As always, the men drink sweet, strong tea, smoke their waterpipes and play dominoes in the seedy Al-Bagh-dadi Tea House on the Tigris River.
At garish nightclubs, dancers lock arms and hop about in time to Arab rock, waving prayer beads and ululating.The markets sell carpets, garlands of dried figs, pungent spices and seeds. Envy and theft are problems in hard times, so the demand grows for blue ceramic charms and gnarled roots that ward off the evil eye.
As everywhere in times of scarcity, the secondhand trade is flourishing. Used clothing, shoes, furniture, toys, wedding china, books, even marriage beds are sold by people desperate for cash.
Two years after the Persian Gulf War, this city of 3.5 million appears normal on the surface. The rhythms and rituals of life continue.
But U.N. sanctions have taken their toll, and the economic ordeal of daily life is dispiriting. The recent U.S. bombings, said to have claimed 46 lives, have increased the apprehension.
Seven-year-old Ahmad still awakens in a cold sweat, hearing thunder and seeing fire again in his nightmares, said his mother, Amira, who would not give her full name.
He shrieks, "No!" and shields his face with his hands. His mother holds him in her lap, she said, murmuring soothing words from the Koran about peace and protection from evil.
"That makes him feel better, but inside there is fear in all of us now," said Amira, a stylish woman who runs a small carpet shop but has few customers.
Although Baghdad has been rebuilt and most signs of the gulf war are gone, Amira said, there is an urgent, precarious quality to life.
One dinar used to buy 100 pieces of bread; now it buys three. Amira and many other women now bake their own bread, when they can afford flour.
Some new damage has replaced the old: The opulent marble lobby of the Al-Rashid Hotel, Baghdad's finest, was shattered when a stray cruise missile smashed into the garden just outside. Two people were killed and 30 injured. A baby grand piano from the lounge tipped into the missile crater.
Weeping, wailing mourners filled the lobby for a state funeral and many cursed President Bush.
"When will the Americans leave us alone? When will they have pity on the Iraqi people?" asked Adnan Latif, a businessman. Anger was genuine and widespread in Baghdad, even though most people seem to like Americans.
In the middle-class Karrada district, a missile turned two large, flat-roofed stucco homes to rubble. A woman was crushed to death.
Nearby, Mussin Ali Mohammed showed journalists photos of his three little girls, all hospitalized with wounds from flying glass. Their blood was smeared on the door to the kitchen, where they had run in panic.
"This is Bush's fault," he said. "My children's blood is on his hands. My home is filled with broken glass. My heart is angry."
Nonetheless, life goes on.
Shortages abound of everything from imported French perfumes to automobile tires. A tire that could be had for 18 to 100 dinars now costs 4,000. One kilogram (2.2 pounds) of lamb, once 15 to 25 dinars, now is 60 to 75.
The official rate of 33 cents to the dinar means little. On the black market, a dollar buys up to 37 dinars.
Theft is on the rise. Taxi drivers are afraid to leave their parked cars, even briefly, for fear they will be stolen.
Sugar is scarce and sweet shops have closed. The few Iraqis who can afford it buy syrup made from homegrown dates and mix it with sesame paste.
Animals for sale at the Friday market in Saddoun Street are scrawny. The "Thieves Market," which once overflowed with electronics, cameras and booty stolen from Kuwait, now has little to offer except used clothing.
Stores that sell chandeliers no longer bustle with the wealthy, and the clerks are idle.
Many stores of all kinds have closed because few imported goods are available. The government has forbidden imports of watches and other luxuries, declaring that people should spend their money on necessities.
There is no shortage of smuggled whisky or cigarettes, and the elites of Saddam Hussein's Ba'ath Party, government and army do not suffer.
On River Street, a few Shiite Muslim women, draped in black, lingered outside a lingerie shop and pointed covetously at red lace trifles they could not afford.
Baghdadis still go to the racetrack. Some say they even wager more in hopes of winning enough to help them through the hard times.
In the modern city built with petrodollars, little remains of exotic old Baghdad except the rotting wooden balconies of colonial days near the Tigris River.