(Author’s note. This story is rewritten from my book, “Wings and Wanderlust, the Art of Discovering Your Inner Self.”)

I met Derek in Manila years before I started hitchhiking in Europe. He was a seasoned backpacker who had been to India and Afghanistan. I had his address in Munich, so I visited him. We embraced as good old friends.

Now, he was married to a Japanese girl, Teiko. The tables were turned. This time I was the backpacker and he was the local. Teiko was fascinated by me because I reminded her of Derek during his hippie days, which was why she fell in love with him.

ME: You know, I played in the streets of Athens. I was arrested for playing in the subway. I want to do the same here in Munich.

DEREK: You will never get arrested in Germany.

Teiko got a woolen blanket. She cut a slit at the center to turn it into a poncho, just like Clint Eastwood wore in his spaghetti westerns. Next, she took Derek’s old woolen winter gloves, cut off the tips of the fingers, so that I could finger the frets and strum the guitar and still feel warm.

ME: You ruined the blanket. I have a ski jacket. I will be all right.

TEIKO: No worry. I can sew it back later. Your weird costume is simple marketing. Germans are more liberal. Perhaps because they suffered a lot during the war. They will love a weird looking Filipino with long hair in a Clint Eastwood poncho, I guarantee it.

ME: In Athens, I was brave because we were two guys playing. I look like a fool in a poncho.

DEREK: No guts, no glory, Bernie.

And so I went to a busy platz (plaza). A big crowd was huddled around an Irish folk music band of five — two violins, two dancing and singing ladies, and a guitar. When they ended their 30-minute open concert, a rain of coins landed in an open guitar case on the pavement. I asked later how much they earned. A guy estimated $300, which they made in just a 30-minute concert. Wow, ten dollars per minute. Not bad.

I instantly got an inferiority complex. I let the crowd thin out before I started to sing. I placed my empty guitar case open in front of me. I began with an easy Filipino song, a marketing gimmick, since it would sound “exotic” to them. People either dropped a coin and left, or stayed awhile to catch the tune. I did not attract a crowd as big as the Irish group.

I did some Simon and Garfunkel songs, like “El Condor Pasa” and “Sound of Silence.” Finally, a few stopped to listen. I saw a few five-mark coins fall into my case with a sweet clink.

Five marks was about $2 then. Ten of those and I had a treasure, $20, which could last me two weeks on the road. Good enough. But it was not the economics that drove me to play on the streets. I enjoyed posing as a troubadour. In a span of an hour, I was tired. I looked through my coins and mentally counted about 22 marks or $44. Not bad for an amateur.

Teiko, Derek, and I had a big celebration. We finished two bottles of white wine over a sumptuous Japanese dinner Teiko cooked. I basked in glory under the winter sun. I did another stint the next day for two hours and got 31 marks or $62. A hundred dollars in two days. Wow. I earned more than working as a construction laborer in Andorra. After Athens and Munich, I was addicted to singing on the streets.

(The luxury edition of the book, “Wings and Wanderlust,” is available on Amazon, but if you are in the Philippines, you can buy a cheaper old hard copy, sent to your home by courier. Email request to redgate77@gmail.com)