Memories of a country are often formed from series of images which build up into a sentiment or a feeling while loosing their fine detail. I always chastise myself for not walking about with a notebook in which I could record the details of those swift moments, glimpses of what makes a country unique.
I was thinking of that this morning while walking the damp cobbled streets of Antigua in search of breakfast. Sitting on the stoop of a cafe was an old man who I often see there selling carved wooden angels. The image of him jogged my memory to another moment in Antigua when I found myself walking behind a man stooped over with a meter tall wooden angel bound to his back by a piece of rope which stretched across his forehead. For whatever reason the image of that man moved me and I felt compelled to buy the angel just to relieve him of his load. Then of course reason sank in and I continued past him down the road to forget about that moment until again this morning.
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