I’d made it three months and all the way to Paris, but after a day at the Louvre, I could no longer deny myself a reality that there were a few things beginning to wear at me…
Travel is tiring, yes, but it is moreso the absence of certain things that are the cause of it. Usually it’s a kitchen and real food, but it has been three months since I’ve relished in art, and the Louvre tugged at my heartstrings. Yes, I wanted to dig out my pastels and sketchbook, but more than that, I wanted music. It has been too long – the longest stretch in my life – with the absence of music.
In a vain attempt to keep it minimalistic, I didn’t bring my ipod. So, I spent that evening watching and listening to some of my favourite acoustic tunes and folk songs on youtube on my ipad, unashamedly singing along in my hostel dorm til the sun went down. When my roommate returned and the people on the street had a view in with the lights on, I danced on the spiral staircase with my earbuds in – just groovin’ and it was great.
But I missed my cello. I missed my guitar. I missed belting along to the words I knew, and making up the ones I didn’t.
The next day (the day I posted Ten Times Thanks, ironically enough), we got a new roommate and we got talking about interests and he asked me if I played guitar. We got into a good chitchat about our musical tastes and background then he pulled out a black zipcase from his pack.
I knew what I was naively dreaming about, but it was too small to be a guitar.
Or so I thought.
It was the Backpacker’s Guitar, a nylon-stringed, slender thing that carried a decent tone for its size. Passed from one travelling guitarist to the next, and as luck would have it it was my turn – at no cost but the promise to pass it on to the next traveller I find who is “deserving,” just as he did.
Until such time, she’ll be my muse.
Call it luck; call it law of attraction; call it whatever you want.
I call it music.
And, man, does it feel good.