My Midsummer Morning. Alastair Humphreys

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СКАЧАТЬ consoled me in my cowardice knowing that Laurie had felt much the same way before his initial attempt at busking. He was a proficient violinist, but he was young and beginning his first adventure. So perhaps we were about equal in our nerves. ‘It was now or never. I must face it now, or pack up and go back home,’ wrote Laurie. ‘The first notes I played were loud and raw, like a hoarse declaration of protest … To my surprise, I was neither arrested nor told to shut up. Indeed, nobody took any notice at all.’

      I stood in the middle of the Praza da Princesa playing ‘Long, Long Ago’ over and over. Beads of sweat ran down my flank and into my trousers. There was no crowd of fawning fans. No cascade of coins. Not even a round of applause. Just indifferent Spaniards accelerating past. I had known this would happen. But I had not known how it would feel.

      The timid averted their gaze and lengthened their stride. The stoical reacted by not reacting. A businessman glanced up from his phone but didn’t flatter me with a second look. A young woman in a leather jacket wrinkled her nose as though I stank. I was a visitor in her town behaving like a tedious fool.

      I faced two options. Both were simple but neither was easy. I could stop playing, melt back into the streets and regain my blissful anonymity. It was so tempting. Or I could stick it out here in the plaza, daring myself to keep failing. If I quit now, the whole journey was over before I had walked a single step. I did not know how to catch rabbits, and I am more accomplished at foraging in supermarkets than forests. I had to earn money. I could not hide behind any excuses. I had no Plan B.

      But what I did have was clarity. I had only one job to do. And I must do it with all my might. It was not easy, but it was simple. My legs shook. Half my head begged me to stop. But the rest of me, fists clenched, knuckles white, said no. Just finish this song. You can always ride one more mile, row one more minute, walk one more step, play one more song.

      

       Hope

      AN EMBARRASSED LAUGH BURST from my mouth after yet another tune fizzled out. But this time a man on the bench responded with a small smile. A smile! My busking had earned something at last. This was progress. But it was only a matter of time before people tired of me and the police ushered me away, so I turned to my best song. ‘Guantanamera’ was my jolliest piece and – being Cuban – vaguely close to Spanish music.

      ‘Guantanamera,’ I explained, hesitantly, to the bench, after stuttering through the closing notes.

      ‘Más o menos, more or less,’ said my ally, kindly. He was a mild-looking gentleman of about 60, resting a pile of heavy supermarket bags at his feet.

      The men next to him continued to ignore me, stony-faced. In their situation, I would have done the same. Make eye contact with a crap foreign busker and he’s certainly not going to leave you in peace. Better to keep your head down and your money in your pocket.

      Back in England, Becks used to dish out musical advice above and beyond trying to coax me into playing some of the right notes in approximately the right order. One afternoon she described what to do ‘once you’ve got a crowd gathered’. I raised an eyebrow at her sassy optimism.

      ‘They will all be clapping along to this,’ she proclaimed as I lumbered through a ponderous nursery rhyme. ‘Spaniards are very rhythmical.’

      I resisted asking whether she had ever been to Spain, and sighed. ‘I honestly don’t think a crowd is going to gather to listen to this.’

      There was no solace in proving myself right.

      My stomach rumbled but I had not earned a crust. It was time for what is always a good plan when you are vulnerable. Be humble, look people in the eye, acknowledge your faults, trust yourself, trust the world, smile, then try your best. I wiped my eyes on my shirt, tidied my music sheets and started again. Song after song, I failed to snare my first coin. Every tune was strewn with errors. But I was enthusiastic now, a less timid person than when I woke that morning. I had to persevere, be patient, keep hoping, and trust the people of Vigo.

      After what felt like a lifetime sawing away, one elderly gentleman rose from the bench. He walked towards me, stooped and leaning on his stick. He looked smart in his dark glasses and tweed jacket, with neatly combed hair. I anticipated his words:

      ‘Señor. Enough! Spare us. It is time to move on. Por favor. Give us back our peace, I beg you.’

      But he did not say that. Instead, he put his hand into his pocket.

      Surely not!

      The old man pulled out a coin and handed it to me with a small smile. And I thought I was going to burst with exhilaration and amusement and relief. I had done it!

      Nor was it just a copper coin. He gave me a whole euro! In the weeks of doubt before departure, my mantra to prevent me from wimping out of the trip had been, ‘If I can just get one euro, somehow, I can buy a bag of rice. With a bag of rice, I can walk for a week. Walk for a week and after that anything becomes possible. Just one euro. That’s all I need. One euro. Somehow …’

      That gentleman gave me much more than a euro. He gave more even than a bag of rice. For he gave me hope.

      

       Encouragement

      NOW: A COIN IN my case and hope in my heart! I had earned my first busking money. A euro! A bag of rice. A beginning. I held the coin up in the sunlight and kissed it. I was rich!

      Laurie had a similar delighted epiphany that something as intangible as a mere song could be converted into cash. This alchemy revealed a world of possibility. ‘I felt that wherever I went from here this was a trick I could always live by.’

      Shorn of fear, I dived back into my repertoire, looping through my five little songs again and again, but this time playing with joy and confidence. It is probably no coincidence that more success followed. Two elderly ladies laughed at me, fumbled in their handbags, and gave 50 cents each. I had predicted that I would earn nothing in Vigo and that it might take days before I got my act together. I saw myself picking ears of wheat and pilfering crusts from café tables. But instead, I was rich on the very first day! And, like most wealthy people, I now wanted even more.

      I sawed away, panning for gold, giddy and greedy with the rushing release of nerves and the thrill of exhibitionism. And the money: so much money! I gazed in awe at the three gleaming coins in my violin case.

      A lady strode through the plaza – jeans, blouse, smiling – aged about 50. She looked both prosperous and friendly: promising. She paused and peered into her handbag as though preparing to give me something. Then she changed her mind and walked on, flipping her hand at me. I presumed that she had noticed how bad I was. Oh well … nearly … At least someone had considered me.

      Later, as I was packing to leave, the same woman returned, and this time she СКАЧАТЬ