Cobblestones just want to wrench the cartilage from your joints, throwing themselves into the street's geography like huddled children hiding, rock-shaped, under bedcovers. They can be a tap-tap-tap companion on your journey, or a series of hardships to overcome. Rainwater sweeps down the streets and drowns them into small, abandoned islands. Even with the flood, they will bend and buckle your ankles in an attempt to keep you close.
When I was small, and my mother and I lived in the Old-Town district of our city, whenever we drove or walked over a cobbled street it was a race to see who first could shout, "Cobblestone, cobblestone!" But it was imperative that no one ever be interrupted to do so. A subtle, anticipatory race, really. It's one of my favorite memories from childhood and here, where cobblestones abound, I often find myself treading carefully across them rather than taking the paved route nearby. The pavement is far less treacherous, but also far less dear.
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