Day 36, February 13

I don’t even really know what to write about. It’s just that this city has too many small details, windows, balconies, people, animals — all those things you can’t really write about. And you can’t even photograph them. Some of those moments you don’t come across in the usual hectic life of a big city.

Here old women are knitting hats. Here a grandmother is pounding something in an old wooden mortar. And another one nearby is sorting through peppers. Here old men are sitting and doing nothing. Here children are running and fighting. A kitten tied to a string. A dog sleeping under beautiful old carved doors. Houses are reflected in the murky greenish water of the artificial wells, of which there are many here.

Here is an old, leaning house, and someone lives in it… Here a goat peeks out of the window. Our reflection in a deep well. Corn drying, hung on a rope. Girls wave to us from the window. And now here is a more touristy street, Europeans, dazed by the beauty and unreality, wander around with huge cameras slung over their shoulders and don’t know what to photograph — their eyes dart everywhere. Here and there something is being fried, and it smells delicious.