Oldtown

Tall and narrow, the houses stand, wall against wall, hunched together on the edge of the cobbled street, as if armed against the unknown. Tiny balconies Where laundry Used hang on railings To dry, now bursting With potted plants Walls bright yellows, greens and blues, stucco and stone mortared together hundreds of years ago by stout men in leather aprons with the rudest of implements, they lean inward over the street, which once ran with mud, the contents of slop jars, and wash water. Now teeming with tourists who hobble on the cobbles, peering into first floors, converted into tiny shops crammed with hats and shirts and sandals, soaps and wine and bracelets, postcards and paintings, candy and local delicasies. Oldtown suddenly finds itself squarely in the middle off the twenty-first century.