No Escape

I know. Don't die of shock from the rapidity of my recent postings.

One of my absolute favorite thing about cities is the street performers, particularly musicians. They add so much color and life to the many-faceted, everyday goings on. You step off the underground and as you wind through the tunnels your ears are greeted by an electric guitar, or maybe a violin. Sometimes it doesn't matter if they're good or bad. They can make you think or feel, help you come to a realization, or just put a smile on your face. Sometimes they catch you when you're on the train. You can't leave. You can't get away from the collection bag that they're going to strut less than a foot away from your hands folded stubbornly in your lap. And I won't get into the legal reasons that they do it this way. One day I was sitting on the metro and a woman entered with an accordion. I don't think I'd really even noticed her there until the train started to move and the sound greeted my ears, forcing the cognitive dissonance of wanting to look, but knowing that if you look up you are slightly more obligated to drop in a few rubles (which is great, but simply impossible to do for every street performer). I don't know much about accordion technique, but I will say it sounded good to me. I was a rather tragic piece and, together with her all-black attire and the droning winter outside, it was rather picturesque. A perfect soundtrack. Then, today, I think I had recommenced reading my book when two hipster-ish guys came on and perched themselves next to me. One had an electric guitar, with the amp hanging off him somehow. And the other had none other than a flute. And he worked that flute. They played a catchy little number and I couldn't help but be impressed. By the music itself, but also the pluck of the Russian flautist.

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.