The Old Port

I like the old buildings, the weathered brick, the worn down doorsteps sanded by a century of shuffling feet, the musty smells from old bond stores and hotel cellars wafting up through grates along the street. I like the defiance of the old façades, how they hang on beneath layers of gaudy paint, the names and dates embossed on buildings refusing to be rubbed out, the held dignity of a stone wall, desecrated by graffiti yet still standing straight. I like the late night peace and quiet that settles along the lanes and back streets of the old port, places only the locals know, home to the ghosts of washed-up sailors and the lost souls who have nowhere else to go.