It reminds me of a courtyard in Italy, a town square, a piazza of haphazard grass and porches with clothes and rugs drying in the sun, people grilling all kinds of food. An older woman from Cuba talks to me in super-fast Spanish, sure that I can understand her. A Somali woman is lonely in her second-floor apartment, trapped inside by having three kids under age 4. But mostly there are women from Afghanistan milling around, hanging out of windows to call to me, pushing strollers full of squalling children back and forth through the courtyard to each other's apartments. They stop in front of my little porch and scoop up my baby to kiss him. They chat with me, all of them with varying degrees of limited English.