SPECIALSECRET
woman called to check if her granddaughter
had taken out the trash and done the dishes.
A gentleman stared at the quaint shops
across the street and I resorted to gazing at a
cobweb collecting water droplets.
After ten minutes, parts of the street
bounced light. It had stopped raining. I
got up to walk to the house. As my cell
phone died, I asked a stranger at the end of
Princess Street if she knew the route to the
blue house.
“Oh, the blue house,” she said, “Walk
two blocks down the road. Make a left on
Queen Street and it’s the second house on
the left.”
Before the smiling stranger left, she
added, “That blue house, it’s cute as a
button. You can’t even fit a couch in there
sideways. And don’t knock. It’s not a
museum, you know. Somebody actually lives
there.”
“Oh thanks for the tip. I was not going to
knock but who knows. Now I know won’t,”
I smiled and walked on.
Princess Street was paved with
cobblestones. A marker indicated most
streets in the 1790s of Old Town Alexandria
were paved with cobblestones, and that
Hessian soldiers cobbled the streets. The
cobbles were untouched until 1979 and then
restored using the original cobbles.
On Queen Street, the blue house was
right where the stranger had said it would
be. At first it was something like those
see-if-you-can-spot-it games where you’re
competing with your cousin, and you feel
rewarded and accomplished if you can spot it
before your cousin.
Then, it was something like nostalgia
mixed with wonder at how I got to that
point, place and time. I had been in America
for a year and a half, read about many other
places but had not wanted to visit any of
them as much, waited at a bus stop for the
rain to stop, had my phone die on me, asked
a stranger for directions and then an hour
later, I found myself standing in front of the
narrowest house in the nation wondering if
pixies lived there.
As I stood on the brick sidewalk observing
the blue sliver, Hollensbury’s story became
real for me. I wondered what life was like
for Hollensbury 200 years ago, imagined
him walk down the cobbled streets and brick
sidewalks in his boots and tall hat. For three
whole minutes, I imagined the loiterers and
horse wagons making him upset and getting
into his property. I imagined he tossed at
night when the epiphany to build a blue
house struck, soothing his pains and worries.
I imagined Hollensbury, the man with solid
boundaries, to have had the last laugh.
Before I headed back to my car, I
listened to the sounds of horse hooves
amidst cars.
Juliet Philip is a daydreamer,
doodler, writer, adventurer
and traveller. She eats her
chocolate dark (85% cacao
and up) and drinks her
coffee black. She earned
two degrees and worked at
three well-paying corporate
firms but was mostly miserable. She loves to
tell stories. If she doesn’t tell stories, her head is
gobbledygook. One of her stories turned into
a novel, The Runaway Daughter and the first
chapter is free on Amazon. Juliet finds it funny
to write in third person and also wants to enrich
her stories with her artwork. The artwork may
allow viewers to experience a place from her
perspective, and project their own meanings to it.
A frown, a nod, a smile or something to observe.
If you want to get in touch with her, drop her a
line at [email protected].
September-October 2015 Travel Secrets 33