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Tuesday, March 13, 2007 I went out for the morning espresso/croissant later than normal today, dragging a bit after two consecutive nights of restless sleep. Afterward, when I stumbled back out to the street -- slightly more awake, feeling marginally more human -- a 50-something gent stood at a nearby intersection, blowing a saxophone. Short black hair, clothes neat and almost formal enough to wear to an office job, his overall look like a musician from a 1950's jazz club. He played slow, melancholy lines of music, working his way through a song at a relaxed pace, stopping now and then to look around, wipe his mouthpiece off before starting again, picking up where he left off. He finished a tune and paused, people walking past in all directions. I pulled a few coins from my pocket, went over and dropped them in the instrument case laying open at his feet. We exchanged a few words, he spoke with an accent that indicated he hailed from a part of the spanish-speaking world somewhere beyond Spain's borders. I didn't ask where, just waved and started off, listening as he began to blow again, beginning another song, music rising into the morning air, resonating clearly and sweetly off overabundant concrete and brick. A Tuesday morning, mid-March. Madrid. España, te quiero. rws 9:31 AM [+]
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