A Tibetan monk cut in front of me in the line to buy phone cards. What could I do? He’s a Tibetan monk!
Egii and I got lunch. I got the traditional beef with noodles—big soft handmade noodles (completely different words in Mongolian: “handmade noodles” and “other noodles.” It began to rain. He has two children, one on the way this month. The weather changed like it does in New Mexico. It was warm. I kept looking out at the plants on the street side, the predominantly well dressed people walking by.
Men touch each other here.
In the taxi on the way to W’s hostel at Zanzabar and Seoul st, in Sukhbaatar Square, I heard a gag and looked up as a guy spewed out a stream of yellow vomit as he walked. His companion touched him on the back and they both laughed and walked on, never breaking stride. W and I looked for dumplings (pronounced like “booze!”) and then walked to the TAF apartment, which borders the square. We walked across the bustling place it is at night, boys with their arms around each other, and W said it’s a much better place for gay people than Russia or china, and that though there aren’t any gay clubs, there’s a culture of a bar becoming one, suddenly.
Bain yy (“ban ooh”), is how they answer the phone here. Za za is yes ok.
Jargal’s secretary was dressed all in silver, long skirt. The secretary at TAF has perfectly sculpted eyebrows. I don’t remember her name. She hasn’t talked much to me yet.