There's the school. Do you remember running to the playground, pushing a boy, scraping your knees? Of course, you do. You've been there and you've done that. The every little kid things you did, the every little kid thoughts you thought. But that time is over, that memory is for later days to cherish.

The place is haunted by memories, not just yours. Greater men have left their footsteps on these cobble stones. Greater women have lived and worked and died here. The old buildings have seen them pass through, busy, educated, busily educated. They have visited the churches, older than most trees. They have come by foot, in wagons, in carriages.

This place is old. You can smell the old, you can feel the old. The old sometimes accompanies you on your walks. The rumble of a wagon bringing salt from the harbor. Salt like gold, salt so precious. A rich place, the richest place of its days. No more, but the history remains, the old remains.

Ever wondered about those tracks? A streetcar rode them, first pulled by horses later by electricity. That place over there? A convent, a place where poor people died in tiny cells - the size of your closet. Museums and churches and the sights of the old, oh my. This place and its history - things you'll never leave behind.

The place to return to, a home, a memory. Your haunting grounds of old.