Blast from the past
The cobbled street glistens from the early morning drizzle. Street lamps cast a golden glow on the Spanish ancestral houses, which loom hazily on either side, their arched wooden doors and dilapidated capiz window panels in full display. Calle Crisologo is eerily quiet before dawn. I walk around, peering at cafés and souvenir shops now yawning in the inky darkness, running my fingers on vintage signs and decors that hang on whitewashed brick walls. The clatter of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones occasionally echoes in the silence. Who could be riding the calesa at this ungodly hour? Bygone abaniko-carrying ladies in ternos on their way to the Misa de Gallo at the nearby cathedral? A prayle, perhaps? One’s imagination runs wild in an ancient city.