Call it Typhon.
You can wander without purpose unless your purpose is to wander. Traipsing these streets, you sense movement beneath you as if the rises and falls are on the back of some leviathan. Pretend you are nothing more than a bacterium occasionally annoying your host as you go on your bleary stumble from the hostel to admire the gargoyles on the gothic cathedral in the center of town, its walls blackened and streaked by the agreement between time and weather. From there, spy on the doves gathering in the plaza by that one café among cafés where the tidy server squeezes the life from blood oranges into your glass as you watch. You wish you had the power to squeeze the pulp from your dreams.
Now the morning murmurs. Typhon sees you without caring. Spoons make a dainty clattering on the sides of coffee cups. Butter melts on the crusty, warm roll as the morning ebbs away. You want to learn to accept responsibility with grace. Are you like everyone else? Yes.
Typhon sighs and you move away from its center slowly, uphill in a haze that only you can see. Each window whispers secrets you won't remember later. But you're amused with every tale. That's how it will seem to you one day. The cobblestones beneath your worn walking shoes have been there for ages layered upon layers of Typhons slathered over simpler Typhons, more violent Typhons, truer Typhons. An alarm clock peals through an open window above. The sill is painted a deep burgundy next to a creamy stucco. Tendrils from various potted plants reach towards you down here on the sidewalk. A cart pulled by a hooded young person labors up the stones to a shop a few yards ahead of you. Entering the doorway, Youth glances at you with dark eyes like your own. You might be smiling, but the teenager has disappeared into the shop and you don't look in as you pass. Instead, you listen to the thrum of voices and locomotion blending in your ears from all directions.
At the top of the street you come to an avenue of trees with peeling bark. You sit on a bench to catch your breath and notice a bulky man with a cane making his way slowly towards you. He's stopping at each tree to peel off bark with his cane. The pieces fall like chips of lead paint in the old farm house you see in your dreams. The city sounds are muffled by stone walls that line either side of the road here. How long did it take to build those walls? The morning sun has found its way into your eyes from around the buildings. The man is silhouetted with a golden aura around him as he trudges on his way nearer to your bench. You think about where you'll go today. Maybe you'll stay right here on this bench. A gruff voice says, "Buenos días." The man is seated two benches away from you. You see he's sweating and breathing hard. His once-neat clothes are frayed at the edges and grimy in spots. His dingy white orthopedic shoes have lived beyond their life expectancy. His eyes are red-rimmed and as wild as his wispy grey hairs. You reciprocate his greeting without a smile. He asks you in a language close to Spanish if you have friends. You stare at him for moment without answering. He says he could be your friend. You stand up and walk up to the next block and turn back down towards the center of town. The man is grumbling and then bursts into a song you don't recognize.
This road is painfully paved over cobblestones. A woman jingling a tambourine walks towards you from several blocks away. She's with a little girl who is dancing around wearing a colorful skirt that trails her movements and makes you think of Stevie Nicks. You pause, mesmerized, until you realize they've arrived quite near you. The woman is cracked with age and wear, but her eyes are vivid and determined. You slip to the other side of the street in a manner that feels more agile than it probably looks. The little girl sighs and the older woman spits on the sidewalk. You feel as if you've escaped something and hurry into a museum that has opened only moments ago. You throw money at a person behind a glass and dissolve into the rooms of tragedy, romance, and unknown psychologies to gather your strength again.
Typhon won't defeat you. You emerge into an afternoon grown misty with forgotten ideas. There is peace in Typhon, but there is war in the world.