He sat down on one of the park benches in Nasrullah Square. He cut off a piece of simit (Turkish bagel) while watching the pigeons. He stopped for a moment and tried to hear the voice of the city. He felt himself like the chief of a big orchestra. The sound of water coming from the fountain in front of the Nasrullah Mosque, the sound of the pigeons flapping the wings, the sound of the shoe painter hitting the wooden shoeshine box, the joy of the young children who feed the birds, the conversation of the old uncles sitting on the bench cross the street, sough of the breeze, greetings of the people came to the mosque for the prayer, hustle and bustle of life of people walking down the road… He could hear all of them. Nasrullah Square was looking like kulliye, an Islamic-Ottoman social complex with its bridge, mosque, fountain, madrassa, nearby inns, and bazaars. He wanted to look at the mosque, built during the Beyazid II period in 1506, and its neighborhood through the eyes of birds. He wanted to fly; he envied them. Kastamonu was breathing, this city was living by witnessing the history.