so.

I wonder what the place is of a tourist in Bosnia in 2005. Clearly they welcome our currency - the women who meet the buses with signs that say rooms - sobe, and the men who sell kebabs and cheap jewelry in old town.

But then here we are plundering their misery, drawn here to ogle the physical scars that the Bosnians no longer see.

I spent this afternoon taking fetishistic pictures of beautiful broken buildings, while the people of Mostar quietly tolerated me.