Musical Memories

I've been thinking about an upcoming trip to Spain to see friends where we used to live. Mostly I've been checking the logistics of air and train arrangements, hotels, and whom we plan to see when. Plus  I've been wondering about my packable wardrobe for three separate locations--and have just changed back to my original idea (beige, brown, and orange) from my second idea (blue), based on the realization that I don't have any shoes to wear with the blue outfits. Only in fleeting glimpses have I begun to picture myself actually driving around in the territory that we knew so well up until two years ago, checking out some favorite cafés, and thinking about a few items I may want to pick up at stores and markets that I used to frequent.

So this morning when we stopped at Kroger's on the way home from church to grab a single package of frozen peas (how I ever ran out of this staple in  my house, I do not know) and I heard the music of a jazz saxophone as we pulled into the parking lot, I sat bolt upright. Had I fallen asleep and slipped across the ocean unconsciously? Was I in Spain already? When we lived in Spain, you see, a regular sight and sound whenever we went to any one of the local grocery stores was the musician playing a tune outside the entrance door (and the exit door). I'm not sure if it was a long-standing cultural occurrence or whether it just started after 2008, when the economy got so bad, but it certainly persisted up through the rest of our stay in Spain. Some of the musicians were not bad and you were happy to toss a few coins into the case or box they had in front of them. There was one, though, that was horrid; he knew only one song and that not very well. It was almost as though you would toss coins in the box so that he would stop playing for a fraction of a minute while he thanked you.

The saxophonist in front of the Woodlawn Kroger store just after noon today was good, and nice, and appreciative when we immediately, on the way in, put some money in the hat to show our appreciation. I was sorry that he stopped playing for several seconds while he thanked us and wished us a good day.

We completed our purchases (discovering, of course, that we "needed" several more items besides the package of frozen peas that I had gone in for) and I made a point of telling the check-out woman how much I enjoyed the playing of the musician out front. Since I had never seen or heard a musician in front of Kroger's, I was really afraid that someone in authority was going to come out and tell him to move away. She smiled and thanked us, so I am hopeful that no one will do that. Then on the way out, I fished out all my loose change and again dropped something into his container, and again he stopped playing momentarily, thanked me, and wished us a good day. As we got into the car and drove out of the parking lot, I noticed he had switched tunes--there were two small twin boys standing with their father in front of him, and he was treating them to a short rendition of "Three Blind Mice."

I wish I had a picture of this musician to show you, but the only picture is the one that resides in my brain. It was a lovely foreshadowing to my upcoming trip into one of my past lives, prompting me to think about and recall places, images, and occurrences that were important to me. Now, as I remember, I am making a note to check the price of frozen peas at the Mercadona supermercado--in the twelve years we lived in Spain, I used that price as my own "McDonald's Index" of inflation and comparative pricing, watching the price go from 85 centimos steadily upward to over 90--or had it reached a euro?