Last night I cycled back from town and arrived at the hotel where the lights of Baba's Great Gate were reflected in the water which now surrounds the fragile mud structures.
It lay there, my little hotel, more beautiful than ever, like a Venetian Palace, or the entrance gate into a fairy tale, and perhaps that is what it has been?

Its extreme beauty seemed to me like the last brilliance, like a fever giving roses to cheeks which will soon die...
My friend Kathy just wrote me that she is sending prayers to St. Christopher, the patron saint not only of Travellers but of floods too.