This evening in Madrid, the moon rising over la Plaza de España:
A bit later, further up Gran Vía, as the city's residents headed home beneath the darkening sky, a drum and bagpipe band took up a position in front of one of the larger tourist-oriented restaurants and began playing music that rose sweetly above the noise of rush-hour. About eight males playing the pipes, with two or three women whaling away on the drums -- all of them strong, the unit tight and well-rehearsed. They played three numbers of more or less standard bagpipe fare -- lovely to hear, a fair number of pedestrians stopping to listen as traffic out on the avenue swept by. Then they stopped, one of them called out something, I couldn't catch what, and they struck up a slow, majestic number. A lovely piece that swelled as they played, that apparently reached down inside me and touched something. I stood and listened, a few stray tears running down my face. (My father's side of the family were all from Ireland. Now and then, that part of me rises to the surface.)
Afterward, I spoke to one of the men, he said they were from Asturias, one of Spain's two northwest provinces -- a place with keltic roots, where keltic music is indigenous (something I didn't know before coming here).
A bagpipe band from the provinces takes a jaunt to the capital where they wind up making my evening.
Life: you never really know what's coming around the corner.
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 1:25 PM [+]
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