After so many wars and turmoil. A place emerges whole with original buildings still standing rich with history and a rusty look of wisdom, only trees that old may know.

There we walked for miles and miles, place to place with thousands of others seeing so many things. Surprises abound every few minutes. Artisans, colorful vagabonds, tourists from a collage of countries and cultures. The sounds are a hum of unintelligible voices – a bee hive of humanity on vacation.

Then there are the shops and restaurants. Souvenirs, pastries, mini markets, gingerbread men and women.  A store devoted to pencils. Just pencils. And why not, since the 1700’s that is what they have. Not one or two. But thousands of types of pencils, colors and textures. At first I thought it was a joke but then I saw them again and again. At this corner, around the corner, right near where we were staying.

Wow, what is everyone drawing I wondered. Perhaps we see that on the walls and windows of the cathedrals. On the street and alley way sketches of our current times. Some beautiful, some sorry scratches and all scrapping against the chalk board of our lives.

And then there were the faces of so many I could not keep track. Like wooden monuments frozen. Puppets with a purpose. They looked at us, drawing us into their world – visions of another time.

But we are like puppets too with no strings and we wander and stumble and fall as one, as many, as Kafka, as Mucha. As a people, as a person. Strings pulling us to thoughts, to places, to no places at all. As we wandered through these streets, a masterpiece of marble and cobble stone.

It was there we savored a drink, a Jameson whiskey, with just one ice cube. We sat in wonder as we watched the people, the puppets and the pencils go by.

Oh yes, it was pencils, puppets & people 🙂