just "eat". It is an experience for all senses. No it is calle solo restaurant, but to break hierarchies, putting all level, sitting side by side next to people who do not know. It is a world to see and be seen.
I've eaten nuts, two coffees, nibbled a bit of pineapple and spicy tuna swallowed a dumpling and potato. I'm fat and happy. We continue to gain height, and forest clearing will, giving way to the tea fields. Waterfalls, women collecting leaves, white factories, tiny villages and Hindu temples.