… singing in the rain
Very difficult to leave Granada … it’s a beautiful day when the bus from the old centre of the town pulls into the estazione de autobus. Plan A is to bus to Barcelona to take in a bit of Gaudi, and try my horn in the streets there. Plan A is shot to pieces quickly. Only bus to Barcelona is late night, and 70 euros. Seems expensive when I can get to Madrid for 15. I’m still trying to keep within a budget that comes from what I make playing on the streets. The last couple of nights have been good, but not that good. Madrid it is, and I’ll work it out from there. There’s a bus leaving in 45minutes. Enough time for an espresso and an icecream.
Bus to Madrid slightly late, and late arriving … about 10pm … a messy time to sort out what to do. The counter for Barcelona buses is open, there is a bus. But the guy is rude. I say Barcelona, he says no, I say ‘che ora’ he says no. Ok. Fuck you then. Sit down with a map and a bus schedule. Llanes. Never heard of it, but it’s on the Atlantic coast, towards Francia. Overnight bus in an hour, I’ll take it, 30euros not to bad for the distance covered, and I’m on my way.
As we head north from Madrid, bus stop to truck stop, piling down junk food … small packaged croissants packed with graciella’s gratis sliced cheese. Wake in a daze, early morning running across the north coast. The towns are cute fishing villages crammed between the coast and the mountains. Majestic countryside, thoroughly verdant. Finally hit the last stop, Llanes … a tourist town with a fishing port, running tours into the mountains. And it’s wet, a touch cold though the sun promises to come out in a few hours. Too early for shops or bakeries … I need a sleeping bag … my indian sheet is no longer enough. There are a few sports shops, guess they’ll be open later. But it’s an interesting town with an old fort, some quirky 20th century art on the breakwater, painted cubes. An old church, and a chapel to Magdalena which never seems to be open. Lots of tourists, so I think the busking will be ok.
Walk around, wade for a bit in the chilly Atlantic. Open ocean … it’s a far cry from the open cistern of the mediterranean … feels magic … worth the trip here in itself. Chain my backpack to a street lamp with its rainjacket on. A walk along the coastal watch walk, taking in some clean air.
A baguette, a local pastry, and its time to make some dinero. Find a nice spot, begin to unpack. Disaster. The neck and mouthpiece of the sax are not in the box. Shit. I unpack all my bags. Nothing. Must be somewhere in Granada. Penelope’s place when I was unpacking. Rushed pack from my last busk. What to do? The lunchtime crowd is peaking. I should be stressed or annoyed, but take the setback in my stride. Time to test the clarinet. This probably won’t do so well for cash, but I’m doing this as much to push myself.
Just as I’m setting up, a bass and guitar duo appear from nowhere, and take the corner. Mack the knife, I join in on clarinet .. more appropriate than gthe sax would have been. It goes ok, then they’re off and running to the next spot. I keep playing through intermittent rain, make a few euros and start to get a bit of form on the clari happening … working up the repertoire I’ve been playing on the sax. Later, rushed calls back to yuta in granada. Not at home. No luck. But it all seems to be ok. I think the Yanigasawa mouthpiece is too bright, and the bent neck is too loose. I have a spare neck, and a new mouthpiece is probably a good idea. I take in a bit more of the time, and play clarinet around about town. Run into the bass-guitar duo again. They’re hysterical. Two rushed songs in every bar … a quick hat … then running to the next one. Almost a comedy in itself. I play with them a couple of times, but with my backpack, I can’t keep up with them. A few euros though they keep the pizza. No music shop in this town, and the kamikaze duo can’t help me with possibilities. I stop in a bar for a 50c house red to recover my senses. Many strange quirky habits, like pouring the local wine from a great height. I get a wierd vibe from the crew in the bar. I think they see a traveller walking round with so many bags as dodgy. But I like the place. The local music is celtic, and it’s piped over the bar. There is something of a tradition of pipe playing here as well, but I’ve just missed one interesting free gig, and will leave before the next one.
Find a cheap sleeping bag in town that afternoon. Bulky but warm. This is walking and climbing country, and the saco de dormir even this cheap one is made for such.. Have to ditch a few t-shirts to fit it in. The locals find this all hysterical …. then I talk the girl into looking after my bag for half an hour while I walk around. She doesn’t have time to politely say no … i don’t let her … maybe I’m just turning the joke around a bit. Another call to Yuta … looks like I’m not in luck. Maybe the mouthpiece will appear when I return to granada, but in the bigger picture I’ll be better off with the better fitting straight neck and a softer mouthpiece.
Busk clarinet most of the evening, meal of baguette olive and chorizo in a doorway, a wine in my facoured bar where I’m an unfavoured client (if you think I’m wierd, how wierd do you think I think you are) … and then camping in a grotto near the coatal walk. Looked like good camping, the rain is off me, but around 5am, pools are forming around, and I’m on an island. But the sleeping bag has earned it’s keep … I move and pack in a nick of time, and get to the station at around 7 … just as it’s openning up. A warm waiting room, two hours to wait for a train to the end of this line … Bilbao, where another company has a different line onwards … dry my clothes, and work on the laptop for the next few hours.
