Being accosted by gypsy beggars is an experience every person in the world should have at least once in life. There is nothing quite like it anywhere. On this particular evening, I had just spend a glorious night at the symphony with friends (oh Beethoven’s 5th Piano concerto almost brought tears to my eyes) and afterwards we went out for drinks.
Two hours later, everyone was satisfied with the social discourse of the evening and were ready to head home. So as we departed the bar, we started to break up into individual groups heading different directions. Both Lejla the violinist and Jovitsa the viola player offered me rides home but I was feeling like a good walk, so I declined both offers and started up the boulevard toward the old train station.
Then the attack came. Out of nowhere I was surrounded by five gypsy kids between the ages of 3 years old to maybe 12 years old. They had been trying to stay warm under a bench and a tree on the boulevard, when they saw this fat juicy target (me) walking down the street by himself, they launched themselves at me.
I immediately grabbed my wallet, so that it would not develop wings and fly away, and I told them all roughly (which is the only language they know and understand) to go away and leave me in peace. The littlest fellow promptly wraps himself around my leg like a koala bear, so that I cannot escape. I finally peel him/her off of me and told him/her that I would feed him/her to the next available dog (people here have an great and unnatural fear of dogs) if he/she grabbed my leg again.
That took the wind out of most of their sails and they all quit following me, except one boy. “I just want to have some bread to eat, please mister I just want some bread to eat!” he said over and over. With the pleasurable notes of Beethoven still stirring in my mind, I suddenly stopped walking, and the gypsy boy jumped away from me, expecting that I would hit him. Instead of bopping him up the side of his head, I asked him, “Do you want bread? Really truly? Or do you want money?” Now there is only one right answer here, and the young fellow intuited that right quickly, and said bread. So I changed direction and headed toward a bakery.
Thus seeing that I was actually intending to purchase real bread, (it must have been the symphony), the boy quickly started to re-negotiate. “Oh mister can we have a sandwich instead?” What do I care? Sure a sandwich it is. I could not find a sandwich shop open since it was after midnight by this time, but my new little leech found one right away and all but dragged me there. Now I bought the gypsy boy four sandwiches while he stood outside the cafe with his face pressed up against the window staring with big eyes as the man behind the counter made the sandwiches. And all the while the cook talked with the waiter about what a fool I was for buying these little ragamuffins some of the shop’s fine cuisine. I on the other hand, was hearing the fine notes of Beethoven floating through my soul and enjoying the movement in my heart . . . in other words, the surly cook was not about to shatter my pleasure in the evening.
Finally sandwiches in hand, I exited the sandwich shoppe and the gypsy boy grabs the bag out of my hand.
I hope that you were not expecting him to say thank you, for I surely was not. He did say something though, he said, “hey mister, how about a drink . . . .” And with a howl of genuine laughter at his audacity and bravo, I resumed my walk in the dark.
Two hours later, everyone was satisfied with the social discourse of the evening and were ready to head home. So as we departed the bar, we started to break up into individual groups heading different directions. Both Lejla the violinist and Jovitsa the viola player offered me rides home but I was feeling like a good walk, so I declined both offers and started up the boulevard toward the old train station.
Then the attack came. Out of nowhere I was surrounded by five gypsy kids between the ages of 3 years old to maybe 12 years old. They had been trying to stay warm under a bench and a tree on the boulevard, when they saw this fat juicy target (me) walking down the street by himself, they launched themselves at me.
I immediately grabbed my wallet, so that it would not develop wings and fly away, and I told them all roughly (which is the only language they know and understand) to go away and leave me in peace. The littlest fellow promptly wraps himself around my leg like a koala bear, so that I cannot escape. I finally peel him/her off of me and told him/her that I would feed him/her to the next available dog (people here have an great and unnatural fear of dogs) if he/she grabbed my leg again.
That took the wind out of most of their sails and they all quit following me, except one boy. “I just want to have some bread to eat, please mister I just want some bread to eat!” he said over and over. With the pleasurable notes of Beethoven still stirring in my mind, I suddenly stopped walking, and the gypsy boy jumped away from me, expecting that I would hit him. Instead of bopping him up the side of his head, I asked him, “Do you want bread? Really truly? Or do you want money?” Now there is only one right answer here, and the young fellow intuited that right quickly, and said bread. So I changed direction and headed toward a bakery.
Thus seeing that I was actually intending to purchase real bread, (it must have been the symphony), the boy quickly started to re-negotiate. “Oh mister can we have a sandwich instead?” What do I care? Sure a sandwich it is. I could not find a sandwich shop open since it was after midnight by this time, but my new little leech found one right away and all but dragged me there. Now I bought the gypsy boy four sandwiches while he stood outside the cafe with his face pressed up against the window staring with big eyes as the man behind the counter made the sandwiches. And all the while the cook talked with the waiter about what a fool I was for buying these little ragamuffins some of the shop’s fine cuisine. I on the other hand, was hearing the fine notes of Beethoven floating through my soul and enjoying the movement in my heart . . . in other words, the surly cook was not about to shatter my pleasure in the evening.
Finally sandwiches in hand, I exited the sandwich shoppe and the gypsy boy grabs the bag out of my hand.
I hope that you were not expecting him to say thank you, for I surely was not. He did say something though, he said, “hey mister, how about a drink . . . .” And with a howl of genuine laughter at his audacity and bravo, I resumed my walk in the dark.
2 comments:
Great post, David. I could see the whole scene while reading.
You do love to goose the bumblebee!!
Man, I can picture you in each one of those contexts :)
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