for Judith Moore The small stone towers pictured on the other side of this postcard are called Lanterns of the Dead. Lights are displayed at night in those tiny porthole-like openings at the top to indicate the location of cemetaries, so penitents hiking through graveyards by torchlight (a popular activity here, the allure of which is a complete mystery to me) can find their way. The lace pillow slips in this hotel look as if they’re crocheted from loops of white icing. This creates the sensation that one is sleeping with one’s head on a large unbaked, rectangular pastry. The hotel manager, a man with a drooping mustache, greets his squirmy young dog each morning by cooing, “Hello, Mr. Wiggling Gentleman.” Of course this sounds ever so much better in French. That’s all for now, dear. Kiss the baby for me. I trust his custardy little mind remains sweetly unencumbered by thought. Determined as I am to return from this mission in one piece, I see now why your daily prayers are soooo important.
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