Dating in Djibouti...

It is 9 pm -- I have stayed late at the office in the empty calm, to mull over lesson plans and fidget with markers and glue -- I think these chemicals must run in my veins.  I created my first poster tonight, which must be an omen of change!  The time, it doesn't really matter: I work four buildings down the Boulevard from home.  Nonethless, night is night and I begin to put away my tools.  I switch off the A/C and then the light, and sort my keys for the various doors.  The CFPEN guard is in the courtyard, dressed in an Indonesian skirt, mulling over the garden he has planted.  His wife has hung vibrant sheets, actually dresses and veils, over the long clothesline above our heads.  Good night, he mutters to me over his back, as he picks at something in the dirt.

On the street outside, white minibuses pass.  I recognize the names stenciled in dayglow oranges and greens: "Legacy" and "Virtue."  Fare collectors hanging askew through the doors by one arm, hissing and clinking the coins in their palms.  In the quaint, disused busstops, boys in shorts camp out on the back of the benches, their naked legs danging just within view.  My eyes dart carefully inside as I pass, better than to be caught by these vultures unaware.  Further along the street, other folks are out walking.  There is the woman I see here most nights after dusk.  She has latticed a complicated load of bottles and boxes into a bulky rectangle pack across her shoulders.  I have guessed she is a vendor somewhere, and I only hope she doesn't have far to go.  Several soldiers sit at the street kiosk near the Armed Forces.  They sport camouflage pants with hiphop sneakers and smoke cigarettes into the night.  I spot a snack on the shelves behind the counter as I pass and slip through the tables to the back.  As I approach, the cashier jumps across the chest-high countertop to stand behind it facing me, and then we discuss the available variations of long-conserve milk in stock.  He bags my purchases and I continue my way, down the tree-lined boulevard in the middle of town.

And, that is where I begin to spot them.  In shadowy places where trees block the street-lamps, a boy and a girl roost on the planters, their backs to the street.  The two sit side-by-side in silence.  Or if there is more, on this noisy street, you might never notice.  If it weren't for the triangular shape of a silhouetted veil, in their stillness, you might never know they were there.  I see a few, then a third, and another.  Soon, it's apparent that the entire living street is spotted with secretive young couples, in the many darkened corners, including the stairwell onto my street.  I smile at this Middle Eastern rendition of the 1950s lovestory.  Boulevard de la Republique, a.k.a Lover's Lane.