At the port, music events were organized for a week. They had brought bands of traditional and 'ethnic' music from all over the Balkans, even Roma musicians with their clarinets. Every evening, people headed there: a few officials, intellectuals, students, cultured people from good society.

At the same time, the buses that had their starting point at the large side square left one after another for the neighborhoods, loaded with ordinary people who had just finished work. Some men were already sleeping in the front seat, while the girls looked tired and unattractive, with faded faces and precarious hairstyles. Many pant legs were stained with mud or mustard.

Everyone was in a hurry to return home, oblivious to the popular feast that would soon begin just a breath away. The local, unmusical entertainment would take place the upcoming (every upcoming) Friday and Saturday: with decibels, shaking, dancing on tables, and watered-down whiskey. What the people once enjoyed is now relished by others. What the people eat today, with eagerness and no second thought, is cooked and served to them by different others.

It would be divine justice for these plastic leftovers to someday be called 'art.'