“My French is so bad,” the woman said, “I didn’t understand a word of what you sang.”
Which made perfect sense because we didn’t sing a word in French until the encore. On the whole, we sang in yogurt i.e. making sounds that could pass for Russian or Greek or Portuguese, or a few of the African languages – the Spanish sounded close to the real thing.
The woman was a German tourist traveling with her British boyfriend. Both of them awestruck by the sorry spectacle this town offers to the unsuspecting – the gutted sidewalks being the least of it.
I hung out with the traveling street artists – most of whom drink way too much except for the aerial acrobats. A small bottle cap full of their potent punch turns the trick for me.
A mourning dove perches on the rooftop across the street, repeating its call. Hasn’t budged for the longest time. I have to wonder what goes through the mind of a bird while it listens to answering calls from fellows who speak the same dialect – or don’t? Is that an accented diphthong? A lilt on the final coo-cooo-coo?
Meanwhile, the political chessboard. Tactical advances, strategic blunders, pig-headedness, game plans.
Ah. The mourning dove advances on the roof tiles, following an intricate geometrical progression to its fly-off point.