The sun never showed up, the dull typical Burgh cloud dampened the northside. However, my spirit was brightened by the beauty of the streets.

Beech Avenue, where Gurtrude Stein was born, is as old as the city.

The cat, confined in one of the historical houses, looked through the window: Yello ginco trees, white pigeons and unknown walkers like me.

The cat and I looked at each other with curiosity. For me, an outsider, the mysterious beauty hides inside the old house, where the cat has been get used to.



Beauty lies on the freshness of eyes.