Lucy and I took a twenty-minute walk around her neighborhood. "Get more exercise," her doctor has told her.
To get more sleep is not something she needs to be told, now 40 weeks into her pregnancy. Our stroll came between our long, perfectly synchronized naps; my energies came and left in tides of jet lag. The air is perfect for this refreshing activity. A breeze ruffles the curtain that maintains my privacy from the children, beggars, and cows that would otherwise peer in the window of my room. It's easy to fall asleep because it's quiet here with few cars and none of the other engine-driven racket of prosperity.
On our walk, I found that I have finally, on my third trip, gotten the hang of being here. I've overcome my deeply ingrained visual impulses—my need to look around, to step off our course to look up or out, or to put myself in a position where I might exchange glances with anyone. We stick out like sore thumbs and now I appreciate the danger that our appearance bring. I know now that we set our pace and don't diverge from it. We keep a predictable, straight course, keep our eyes down, and stop for nothing. Manifesting my curiosity could bring on the evil eye.
Lucy points out how unemployed men hang around, watching. They know everything about the neighborhood—who lives where, when they come and go. She's affirmed my concern that my new presence increases the possibility of robbery at their home.
When we left the apartment, we locked the door to each room after stowing valuables in inconspicuous places. We locked the apartment and building doors, of course.
It's likely that there will be few new photos in this blog; I'll stick to ones I've taken in the past, from the windows of taxis. To take my camera with me on a walk would be the greatest folly. Even without creating my own, mechanical one, it's plain to see that the evil eye is real, and embodied.
To get more sleep is not something she needs to be told, now 40 weeks into her pregnancy. Our stroll came between our long, perfectly synchronized naps; my energies came and left in tides of jet lag. The air is perfect for this refreshing activity. A breeze ruffles the curtain that maintains my privacy from the children, beggars, and cows that would otherwise peer in the window of my room. It's easy to fall asleep because it's quiet here with few cars and none of the other engine-driven racket of prosperity.
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| Residential street of Oakam, neighborhood where Lucy and Yves live. Photo from two years ago. Mixture of finished and unfinished structures is common, |
On our walk, I found that I have finally, on my third trip, gotten the hang of being here. I've overcome my deeply ingrained visual impulses—my need to look around, to step off our course to look up or out, or to put myself in a position where I might exchange glances with anyone. We stick out like sore thumbs and now I appreciate the danger that our appearance bring. I know now that we set our pace and don't diverge from it. We keep a predictable, straight course, keep our eyes down, and stop for nothing. Manifesting my curiosity could bring on the evil eye.
Lucy points out how unemployed men hang around, watching. They know everything about the neighborhood—who lives where, when they come and go. She's affirmed my concern that my new presence increases the possibility of robbery at their home.
When we left the apartment, we locked the door to each room after stowing valuables in inconspicuous places. We locked the apartment and building doors, of course.
It's likely that there will be few new photos in this blog; I'll stick to ones I've taken in the past, from the windows of taxis. To take my camera with me on a walk would be the greatest folly. Even without creating my own, mechanical one, it's plain to see that the evil eye is real, and embodied.
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