I've been in and out of Saifi Village a lot in the past few days, and these excursions have taken me past what I expect is the last derelict plot in the neighborhood.
Saifi is a different animal, unlike other neighborhoods in the city. There, the buildings are uniformly charming, recently renovated, newly painted, all roughly the same height, vaguely frenchy. I any other part of the city a roofless, abandoned old house wouldn't draw the eye. But, as I said, this isn't like other neighborhoods. Clearly, this house is ripe for whatever magic wand will wave it into conforming with the rest of the neighborhood.
It's strange. Normally I'd wonder endlessly at its age and history, at scars inflicted upon it during some unknown, tormented past. I'd imagine the life it's already had, the life that has worn it out . . . but not this time. Here, I find myself wondering, much as I would over a newborn baby, what's in store for it. I wonder what it will be when it grows up.