No Español

I’d been warned. Every book, every website, every person who’d been told me I’d need Spanish in Central America. I listened, nodded attentively and did nothing.

I soon understood what they meant- you really need Spanish in Central America. I bought myself a Spanish-English dictionary,downloaded Duolingo and tried valiantly to memorise the phrases in the back of the Lonely Planet.

My aim is to get through an entire interaction without the person on the other side realizing I don’t speak Spanish. It usually goes something like this (I think).

“Hello how can I help you?”

“Hello, one enchiladas please”

“Enchiladas with red sauce or green sauce?”

“Yes, thank you”

“Red or green?”

“Oh, green please”

“What would you like to drink?”

“Yes, good”

“What would you like to drink? Water, coke, fanta, horchata?”

“Oh, ummm, water please”

“For here or to go?”

“Yes”

Slower “For here or to go?”

“Oh, ummm”  uses 2 fingers to walk across hand

“That will be about 10 minutes”

“Yes”

“Would you like to sit down while you wait?”

“Yes thank you” continues standing

Food arrives

“Would you like a bag?”

“Yes please”

Puts food in bag

“Oh, no bag thank you” smiling

“OK, goodbye” frowning

“Goodbye, friend!”

Austin, Texas

Matt playing with my bone

The last stop on my busking tour was Austin, Texas. It was 9pm by the time I got to the famous 6^th street on my first night. Business was good. For such an iconic music town, I found very little busking competition.

Half an hour into my set a group of guys walked past.

“Hey, I’ll give you $100 to follow us around all night” one of them said. Sounded like a good deal to me but they’d continued walking.

"Really?” I yelled after him.

“Yeah, I’m serious” he said, now on the other side of the road, “I’ll give you $100 to follow us around”.

It was worth a shot. I hastily shoved everything into my case, slung it over my shoulder and crossed the road, trombone in hand.

Matt pulled a 100 dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to me.

“So you just want me to follow you around and play?” I asked

“Yeah, just play whatever”

He turned along with his mates. I followed, kicking things off with ‘Oh When the Saints’. People gawked as we walked down the street, Matt waving his hands around, marching up front.

Next thing I knew we were going into a bar. A cheer went up as we entered. Matt conducted me until I finished the song.

Applause. Shots. Random people handing me money. Repeat.

Turns out Matt and his mated worked at bars along the strip and knew everyone that mattered. They all seemed more than happy to partake in the shenanigans. Even the place that had live music invited me to join in.

An unknown number of bars in an unknown number of hours later I stumbled back to my hostel, hundreds of dollars richer.

The Adventures of Darlene and Friends

I met Darlene through a Craig’s List ad. Her owners, Mark and Maria, had advertised a ride from Nashville to New Orleans in their camper, Darlene the Dream Machine. Harry (a fellow Aussie) and I responded to the call.

She was made in 1981 and still had a lot of the original trimmings; ugly brown carpet, pink and brown crocheted throws and upholstery that would’ve made the Golden Girls proud.

Mark and Maria had brought her for their roadtrip from Massachusetts to Denver, where they were moving. They’d tried to be as gentle with her as they could, limiting daily distances and resting often. This leg of the trip was the longest and would be her greatest challenge yet.

Sadly, it proved a little too much for old Darlene. Somewhere in Mississippi, a tyre went kaboom.

Mark couldn’t find the jack, Maria called the dodgy RV version of triple A. It didn’t sound good. 30 minutes later two men in a sedan pulled up to change the tyre. The jack they bought wasn’t big enough for Darlene, they drove back to get a bigger one. Then they didn’t bring enough air so we had to drive to the nearest gas station at 20mi/hr. That gas station didn’t have air so we drove to the next one. Mark was no longer OK.

Hours later we were back on the road. Harry and I fell asleep in the back to the sound of Mark’s muffled curses.

Maria and Mark had offered Harry and I couches of their friend’s house, however due to our delay, said friend would be asleep and they did not want to disturb. We would stay with another of Mark’s friends.

That friend was Trent. I tried to act natural when I first laid eyes on him.

He was t6all, skinny white man with a long blonde mullet. He wore denim short shorts and and army boots. He had one feather earring, a necklace of beads and painted patterns all over his bare chest, arms and face.

He invited us into his house, showing us around.

“This is the kitchen” he said, “shelves” he continued gesturing at a lone wooden shelf holding a dozen cans of diced carrots.

“I’ve got a couch in a fort with lots of blankets and fairy lights you can sleep in” he said to me and Harry. Mark and Maria would be sleeping in Darlene in an empty lot across the road.

Jammin' - Mark (harmonica), Trent (guitar)

Before bed we all needed food and liquor. Trent showed us around the French Quarter, giving snippets of history along the way.

Trent is what you might call a ‘freegan’. While we walked, he checked every payphone for change, every bin for anything and was constantly pointing out things he could take.

“Man, look at that good lumber just lying there”.

By the time we’d returned to his house, Trent had a stack of clothes, a pole and half a bottle of wine he’d found on a stoop.

Hours later after a kip in the fort, a beer breakfast and a jam in the park, Harry and I said goodbye to our new friends who we would never see again.

Lost Love

We’ve been on some adventures together my trombone and me, ad as much as I love her, I’m sorry to say I haven’t always treated her right.

I’ve dumped her in bushes, sent her on international flights poorly packaged and even put her down at traffic lights and walked away. After all she’s not worth much, my rusty old trombone. I’ve often thought it wouldn’t be the end of the world to lose her. That was until last week, when I nearly did.

We were to catch the Greyhound bus from Charleston, North Carolina to Nashville, Tennessee. Greyhound usually provides yu with a baggage tag for your luggage but Charleston bus station as small and closed when I arrived for the 10.30pm bus.

“Where to?” the grumpy bus driver asked me

“Atlanta” I piped up, that was where we’d change buses.

He nodded towards a pile of bags presumable headed for Atlanta. I added my backpack and trombone to the stack.

At 1am, in Columbia, Georgia, we were forced to change buses. The bus driver was as surprised as anyone.

“I don’t know what’s happening y’all, but we’s gotsta change buses. Erbody getcher bags and put ‘em on the other bus”.

I spotted my backpack and grabbed it. I waited patiently while the baggage handlers emptied the bus.

Panic stricken, I approached the driver. “Excuse me sir, my other bag isn’t here, do you know where it could be?”

“I’m sorry ma’am you have to take your bags and put them on the other bus”

“I know but one of my bags didn’t make it on the bus. I had two and only one is here, do you know…”

“Ma’am” he interrupted, “I don’t know why they done this but you have to change buses here.”

And that’s when I became one of the crazy people yelling at the bus driver, while said bus driver, walked away.

I thought of my sweet baby bone all alone outside Charleston bus station in the middle of the night. Was she OK? Had someone picked her up? What if she’d been run over by a car? Or a bus?

Charleston bus station would reopen again in 7 hours. I’d have to wait til then to get some answers.

I called Charleston bus station from Atlanta the next morning.

“Hello, have you found a log black bag outside the bus station this morning?”

“Erm, lemme check. Hold on.”

I waited.

“Yep.” Said the man finally

“Is there a trombone in it?” I asked excitedly

“Could be…”

Silence

“Could you check?”

Sigh, click, zip. “Yep”

I breathed a sigh of relief. She was OK.

I asked for her to be put on the next bus to Nashville, Tennessee.

“Next bus gets in at 3.45am tomorrow” he told me

“Wonderful!” I exclaimed

“OK”

Click.

One of the benefits of Greyhound’s loose security is that they don’t ask any questions. There was no ‘who are you? Why was your trombone on the side of the road? Why didn’t it have a luggage tag? How do I know it’s yours?

All I had to do was point at my trombone at Nashville Greyhound station and it was handed over without a word.

Reunited again! After 36 hours apart, somehow, my baby got back. 

Mama Sue

What I wanted from my Couchsurfing host in Savannah was some Southern hospitality; I got Mama Sue which was close enough.

Mama Sue picked me up from the centre of town at 10am. I´d arrived at 5am by bus and was eager for a shower and a nap.

“We’re going to the beach” she informed me when I got in the car.

I looked out the window at the dark clouds but said nothing.

“Arup here wants to go to the beach and it’s his last day so that’s what we’re doing.”

Arup was a Nepalese student who was studying in New Hampshire for the year. He was in Savannah for a conference staying with Mama Sue as an Airbnb guest. He wanted to see the ocean. I could see how it would be difficult to say no to the sweetest boy ever.

“I’ve had over 280 Airbnb guests this year,” she said, “my neighbours think I’m harbouring terrorists and pedophiles”

“Oh, ummm that’s no good” I said weakly but my input was not required.

“They’re saying that I’m running a business out of my home which is apparently illegal, but really they’re just worried I’m bringing terrorist into my house.” She spoke 100 miles an hour, “So I thought I’d try Couchsurfing because they can’t say anything about me having people in my house if I’m not earning any money from it”.

Ah the old ‘invite a Couchsurfer over to piss off the neighbours’ trick.

“We’re going to pick David up on the way” Mama Sue told me, “he wants to come to the beach too”

15 minutes later, a man in his mid 30’s got in the car; David I presumed.

David, it turned out, had Airbnb-ed with Mama Sue for a few weeks a year earlier. Now a super spy interrogator for the US army*, David grew up in Afghanistan where he was taught to be a super son.

*Potentially untrue

He told me how Mama Sue had cared for him like a son when he first arrived in Savannah and now it was his obligation to treat her like a mother for the rest of eternity. But not like I’d treat my Mother – bi-weekly messages that include such gems as ‘Safe in Savannah’ or ‘Still alive. Pls take photo of diving license and email ASAP’. No, David called Sue twice a day, and once, when she didn’t respond because her phone had run out of battery, he went over to her house to check on her.

It was cold and rainy when we got to the beach. Undeterred, our motley crew grabbed beach chairs and towels and headed for the sand.

Mama Sue and I watched as David and Arup frolicked in what I imagined to be very cold ocean. I struggled to hide my frustration. I’d just arrived in Savannah and I’d somehow ended up sitting on the beach in the rain.

Back in the car, I was informed of the afternoon’s plan. Once home, we’d all help Sue make 2 kinds of bread (banana and orange cranberry), then we’d do a spot of gardening – she needed some logs moved, then we’d make board games, then she’d cook us all a dinner of devilled whitefish and grits and then we’d hit the town because it was Saturday night after all.

I like to think of myself as a pretty good houseguest – long time Couchsurfer, frequent crasher on friend’s couches, floors and blowups; I’ve been often praised as an easy-going, helpful houseguest.

Not at Mama Sue’s. My attempts to fetch ingredients for her was not going well. “It’s right in front of you” she screeched at me for the 5^th time. She tutted as she came round to the pantry “you must drive your mother mad”. It was true; the sight of me standing staring blankly at kitchen cupboards is a scene all too familiar to my mum. But Sue wasn’t my mum, was she?

Meanwhile, Arup was washing up, chatting gaily about Mama Sue’s incredible cooking skills as he went. She beamed at him. This was a battle I would not win.

Fixing garden beds went slightly better. I successfully accompanied Sue to Home Depot while the men did manly things in the garden.

Mama Sue was a maker. She made cushion covers, upholstered couches, knitted and crocheted, pickled and preserved and carved board games of wood (that didn’t look fun at all).

It was decided over cake and weak sugary tea that we would not have time to make board games this afternoon. Arup expressed his disappointment; I was barely able to contain my relief.

Was now the time for a nap? Mama Sue had also claimed 4 hours of sleep the night before but seemed nowhere near fading. She’d declined my offer to help with dinner. Maybe I could just….. “excuse me Maya” said Arup smiling broadly, “I was wondering if it would be possible for you to play something on the trombone. I would really like to hear you”.

“Oh yeah, that would be great” chimed in Mama Sue, “you can play while we’re waiting for the fish”.

I played ‘What a Wonderful World’ for my captive audience of 3. Mama Sue did not seem impressed. “Do you know ‘Moon River’? You need to play ‘Moon River’, it’s about Savannah.”

I did not know ‘Moon River’ and I still did not know it 3 songs later.

After a delicious Southern style dinner, Mama Sue decided that she was not in fact up to going out that night. I was relieved I could totally go out for an hour or 2. I officially had more energy than a 64 year old woman. Until tomorrow.

Do it for Scott

Doing the Friendship Circle for Scott

Camp Super Happy Sunshine Fun was a success! Enjoyed y all or so I’m told by unbiased family and friends.

We were starting to get the hang of things by the time our final performance rolled around.

About an hour before showtime, we were in full setup mode. Camp counsellor Lucas went to grab our props from the stage.

“There’s a man sleeping on the stage” said Lucas.

I walked over to take a look. Yes, there was in fact a man sleeping on the stage, hidden behind a pile of boxes.

To be fair, it was to be expected, performing in the Newtown Neighbourhood Centre and all. It’s a wonder we only found one man sleeping on the stage, although who knows how many others went unseen.

Lucas shook him gently, “hey mate, time to get up… you can’t sleep here”.

He stirred a little, then went back to sleep. He appeared to be incredibly high.

It took the 3 of us a good 20 minutes to get him out the door.

Grace called a bunch of homeless, but none would take Scott in his current state. In the end we left them with the cops. None of us were happy with the situation, but as they say, the show must go on.

“OK” I said to my troops, “who’s ready for Camp Super Happy Sunshine Fun?”

“Lets do it for Scott” said Grace raising her cup of Ribena.

“For Scott” we agreed.

Lights, Camera, Action

Urgently need one of these

Organising the show is going well. When I decided to do this, there’s a chance I didn’t completely think it through. Turns out there’s heaps to do and I have to wear lot of different hats.

I’ve written an extensive to do list; find venue, make costumes, alert the media etc, but there’s something I’d forgot to add.

My good friend and talented actor Grace will be taking on the role of one of the camp counsellors for the show.

She talked to me seriously after our photo shoot the other day.

“I didn’t quite understand the note you gave me back there…” she said

The note… I wasn’t quite sure what note she meant. I don’t think  I’ve given her a note since high school. Of course this was not the kind of note Grace was talking about. Grace was talking about the kind of note a director gives an actor. That’s right ladies and gentlemen, 4 months in and I finally realised I was the director of the show.

Hold your applause.

Camp Super Happy Sunshine Fun

I’ve been working in an office in Sydney for sometime now. Not my usual street corner either; an honest to god office with walls and cubicles and a flickering flurescent light above my head.

I had just decided I need a side project when along came the Sydney Fringe Festival looking for shows. I could totally put on a show.

Here’s the plan: Camp Super Happy Sunshine Fun. – a summer camp for adults.

If there’s one thing I learnt from working at an America summer camp, it’s that playing like a kid is still fun.

After an exhausting looking after children, camp counsellors would retire to the staff lounge.  Did we watch TV, read a book, chat to each other? Sometimes. Other times, someone would yell “dodgeball” or “lets play sardines”, and we’d do that. Long story short, playing like a kid is a lot more fun than playing with kids.

Basically Camp Super Happy Sunshine Fun is going to be awesome and you should come because we’re going to play tunnel ball and make pirate hats.

Financial Review

So how did I go, eh? I'm pleased to report that after 4 months of travelling, I ended up about $500 down (excluding flights).

Overall the money was not as good as I've been accustomed to busking in Australia.

The lack of coins in the US proved somewhat problematic, although I did enjoy not having my bag weighed down with change.

As good as busking around the world is, nothing could top the Olympics for me. I lost my mojo a bit after London, busking less and spending more.

All in all, I give my trip 9/10 for finances, 14/10 for fun.

Trippy Tales

Love.

One of the things I love most about busking is that something funny happens pretty much every time I hit there streets. This busking trip was no exception. Please find a selection of amusing anecdotes below:

• Copenhagen, Denmark 10am: A charming homeless man unfurled his sleeping bag about 2 metres in front of where I was playing, cracked a beer and was ready to enjoy the show. He wasn't good for business so I apologetically asked him to move back, just a bit. He looked at me with puppy dog eyes, dropped his head and dragged his sleeping bag away. I felt terrible.

• Kingston, Canada: A mother walked by with her daughter while I was playing and mouthed to me 'do you take corn?' I nodded enthusiastically. "Go on honey, give the lady some organic corn" she said to the little girl. Mmmmmmmm corn. 

• Gothenburg, Sweden: four Australians came from different parts of the street after I played "I still call Australia home". 

• New York, USA: Befriended a bubble blower in Central Park. Smoked weed out of a petrol hose.

• Bergen, Norway: A lady cried and told me her life story after "I still call Australia home"

• Perugia, Italy: I got taken out to dinner by a lovely Italian gentleman. The language barrier made things difficult. It ended up feeling like a cross between a first date and an English/Italian lesson.

• London, England: A drunken busk outside a bar led to a man dropping coins from his apartment a few floors up.

• Bergen, Norway: A bus driver stops his bus en route, gets off and hands me a 50krone note ($9ish). Passengers are confused.

• Leeds, England: After playing "Oh when the saints", I heard a trumpet play "Oh when the saints". I couldn't see the musician in question, but could tell the sound was coming from the apartment block a little ways down the street. I started playing the saints again. This time the trumpeter joined in and we played together in harmony.

• Edinburgh, Scotland: A woman gave me a bag of change she had collected from all the people in her office who had been listening to my sweet, sweet music.

• Paris, France: I played the wedding march for a bride and groom. They were having their wedding photos taken which I now feature in.

• Hamburg, Germany: Germany won their first match in the euro cup, so I went with my Hamburger friends to celebrate. The streets were packed with people. I found an electricity box to stand on and pulled out my trombone. Before I knew it I had a massive crowd of drunks  looking up at me. I mimed thirst. 10 or so people held out their beers for me. Rockstar moment.

• San Francisco, USA: I didn't realise that there would be a naked convention going on the day I decided to busk in the Castro. About 100 naked people across the road from me were…… were…… well I'm not sure what they were doing. Lets just say I wasn't the only one with a boner that day.