Some well-dressed Nantais musicians jamming out
Sunday, November 11th: a frigid slow grey day in the city of Nantes, France. It was the last day of my vacation from school. My vacation had been quite enjoyable, but I think that because of its excitement and greatness, I was feeling slightly restless. For those who do not know, there is NOTHING to do on Sunday in France. Everything is closed and if the weather is disagreeable, then there is very little motivation to brave the country; however, this Sunday, I was feeling particularly frisky…in part because I was wearing my flannel-lined jeans, which make it feel like I’m wearing my jammies, but I look as fly as a Jonathan Taylor Thomas between 1994 and 1998.
So I decide to brave the elements and search for adventure/trouble/the love of my life or whatever might come my way. My journey takes me on a long walk through town and over to the island in the middle of the Loire River, which is where many of the old ports and docks rest from when Nantes was an important port town back in the day. I am walking along and pass through a back ally, and what do I see? A dumpster. To the average human this would not be enticing, but this dumpster was special. It didn’t smell good; but it smelled right, and there was a piece of wood with strings attached that was painted blue and black poking out of the side of it. My heart was in my throat, my hair on end, and my hopes higher than R. Kelly could ever believe he could fly.
You see like every male between 15 and 25, I pretend to play the guitar. To say I am ‘talented’ would be an insult to talent everywhere because I really just have a working knowledge of about six chords, but for the past eight years or so, I have enjoyed dabbling on this popular instrument. I had not touched a guitar for nearly two months, and to say I was pining to bumble on any musical instrument for a minute or two would be a gross understatement; so you can imagine my excitement at the potential of this dumpster. I walk over to the painted wood…it is indeed a guitar neck. I gently wiggle it to see if there is anything more…there is. I slowly pull on the neck until the structure is removed from the dumpster, and low and behold, it is a blue sunburst six stringed acoustic guitar. Did I pee my flannel-lined jeans out of excitement? No. Did I prance home as if I was a child clenching Willie Wonka’s golden ticket? Perhaps.
Due to his nationality, color, and the state in which I found him, I have named my good friend Porthos after Dumas’ Three Musketeers. Porthos has a few bumps and bruises, but he's a player...and he plays pretty well for himself:
So I decide to brave the elements and search for adventure/trouble/the love of my life or whatever might come my way. My journey takes me on a long walk through town and over to the island in the middle of the Loire River, which is where many of the old ports and docks rest from when Nantes was an important port town back in the day. I am walking along and pass through a back ally, and what do I see? A dumpster. To the average human this would not be enticing, but this dumpster was special. It didn’t smell good; but it smelled right, and there was a piece of wood with strings attached that was painted blue and black poking out of the side of it. My heart was in my throat, my hair on end, and my hopes higher than R. Kelly could ever believe he could fly.
You see like every male between 15 and 25, I pretend to play the guitar. To say I am ‘talented’ would be an insult to talent everywhere because I really just have a working knowledge of about six chords, but for the past eight years or so, I have enjoyed dabbling on this popular instrument. I had not touched a guitar for nearly two months, and to say I was pining to bumble on any musical instrument for a minute or two would be a gross understatement; so you can imagine my excitement at the potential of this dumpster. I walk over to the painted wood…it is indeed a guitar neck. I gently wiggle it to see if there is anything more…there is. I slowly pull on the neck until the structure is removed from the dumpster, and low and behold, it is a blue sunburst six stringed acoustic guitar. Did I pee my flannel-lined jeans out of excitement? No. Did I prance home as if I was a child clenching Willie Wonka’s golden ticket? Perhaps.
Due to his nationality, color, and the state in which I found him, I have named my good friend Porthos after Dumas’ Three Musketeers. Porthos has a few bumps and bruises, but he's a player...and he plays pretty well for himself:
Serendipity strikes again, and she has struck a chord or two in the process. Good Sunday.
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