Notes from Cottonwood

They say it's the spring new year. At the bazaar there were girls selling sprouted wheat in little bowls, and stalls with painted eggs and sweets. Chynara says that it's older than any church, which "the priests don't like to hear". People jumped over small fires in some of the yards near the Old City.

We ate sumalak at a neighbor's yard, a sort of sweet wheat porridge that's cooked all night and stirred by the women taking turns, with songs. It's the best thing I've eaten since we arrived, and I don't know what's in it. I was too embarrassed to ask twice.

The first tulips on the bazaar road.