Saturday, February 16, 1929
I continue my unanimated existence here, doing nothing more exciting that read books, play the victrola on the porch in the warm sun, as a face full of freckles will testify, and go for the mail of which there is usually none. In the afternoon if tourists are in town—and they always are—I either watch the fun from my point of vantage or else stand on the curb. Five police are kept busy on this important corner, one directing a meager sprinkling of cars and bicycles and carriages, and the other four gently shooing away the bevy of hawkers who come right back again. One or two British ships are in today. The prim officers in the British Army and the rest of the voyagers exhibit a cross between shock at seeing me sans coat and curiosity at my studded belt and travel-worn britches.
Though well up in the 70s in the sun, the temperature quickly drops to near 60 when the sun sets. It is getting cloudy now as well as windy, so I must expect rain tomorrow I suppose. Port Said is a decided leader in the gentle art of being curious. Every building has its porches, one above the other, from which curious people like I sit and never miss a trick on the doings in the street below. These porches extend out over the sidewalks, protecting them from the rain.