Being Called by the Sirens

Walking through the old Jewish Quarter of Seville last week the narrow streets were a relief from the baking sun above. While still hot, the narrowness of the streets did not allow the sun in and the perennial shade kept an element of the heat at bay.

Still, I was hitting my sights limit. Been there, done that was timing out. I was looking for my exit ramp - back to the hotel (too far), stopping for a drink - and then, at the point where one of the narrow lanes opened into a wider courtyard, I spotted the cooling leaves of a large tree beyond the cobblestones. A park called. We headed towards it.

But something else called me. Like the call of the Sirens, though hopefully less consequential, music was emanating from somewhere amongst those trees and bushes. I wanted to find out more. I wanted to stop and listen. I told my companions that I would catch them up and walked down the steps into the park, following my ears to the source of the music.

Under the shade of a huge Moreton Bay Fig tree sat a small ornate fountain with a single spout of water trickling into a catching plate half way down its stem. As that filled, the water spilled over into the pool below. The fountain sat in the middle of a circled area. The floor was a hard sandy dirt littered with leaves from the tree above. At the edge of this circle, at the four quadrants sat long curved seats, blue and white tiles covering their entirety. Individuals and couples embracing sat on these seats their eyes and ears trained on the fourth seat.

On that fourth seat, which I had passed as I stepped into this still, peaceful setting (the peace held by the enormous tree above) sat another couple, one at each end. She, a black woman her hair braided individually and tied back, strummed an acoustic guitar maintaining a rhythm for the older white man, bearded and with a black hat over his grey scruffy hair, ear muffs for colder climates folded on top, who was curled over his electric guitar picking out an ever changing, hypnotic melody. The woman smiled as she caught onlookers' eyes.

To one side were two bicycles set up for life on the road. From the look of the bikes they already had many miles under their tires. Sitting in front of the musicians was a box for tips and a well used board explaining where to find them on YouTube.

I found a space at the end of one seat and sat down to listen.

At some point - I don’t know when, music had become my time keeper not my watch - my wife called me,

”Where are you?”

”I’ll catch you up.”

”You’ll never find us.”

Despite me hearing the probable truth in her statement, I said that I would and we hung up.

People came and went. Some stopping to listen. Some taking a photograph of the fountain. Some dropping a few coins in the musician’s box. Some just passing through.

The music, the cooling air of the tree, both just held me. I had no wish to go anywhere. The setting also reminded me of something else. I was transported back to a time and place that touched my heart. Something in me resonated with a value that this couple represented for me.

From looking at their YouTube page, I concluded that they were itinerant musicians. Or put another way, travelers who stopped along the way to play their instruments - to entertain others, to connect with others, to nurture themselves, to earn some money. A couple traveling the world, Europe, just traveling, stopping and playing music as they went. Life for them was the road. Values were simplicity, friendship, companionship, connection, people. This is where they took me, back to the road. To life on the road. A pack on my back. To meeting people, local and fellow travelers, and having that be the goal - no not the goal but the reward - connection. Moving and connecting. Belongings were held on your back - no more needed, the simplicity. The road was your home. Worries were few. Something would always show up. This road was not about not caring. The care was great. A care for connection. Care for the world through which I passed. A care for the values of culture.

A piece of music finished. I got up, reluctant to leave. I dropped some money into the box. I thanked them, receiving a big smile from the woman, and went looking for my companions. I did find them, surprising myself.

But the music of those musicians didn’t leave me. I wanted to hear more. The benevolent Sirens called me back. When we decided to find a place to sit down and find a drink, I excused myself and went back to the park.

But there was no sign of them. No sign of the audience that had sat there. Just four seats, a fountain and the tree. They were gone. On their way. Now just a memory and felt experiences shared. YouTube suggests that they have played at this venue a few times before, but for now they were gone. On their way. Back to the call of the road.