Wish You Were Here

Many years ago, I found myself in Rome, Italy. It was late August, and I had taken a train from Leonardo da Vinci International Airport to Rome Termini Train Station. It was my first time in Europe, and to say it was a culture shock would be a gross understatement. I have never seen, heard, or smelled a place so busy. It was an assault on the senses.

Small cars and trucks were not just driving everywhere, but they were parked literally everywhere. At stoplights, mobs of people on Vespas would race around the cars to get to the front, and when the light turned green, they'd buzz away—an espresso in one hand, a cigarette in another, and with expressive hand gestures they'd wave and cry, "Ciao!"

The sidewalks were thick with humanity, from students rushing to their next class to nuns late for the Vatican to throngs of tourists drinking wine and singing. There were gypsies dripping with gold on every corner as they cried for money, often feigning death or seizures in the most dramatic ways possible.

It was chaos, and it was like this 22 hours a day.

One evening I took my guitar and went for a walk down to Piazza Navona to sit and play by Gian Lorenzo Bernini's Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi. Rome was still very busy, but with my guitar in hand, I could concentrate on playing to help push the chaos aside—or at least make it more manageable.

I bought a cappuccino, sat on the edge of the fountain and started playing. About 20 minutes later, I looked up and found myself surrounded by a crowd of people clapping. One young woman with a thick Italian accent asked if she could play a song, so I handed her my guitar, and she proceeded to belt out a perfect version of "Zombie" by the Cranberries. We all clapped enthusiastically when she finished her last chord.

A young American guy asked if he could sing one. My guitar got passed down the line where he proceeded to do a decent, if not a little gravely, version of "One" by U2. More and more people came by. More and more songs were sung. People from all over the world converged around this centuries-old statue and sang songs and cheered each other on. It was magical.

One of my favourite songs was from a 20-something (and very enthusiastic) German guy. When my guitar got to him, he took a moment, very carefully placing his hands on the fretboard, and then attacked the strings: BUH!BUH!BUH! His hips popping with each downstroke on the strings, and in an extremely thick German accent (carefully over-enunciating each word and syllable), he sang, "WOULDN'T. IT. BE. NICE." BUH!BUH! “IF. I. COULD. TOUCH. YOUR. BOD-DEE. CUZ. NOT. EVERY. BOD-EE. HAS. A. BOD-EE. LIKE. YOU-OO.” Absolutely slaying "Faith" by George Michael. The crowd went wild.

For the next hour, we all took turns playing and singing our favourite songs from all over the world. People would drift in and play a song or two, then drift away only to have new people drift in and play. Did I mention it was magical?

It was getting late (about two in the morning) when a group of Australians suggested the party move to an after-hours bar a few blocks away. There were about a dozen of us who thought that was a great idea so we followed our new hosts; our roaming party sifting through the streets of Rome towards our new destination. I lagged behind. Still glowing from our impromptu concert, I took my time and enjoyed a bit of alone time, careful to keep our rag-tag group of revellers in sight so I didn't get lost. It would be hard to lose them because they were all still singing various songs that were bouncing off the buildings, filling the streets with musical breadcrumbs.

Rome is filled with public squares known as piazzas; in my experience, there is almost always an obelisk or a statue featured in them. Some piazzas are large, some small, but they are everywhere.

I had just come out of a narrow roadway, my party-people about a block away (still singing loudly), when I entered a small, dark piazza. There was an obelisk on the back of a marble elephant in the middle, and as I strummed my guitar, the notes skittered and echoed off the walls. I was in heaven.

Then everything changed. Emerging from the shadows on the other side of the obelisk walked three huge Middle Eastern men. Very large. Their clothes were all black; they had long black beards, black turbans, and they moved like smoke towards me. They stopped just in front of me, blocking me from my new friends, whose voices were getting further and further away. I was alone, my mind racing trying to figure out a battle plan, desperately looking around to see if there was anyone else around. Nothing. Just inky darkness, the thrum of Rome, and these three giant men positioned between my group and me.

I gulped audibly and decided to start with "Friendly Canadian" and see where that took things. "Hello," I said, my voice wavering slightly.

"Hello," one of the men replied in a gruff, thick Iranian accent.

One of the other men took a half-step forward, towering above me he leaned in and in broken English said, "You know 'Wish You Were Here?' Pink Floyd?"

"Yes," I replied.

They lit up. The three men laughed, danced, and shouted, "PLAY IT!! PLAY IT!!"

I started playing it, and together the four of us sang the entire song at the top of our lungs, in the middle of the night, in a tiny piazza in the middle of Rome.

As the last notes caromed off the walls and out into the streets of Rome, one of my new friends looked down at me, a massive smile on his face, and said, "That was awesome."

They walked off into the night laughing and singing.

I was able to catch up to my other group of friends (thanks in no small part to their non-stop reverie), and we spent the night playing and singing and drinking all throughout Rome.