A month traveling here and I'm yet to speak with a female. Afghanistan, you are officially the worst place to date in the world. While I occasionally see high heels walking beneath an Afghan Burqa, such titillating observances are mere foot play. Or the errant female wearing the immodest hijab? As you pass me on the street in your revealing clothing, pulchritude from eyebrow to chin visible, I catch myself staring, nearly stumbling into open sewer. But I want to talk to you.
|100's of pictures, my only one hiding the rare female;|
and wearing a hijab nevertheless
Dinner ends, your family rises. Leaving, you look over your right shoulder. We make eye contact. And you're gone.
Inquiring with a male Afghan afterwards, he tells me courtship is a looking affair. In that case, I suppose in those three glances, we accomplished 6 drinks spread over a couple bars and a few hours of playful banter, me mentioning a female friend to keep you guessing and me reading your palm to accustom you to my touch. So far so good. Though in our visual interaction, I'm left with a problem: unless you're telepathic or the literate 15% of Afghan women, the only way to acquire your number is if we speak. What's to be done? Then again, calling you is taboo. Never mind. I stand by my original assessment.