Spring is tentatively springing; the air is becoming thicker with warmth and the insects are starting to make themselves known.

As are the neighborhood wanderers.

I understand that my home is a bit of an anomaly in Brooklyn; unlike brownstones or box apartments above store fronts, my old house at the back of the hill stands out and draws people in. I do not enjoy strangers at my home. I am not a philoxenist.

Philoxenist, from the Greek word philoxenus or “lover of foreigners”, is defined as one who is hospitable to strangers. Greeks are said to have considered any stranger a “guest” and modern Greek includes xenodocheion a “guest house” or “house for guests” or its modern version of “hotel”. [from]

Clearly, then, as I am a bit of a recluse and accustomed to a house filled with plants and non-human creatures, I am not a philoxenist.

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