soul of my shoes
Genius Loci:To conjure the soul of the place
“The places we have known do not belong solely to the world of space in which we situate them for our greater convenience. They were only a thin slice among contiguous impressions which formed our life at that time; the memory of a certain image is but regret for a certain moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fleeting, alas, as the years.”
Reviews Written by John P. Jones III (Albuquerque, NM, USA) The 40 days of Ramadan…, September 20, 2013
No question the author is enthralled with the brilliant sun-drenched landscape of Algeria, a sharp “depaysément” from the “gris” of his native Normandy. He can wax lyrical with descriptive passages such as: “wild pomegranate intolerably acrid with aromatic astringencies”; and, “syrupy figs, and grapes both violet and golden, so sweet I could eat only four, the rest I gave to children.” My favorite is “an avalanche of sun.” Now, why had I never thought of that before? But the book is an eclectic mix of highly impressionist wanderings, seemingly random and with no purpose. Perhaps, unsurprisingly, he complains of the other tourists, citing examples of his interactions with the natives that are far more authentic.
Oh! how lovely the caravans were those evenings in Touggourt, when the sun was sinking into the salt.(André Gide)
"The streets, in market-weekend day's, colorful, with musky spices, and drunk of sun...",
The streets on market once a weekend days, crowded with people gathered happily coated with garments in hot and motley colors and places saturated with the aromas of spices, of lavender, saffron, Curcuma, and paprika packed in small bag exposed right on the ground mingle, with that faintly scent of musky dust sustended in the air. That was the clime of the Sook; the Zorna- windpipe player, Qarkaboo- castagniettes, and the drum players party that’s, were the main attraction of the day. The floating perfumes, of oranges, mint, and lime, melt in the air, make your eyes drunken, the burnouses and creasing white silk veils, red tarbush dancing, your eyes burning, with that unfathomable sun, that seems just hanging over your head as if it was your conscience, and making you stepping on your proper shadow at your feet _ in the Sahara desert, you must be two people to have a shade, You see people they scurrying hither and thither to escape the sun, and with that a maniac sky, thu blue that sometimes turned to white, made you linger for the infinitesimal freshness around, under the arcades, sipping syrupy teas mint, and watching never-ending dominos-play parties. Mirage, mirror of images of the past that stick to your mind, whether it was in the small oasis of Touggourt, or under the arcades of the Casbah of Algiers, or Tanger.
Here, those were the days where happiness was not for sale, but for free to indulge, moments of life with friends, moments we wish if only that last forever, alas.
In Algiers, Algeria, the port is at the foothills, and the Kasbah old city -citadel crawls to reash the top-hills.
people live behind the doors, and outside make their living, turning their back to the sea, and lost horizons perhaps in remembrances for the glorious past where their ancestors they were once the masters of the sea