The Gypsy Girls of Athens
After our second song, five dirty gypsy girls came out of nowhere, dancing impromptu, tumbling expertly, attracting a growing crowd.
Daily TribuneAfter our second song, five dirty gypsy girls came out of nowhere, dancing impromptu, tumbling expertly, attracting a growing crowd.
Author’s note. This article is an excerpt from my book, “Wings and Wanderlust, the Art of Discovering Yourself.”
On about the third month of my prolonged three-year adventure through Europe and North Africa, I bought a guitar in Spain to make my adventures more colorful. I did not mind carrying the heavy guitar while hitchhiking because I knew it would be a “magic wand” that would attract people and exciting adventures. True enough, it was.
My roommate at the hostel in Athens was a guy from South Carolina, Jason, if I remember his name correctly. He had a clarinet, so we jammed together in the lobby for a small crowd of delighted Arabs. The management did not mind, wanting to keep the place alive for more walk-ins.
Jason and I chose simple songs, as we were really both amateurs. We played Harry Belafonte’s “When the Saints Go Marching In” for starters. We were an instant two-man band. I would give him a set of simple guitar chord progressions and he would build tunes around them.
The next day, we decided to play at a small plaza nearby during rush hour. I opened my guitar case in front of us. After our second song, five dirty gypsy girls came out of nowhere, dancing impromptu, tumbling expertly, attracting a growing crowd. At the end of our first set, coins rained into the guitar case. After two sets, we earned the equivalent of about US$15 — not bad. We kept $2 each and gave the rest to the girls, who screamed with joy.
Next, we went to the subway station. The gypsy girls followed us. We sang while the people piled up for the next train. The girls stole the show with their acrobatic feats. The clarinet echoed across the cavernous station. The applause was instant and loud, even from as far as the other side of the station. Just as the train was coming in, we stopped playing and the rain of coins happened again. Without counting, we gave two thirds to the gypsy girls.
COP: (In civilian clothes) Guys, I’m a cop. Singing in the subway is not allowed.
ME: How do we know you are a cop?
Jason and I laughed. The cop felt insulted and left without showing his badge. Then, he came back with three uniformed cops. They dragged us all to the police station.
COP 1: (While looking at Jason’s American passport, testing his reaction) F--k Nixon, right?
JASON: (Shrugging his shoulders) F--k Nixon, sure. I don’t like him myself.
COP 2: (Looking through my passport) You a seaman? (they thought all Filipinos were seamen).
ME: (politely) No sir.
COP 2: Tourist?
ME: Backpacker, sir.
COP: (sternly) We better not see you again playing in the streets, what more the subway. Is that clear?
JASON AND ME: (in unison) Yes sir.
COP1: Now go, before we change our minds and jail you.
We left quickly, but as we got out, we saw them beating up the gypsy girls. I turned around in anger to intervene, but Jason pulled me back.
JASON: Are you crazy? You wanna be jailed?
ME: Poor kids. It’s actually our fault.
JASON: No, it’s not our fault. The Greeks hate the gypsies. They are dirty people to them.
ME: I like the gypsies I meet everywhere — Spain, France. Their spirit is awesome.
The luxury edition of the book, “Wings and Wanderlust, the Art of Discovering Yourself,” is available at Amazon, but if you are in the Philippines you can buy a cheaper old hard copy sent to your home by courier.
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