I get going at the crack of noon. I set up on Main St (and yes, it’s always called Main St). In a town with a population of under 10,000, the entire town will have seen or heard about me within the hour.
Some or all of the following things will be said to me during the day.
“A guy in the office told me that someone was playing the trombone down town, so I came to check it out.”
“We don’t get many buskers around here” pauses to think. “Actually there was a guy here a couple of months ago. He played the guitar. He was a backpacker too…. From Vancouver. Do you know him?”
“”That’s a big instrument for a little girl” chortle, chortle. I smile shyly and play with the pink ribbons in my hair.
After an hour or so, it’s time for lunch. Waiting inline, someone will give me money. “I saw you playing across the street”. I love it when that happens.
After idling away a few hours in the sun, I’ll get back to work.
“Oh you poor thing! You’ve been out here ALL day”
Then this conversation inevitably occurs.
“Where are you from?”
“Australia”
Eyes light up, smiles widen.
“Australia eh? You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?”
“Yep”
“You know I’ve always wanted to go to New Zealand…”
Why must Canadians always do this? I don’t tell them I’d rather go to the US, and THEY’RE supposed to be the polite ones? Besides, I’m never quite sure how to respond.
“I’ve never been to New Zealand. I here it’s nice.”
4pm is quitting time. It’s time for a cold beer after another tough day.
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