All the little stations are pretty. Each has its flower garden, and each station house is trailed with gorgeous creepters. There are Turks and Greeks and Bulgarians, all merry, greeting friends, seeing friends away- quite a happy scene. Monastir is an ordinary Turkish European town, even to the attempt at a garden where the richer Turks and Bulgars and Greeks come and sit at little tables and drink beer and listen to astring band composed of girls from Vienna. Everybody is jolly.
Murder is so commonplace that it arouses no shudder.
In the night there is the little bark of a pistol, a shriek, a clatter of feet. But though geniality reigns, you notice thinks which make you think. Half of the population consists of Turkish soldiers. Night and day they are about. On all the neighbouring hills you see military encampents.