… toccando la playa
Train from Bilbao to San Seb is less scenic, and I sleep for a large part of it. But the rain has stopped, the day is warming, and it’s going to be a beautiful weekend. Grab a cafe at the first oasis of calm I see. Cafe Iguna. Slightly stylish, but probably in the wrong part of town for what it’s trying to be. But … magic … it has WiFi. Internet check finds a big music store two blocks away. Play around on google for a bit checking the layout of the town … then decide … to fuck it all and just wander around. One music shop sends me to another music shop and then to another that specialises in woodwind. Yes thay have decent sax mouthpieces. But theyre just about to close for siesta.
Stop near a bench for breakfast and unpack all the wet stuff from Bilbao. A few hours to burn, so I check out tourist info. Pequeno mapo in hand … I take great pains to convince them that my large pack about to be chained to a fence near them is not a bomb … give them a bit of the Bilbao story … they find it pretty funny. It’s a sunny day, and there is … a surf beach. I can’t resist. I’m off to kill some time waiting for the music shop to open. Surf isn’t great, but better than most of what was around in India, and it’s a great day for the beach. Make it to the music shop, and drive them crazy for the next few hours trying out mouthpieces. The horn is still in pretty bad condition, much of the damage still from India and the streets of Granada. But a change of mouthpiece is a good idea. Pick a Selmer S90, softer than the old yanigasawa, but brighter than classical standard. Sets me back 90 euros all up. I’m gonna have to play hard to cover this. Some enquiries about repairmen. Our guy can look at it, but not now. Maybe … maybe … tomorrow morning at 9:30 he’ll have a few spare minutes.
Doesn’t matter. I’m off. Late afternoon sambas on the beach walk of san sebastien, percussion track in one ear, and waves in the other … crap money but good feelings for a few hours. Try just about everything everywhere. Miss the brilliant sound of the old mouthpiece, but am enjoying a top end that isn’t shrill. Finally decide to look for a camping spot. A wierd old guy stops me as I’m wandering and buys me a drink at a bar just closing. He’s wierd but interesting, and living in two worlds at once. At one point he grabs my hands and nearly crushes them, then releases them after I dig into the soft of his hand. Don’t know whether to trust or not. He’s seen me floating around playing knows I’m sleeping rough around town but is giving me the craziest mixed messages. Then shoves 10 euros in my hand and says go to the old part of town. I don’t want to take it but he insists, I give the driver a random street in that suburb, a random number, then just so mas mas more more. Then randomly stop, get out. This is enough I have to make a few phone calls to get the right number … it’s somewhere around here. Then keep walking … spot a white hooded figure heading up the hill and decide on that direction. There’s an abandoned building site on the edge of a forest at the top of a hill. I wander a bit, and find an absolutely choice camp site. Set up the tent and blissful sleep. Set an alarm so I can make my date with the repairman.
Next morning race to the shop. The repairman isn’t in. Coffee and croissant later he arrives. He has time. He looks at the horn. Stuff is mostly ok. What I thought was a pad starting to rip is just a sediment. He cleans it, then sticks a light down. Bending and shaping like only a master can. Better than I can do and the light is the essential tool. 10 minutes, and he reckons the job is done. I pull it out for a play. Wow. Still seems a bit hard to blow but yes it’s sealing. Then the repairman comes out. Pulls the lamp from inside the horn. Try now. Perfection. OMIGOD I can play quietly … horn now running better than a long while, probably better than through most of the time in india. I’m excessive in my thanks. Price gratis. More than makes up for the 90euro mouthpiece.
Now I’m really toccando. Just around the corner, run into a Romanian busker on alto who is working San Sebastien. I listen while I’m finishing breakfast. Talk for a bit, then break out my horn. We jam together, and I start to pick out a few of his tunes. What I don’t have time to learn, I record. I’m cagey about prices of things but there seems to be a good sharing between us. We’ve picked up some good money playing together, and we split the spoils. I’m off to enjoy my new horn, and we agree to meet later. I don’t run into him for another jam, but our paths cross several times. Just before I leave, he gives me a few t-shirts that have come from his wife’s scrounging … they feel auspicious ‘snowboarding around the world’ (… I paid for this trip developing a patent for white board technology) and a ‘spanish strictly mundial exposition’ (and now I’m going to put together a jazzy world music group).
The next day and night I spend toccando, swimming enjoying my last bit of spain for a while, cheap wine, delicious tapas, playing the trattoria’s. Busking here is pretty good, and once I work out the good spots and times, dinero is starting to happen. Between here and Bilbao I’ve covered the cost of the new mouthpiece. That night, I can’t find the magic spot of the night before, but throw a sleeping bag under a tree. It seems to be cool, and nobody is badly fussed. The town turns on a great show for me (not only me, but I dig it) on sunday morning … a marching flute and snare band … the rest of the day playing and swimming.
Next night, I think it’s time to head to France. Last busk is a challenge, but for the thrill. All sorts of crap happens, and I catch it and turn it round. One women holding her baby up to nearly piss on my case, moved in time, someone else teasing me with a balloon I tease him with squeeky honks and chase him away, then fall back into smooth jazz. The locals enjoy the clowning and the playing both. Some guys come up, ‘bueno toccando’, and the supermarket guy smiles as I pick up some olives and chorizo. Hasta la vista espana. Yo volvera pronto.
Last train to Hentai, just over the border.
