MIAMI - NEW-YORK

No pay, no play

Since I'm not one to hold a grudge, I buy another Buick, although this one is a pre-war model. On the road to New York, I look for schools and colleges, hoping to book more concerts, reach out to a new and larger audience, and, by extension, continue my journey. Unfortunately, things have changed. In the past it was fairly easy to book a performance at one of the local nightclubs. Now, they want to book their rooms one or two years ahead of time.

My trip to the Big Apple is turning out to be a fiasco. I haven't eaten in two days, don't have enough money for a hotel room, and don't know anyone. My hunger slowly begins to get the better of me. The values and attitudes I once held dear go out the window. How easy it is to be kind, generous, and tolerant when you're not starving! How can I continue to preach dignity and discipline and character under such extreme circumstances? Loyalty, honesty, and selflessness are no match for the relentless ordeal of hunger, even for the most stoic temperament.

My good judgment and common sense begin to suffer as well. This morning I've got twenty cents in my pocket to cover everything. Should I buy a piece of bread (18 cents) or should I spend my last two dimes on a phone call, which could possibly be my salvation? Objectively speaking, the answer is obvious: forget about the bread and make the phone call. At the moment, however, I'm so hungry that I find myself hesitating. Having temporarily lost any sense of perspective, all I can think about is the immediate future.

In the end reason gets the better of me. I insert one of my two dimes into the pay phone. The machine keeps my ten cents without giving me anything in return. There's no dial tone. Out of order. My empty stomach doesn’t want to hear about the phone. Now I can't even afford a piece of bread.

Hoechst limousine service (Riga)

At the end of my rope, I have the same panicked feeling of terror that I had when I was halfway up the Nepalese cliff. This pay phone, which has literally conned the life out of me, fills me with rage and despair. I beat the old phone with my fists. Suddenly, I hear a beautiful sound: The machine spills its guts onto the ground.

Five dollars tumble onto the ground at my feet. Jackpot!

*******

After my many mishaps, one more outrageous than the last, which taught me, among other things, the implication of dollarts. Losing myself in New York's bustling cultural scene, I quickly forget about the recent past—memories which were, to say the least, bittersweet.

There are jazz clubs all over town. A "classical" musician, the kind I most identify with, can’t help being dazzled by these performers. Through sheer inspiration, technical mastery, and their range of improvisation, they punctuate the march of time, bring the old melodies up to date. It's a radically different approach from the one used in making classical music (or rock for that matter), which adheres to a score. This sense of awe raises the inevitable question. Can one achieve a sense of artistic fulfillment playing someone else’s music? The great literate civilizations were careful to avoid writing down their musical notation. China, India, Turkey, and Egypt left only the broad outlines of their musical traditions, which in their openness eerily parallel the jazz musician’s improvisatory skills.

Taken to new heights by a handful of giants, jazz, the only unwritten musical genre in the West, gives my life a sense of meaning and purpose, an excuse for my troubles...