Europe in the Bypaths
By Jd Black
Europe in the Passages While hundreds, if not thousands, of travel guides show one how to travel Europe’s bed and breakfasts, Europe’s Castles, Europe’s Nightclubs, or teach one how to cruise Europe, travel with a Eurorail and a hostel pass, or where to find the most luxurious and exclusive get-aways, this is the first and only article to discuss one of the ubiquitous, but not-quite-hidden joys to be found in the well-lighted, poorly-ventilated, obscure corners of Europe—the Street Musicians. In every town, in every tourist trap, in every railway and subway station, and in nearly every park can be found, at nearly every season of the year, those (generally young) people playing their hearts out on an instrument, and hoping for a Euro or two to be dropped into an open case, a can, or a hat. Some of these are creative geniuses. Some are hungry college students. Some are from America or elsewhere, playing away their expenses as they, too, travel. All are unassuming. Some are really cute. And most are very, very good. For me, one of the real highlights, and it comes at no cost, are these free concerts, sometimes three of them a day. Few last longer than 30 minutes, though the band in Athens did, and the fellow on the bridge in Lucerne was there all day. Violins predominate, and a good thing it is that all the classical composers wrote so many violin concertos. I have not yet heard a repeat. Some day I will try to rate whether the street violinists in Paris are better than those in Heidelberg, or whether those in Florence can surpass those in Toledo, but for now, I’ll just sit there, right on the street, or sidewalk, or handrail, and listen, until I have to race to catch my train. The tile wall and concrete floor of a subway station is my most frequent seat for these concerts, probably because it neither rains, nor blows music off the stand there, and if my pants pick up a little dust, so what? They are cheap. My brother and I sat for some time in one of those postage-stamp parks that abound in Old Granada, the two of us filling the only bench beside the only flower bed, beneath the only tree in the tiny strip park that faced the bridge, the only spectators for the accordionist sharing with us the folk music of old Spain, and the glory of the Moors. It was January, but pleasant, with the snow-capped Sierra Nevada on the horizon, cars and pedestrians passing, and the music rising and falling with the traffic light. I could have stayed much longer, but we had a flight to catch in Malaga. I always carry some coins in the pocket, and a few single bills, just for these musicians. I never know when I will come across one. Every walk around town, every trip to the store, every connection between sights, is a discovery adventure. I try to leave time in my agenda for the unplanned. My personal ethic is, if I like the music, and the rendition, if I have time to spend, then the performer deserves some payment. I get phenomenal value for my dollars, and the performer does not go unthanked. When one travels with leisure, and with an open ear and eye, the culture, history, geography, and ambience of Europe slowly take over, enervating, rejuvenating, enlarging one’s intellect and capacity. And music stays with me longer than anything I’ve seen. Oboes, bassoons, trumpets, instruments not generally heard alone, can still be intriguing if the artist knows what to play. And they generally do, in Europe. I have heard street musicians in the USA, and not found it worth my time to stop. In fact, I have often run, quickly, past. Europe has a different expectation, a more mature and pleasing culture. And it can be very personal, as when the violinist in the restaurant in the tiny Swiss hotel played for my wife and me alone, and sat at our table trying to converse with us, me with my 70 words of German, and he with his 80 of English. That memory will last forever, and I think to this day I did not tip him nearly enough for what he meant to us. Sometimes it is the utterly unexpected that is enthralling, like the Peruvian pan pipe band we enjoyed in Salzburg. I even skipped the castle tour to hear them play. And the rock band playing at the end of a blind alley in Athens, found partly by taking a wrong turn, and partly by following our ears, was a phenomenal way to lose sleep. Who needs sleep anyway? You can always get plenty of that once you get home. Sometimes the utterly expected turns out to be utterly enchanting, and far beyond expectations, as when the captain of the Lucerne night boat played the Alpenhorn through the gloom, across the lake, bouncing the sound off every cliff, echoing it, stirring it, mixing it with other notes across the lake, until the night air was full of haunting music that still peers from around corners of my memory. And then he went one further, and allowed me to try it. The musicians are not distant professionals, on an inaccessible stage. They are real people, happy to share their craft with a daft tourist. In the crowded, endless, narrow, and always dead-end passages of Venice, we found the Celeste. Absolutely out of character. Absolutely out of time. Absolutely delightful. When the mighty church organ of the mighty Cathedral in Toledo sounded a profound hymn right behind my head as I gazed at the intricate carving of the pulpit, I suddenly found myself in 1400, and knew the hearts of the artisans who had given their whole lives to their God. On the steps of Montmatre, crowded with hucksters, con-men, thieves, lovers, students, tourists, just before the Sacre Couer, sat a harpist, playing Pachelbel’s Canon, round after round, smiling, oblivious to all but the beauty of his melody. I found a convenient stone wall, near enough to hear, but out of the traffic, and decided to stay as long as he stayed. In time, he noticed I remained, and smiled at me. I remembered, this time, to make it worth his while. It was sure worth mine. But the one experience that stands unique was the wine-glass player on the Kappellbrucke in Lucerne. Just where the bridge bends, and is therefore a bit wider, he sat, before a table covered with wine glasses, each differently-filled with colorful liquids, running his fingers around the rims of two, or three, or four at a time, producing a sound so ethereal, so mystical, so charming, that any thought of leaving (not just that day, but ever) fled my mind. Had he not stopped, I would be there still. One can spend several weeks, profitably, enjoyably, anywhere in Europe, at so little cost. That is another reason I cannot stay away.
JDBlack, aka Mr. Education, tour guide, outdoorsman, international educator, grandpa, gardener, bookworm, philosopher, and above all, Daddy.
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Contributor's Note
Experience is the finest teacher.
Travel is the finest experience.
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