Travel in a backyard

It's here. Finally.
late for its yearly date, but it made it, once more.
Once more, the slow, longed for spring has landed on our valley.
I became aware of it in the last few days when I step over my porch overlooking the backyard.
It's not the slow blooming, nor the few patches of color, nor the birdsongs,
that confirmed the long awaited good news,
but what my nostrils perceived as I stepped out in my town garden,
that has now just enough foliage grown to encase all the fragrances into an invisible cloche.
As I step out on the sideyard along the tall bamboos, it already assaults my nostrils,
as the air is barely warm enough, with just the right amount of moisture,
to allow the delicate scents to be liberated.
There are so many it's impossible to distinguish them,
it's just a subtle, perfect combination,
that the most world renowned perfumers will never be able to duplicate.
Some I can identify, like the unmistakable, insistent fragrance of the Jasmine that instantly transports me to the shores of Hamamet, Tunisia, then to the hilltop village of Sidi Bou,
its cobbled windind streets, reflecting the whitewashed walls.
You have to slowly trod those streets, for they don't like hurried visitors,
those irregular cobbles, and the heat, force you to slow down, watch your steps,
for you have to deserve what's awaiting for you at the top of the village.
As you walk up the narrow streets, with its whitewashed walls and indigo mucharrabieh,
its heavy wooden doors bolted with ancient, rusty knockers,
you bathe in the blue light and breathe in the scent of jasmine,
worn by men in a tight bouquet behing the ear,
and by women woven in necklaces.
As you stroll along uphill you pass craftsmen working on copper and pewter, the tin-tin noise of their hammer tirelessly shaping the metal.
You pass spice stalls displaying rich powders in shades of ocre, saffron, and earthly reds,
transporting you to the era of high walled, impenetrable caravanserails.
A you stroll up the hills of Sidi-Bou, you pass bougainvilleas overflowing the round, soft edges
of glaring white walls jealously keeping secret realms,
then you reach the Sidi-Chabaane cafe overlooking the bay of Carthage and the Punic harbor,
and sitting outside there with mint tea and pinon pines,
a narguileh and Maalouf music, you know you've reached one of the tops of the world.