Music, July 17

After a dinner of delicious thin crust pizza, Jan (the Swedish motorcycle traveler), Richie (the Australian busker), and I (vagrant) debated the plans for the evening. I opined for staying in at the hostel where the beer was cheap and there was guaranteed to be a crowd that would provide for an entertaining evening. After the previous night's successful gathering, I knew it would be possible to create something fun, as long as we had the right ingredients. If Richie was willing to play and sing for us, I knew a crowd would gather and we would have a good night. Richie was indeed amiable to playing and with that, we sat ourselves down on the couch, beer in hand.

Naturally, people came to join us. Some were friends from the previous night, others were new and were looking to share in our conversations. Eventually, Richie sought out his guitar and when he returned, he was ready to play for us. Finding a tall stool and arranging himself comfortably, he began to play. It was a small area, so his voice carried easily around the room. It was still early in the evening and there were many people hanging about the common area. There were groups checking in, heavy packs still on their backs. One or two people were checking their email in the corner with the computers. A few others were chatting idly as they waited for a friend or were just relaxing. Many paused and listened for a moment or two before continuing on their way, but a few stayed for a while.

Then, Richie launched into Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. For the next seven minutes, as he sang the verses and choruses of the poetry, every one was quiet. The crowd that had been busy was now still, stopped dead in their tracks, arrested by the words and the music. Computers sat idle as their users' attention was diverted. For those seven minutes, a room full of strangers were quietly joined in spirit. It was only when his voice faded, did people return from where ever the song had taken them and back to their tasks.

Intermission: Kebabs at the Kebab House Rules. If ever there was an international food, kebabs would be it. So good.

The night was well into its prime by now, but not yet old enough to pass on. Returning to his stool, our Australian busker treated us to more music before passing the guitar on, happy to share. It was picked up by a man born in Toronto, but who had lived his life in Spain. He spoke very little English, but was eager to strum on the guitar for a while. Working his way through Hotel California, we worked our way through our libations.

A man walked into the hostel. Well into the latter part of his life. He was soft spoken, and well seasoned. He wore a faded tweed jacket and clothes that had seen many miles, but were well sewn and would see many more miles. It was easy to see he had, also seen many miles, but was not at all faded. With shaggy grey hair and stubble he carried himself like a man who had seen much and was slow to judge. He checked in, then joined our circle, eager to play his harmonica and sing with Richie. I learned his name was Jan Williams and he had spent 30 years hoboing around the U.S. He grew up in Norway and had a place in the northern islands now, but I never did learn why he was in Oslo. It didn't seem to matter though, he was here and was a friend for the evening. As the guitar found itself back into the hands of its owner, Jan had sat down and began to play. For a while, he and Richie sang the blues, and we listened.

Again the guitar changed hands, first to Jan then to the Spanish man. Each took a turn playing and singing a little. The simple joy of making music and sharing was enough. The guitar was in the hands of the Spaniard, who played lovingly, when the man from Gambia entered. He was another man who had seen many miles and been to many places. He spoke little English and was dressed in a rich purple, traditional robe. A matching cap sat neatly on the top of his head. I don't know how the three of them communicated, neither the Spaniard nor the Gambian man spoke much English, but some how they communicated and they began to play and sing in harmony. Jan had removed a cooking pot from his bag and was tapping out a rhythm to match the Spaniard's. From the three of them came the music of Miles Davis in true jazz fashion. Impromptu and improvised.

This was my night.