In June, at the end of a long day, I found myself wandering down the Ferhadija, a 16th-century pedestrian way that runs through the heart of Old Town Sarajevo. On warm evenings the walkway swells and churns until it resembles a river of humanity — people come out to see and be seen, to promenade and take in the rhythms of the city as children dart between legs, young lovers stroll arm in arm, and the distant heave of an accordion echoes down an alleyway.

Lined with cafes, the Ferhadija begins at the eternal flame World War II memorial on Marshal Tito Street and moves east, backward through time: The concrete Socialist-era buildings give way to the elaborate pastels and corniced facades of the city’s Austro-Hungarian period, before finally ending in the Bascarsija, the old Ottoman district, where you walk past serene courtyards filled with introspective Muslim worshipers, the hush of a centuries-old public fountain, and stalls selling a rainbow of spices, traditional copper coffee pots, and the ubiquitous cevapi, a glorious meat-in-a-pita concoction.

This collision of past and present lends the city a hyperreal texture, as if you are walking through a postcard come to life. Whenever I roam through Sarajevo’s labyrinthine streets, I am amazed that it is not overrun with more tourists, for while the city’s compact size makes it feel accessible, its complex collision of cultures gives it an air of enduring mystery.

“Sarajevo is a latitudinal city,” explained Amir Vuk-Zec as we sat sipping coffee in one of the city’s many cafes. Mr. Vuk-Zec, perhaps the most famous architect in Bosnia and Herzegovina, spoke in rapid, self-contained maxims, like a prophet on too much caffeine. In his left hand he held a clutch of drafting pencils. “To understand the soul of this city you must see how it runs west to east, like this.” He took one of the pencils and began drawing a diagram of the lateral movement of the city on the back of our bill. “It is a long bowl, you see? It is a touchable city.”