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Last evening, I heard noises outside my door, including the washing machine going again. I thought someone had been sent over to take care of some business. It was Friday, so he or she didn't have to worry about going to work the next day. This morning, I heard the usual knock on my door, and when I opened it, it was my landlady, perfectly healthy and smiling! (She had my laundry from a few days ago.) Few sights have made me happier. So she caught nothing from me. Whatever it was that kept her away for a few days wasn't what I had, because there's no way she could have recovered so soon.
With her back, I arranged to pay for two more months, so I'll be in this room for at least 11 more weeks. My Macedonian friend, Alex, has been urging me to go to the coast and further south, but I'm just too exhausted. I need to stay put in a comfortable room in a pleasant neighborhood, which I have right here in Tirana. I had to lock up my room before somebody else booked it, forcing me to move.
Now I'll start a new article, "Two White Men and a White Woman in Africa," a reexamination of Hemingway's "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber."