Friday night I got a call about a possible apartment, so Saturday morning I caught the 8:00 train--- this time I was asleep almost before the train pulled out of the station. That particular apartment was a no-go, but we ended up seeing a couple others later on in the afternoon, and ham-del-allah one of them was satisfactory all around. So I stayed the night and signed a lease yesterday-- and this coming Saturday I move. Before Christmas, just as I had been hoping. el-ham-del-allah indeed.

My taxi driver Saturday morning coming from the train station was obviously a very religious man... white gallibeyah, traditional prayer cap, even a big bushy beard. I wasn't sure if he was going to talk to me beyond what was necessary, since I am equally obviously a Western female, which equals infidel in the worst way. But a few minutes after I got in he veered off onto a side street and stopped in front of a small store. Apologizing for the delay, he asked if I wanted anything and I of course replied that it was no problem and I was fine. But he came back a moment later bearing two bags of food and handed one to me as he started the car again. Inside were two sandwiches, fuul (spiced beans) and falafel. The fuul was probably the best I've had since I came here. I was reminded again how important hospitality, even to strangers, is in this culture, in his religion... and how often the lack of such hospitality is apparent in my own.

Winter must have actually arrived here, because today it rained. Enough to wet the streets, enough turn the ubiquitous dust into damp sticky mud, almost enough to make puddles in the potholes outside my apartment building. A rare, rare happening in this city, but in my new one, where the storms roll in off the sea, winters are usually rainy, even occasionally stormy. But it's nice that I was here long enough to see rain.

I move on Saturday! Really, I should be packing right now. Or at least sorting through some things. Almost everything will have to be packed by Wednesday so that it can be transported up in someone's car-- unless I want to struggle with all of it on the train on Saturday afternoon. But procrastination is an art form, and in my case a finely honed skill. There's little need to begin now.