On our way to the Moo Frites in Toronto, we turn the corner, passing tangled couples just barely sober, almost in each other’s pockets, hard to tell who they are most in love with--the person they are with or themselves--and we hear it. Violin. Of course. Of course a violin is playing. It’s not a surprise, but certainly welcome.
We wedge in and out of shops barely wider than three people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. The violin follows us. We take a table at a sidewalk cafe. Concerto. We wander into a store selling handmade lotions with African herbs. A little Mozart trails behind.
Tonight the man playing has a long grey beard and no shirt. No shoes. He hops a lot while playing. Not a dance, really, but inspired by and timed with the music. In front of him, the open case. A couple of coins shine against the red velvet.
Keith has a request. We have yet to pass a street violinist of whom he does not make this request. Kreisler. "Leibesleid." We’ve heard it on a street in downtown Lafayette. We’ve heard it in Ann Arbor. We’ve heard it in Madison. We may have it heard it in Freiburg. Cobblestone streets.
And they all know it. Every violin street player we have ever heard will play that piece. And no matter where you are, it’s Vienna. You’ve never seen Vienna, never tasted their coffee. You’ve never walked by the rivers; you never slept in their beds. You’ve not endured their winters. You’ve never looked an Austrian in the eyes as you pass each other.
But he plays. And then, you have.
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