Because I wasn't able to bring my old buddy, Virgil, with me on the plane, I made plans to have him sent solo across the Atlantic. However, I feared for his well-being. He doesn't particularly like dark, enclosed spaces, and in a rare moment of unabashed vulnerability, he once confessed to me his deep-seated fear of flying. So I had to make a heart-wrenching choice. While I live and study in Paris, Virgil is spending the year with my mother in Lawrence, Kansas. As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder...
This is where the newcomer steps onto the stage. About a month ago, I started missing Virgil with a fiery passion. I had to find a substitute. I needed a new ukulele. So I set out on a quest to find an heir. Following a tip from a cousin of my host siblings, I journeyed to a music shop in the covered market, Galerie Vero-Dodat. Alas, the cheapest uke they had for sale that was still worth its name was upwards of 150 euro. I had to turn away. Luckily, a large Guitar Center-esque music store happens to live just a few blocks away from the gallery. With high hopes of finding the next Virgil, I stepped into the store. Hanging there on the wall was exactly what I was looking for: A quaint, mahogany bodied, black-stringed soprano ukulele, with the word "Aloha" joyfully splashed across the head between the tuning pegs. I tested him out, plucking strings and shaping chords on the neck, but he was hopelessly out of tune. I did my best to revive him, and when I did, was I ever happy. The boy can sing. So I quickly paid and found my way home.
Since then, it's been never-ending joy. I blissfully while away the hours, dreaming up new chord progressions or practicing my favorite tunes. When faced with a pile of homework, I often find myself reaching for my new friend. This uke sure knows how to procrastinate. Needless to say, I love everything about this blessed instrument. In keeping with tradition, I knew I would have to eventually give him a name. I allowed myself a month to get to know him before I made the choice, avoiding a hastily-chosen moniker. Finally, last week I felt ready.
I dubbed him: Pierre.
Let's just say he knows how to rock...
Happy Travels
-- Cody
PS/ In case you're wondering, that last line is a terrible pun. The word pierre is French for "rock". As it happens, this is also the name given to St. Peter, the first pope and the "rock" upon which the Catholic church is built...
PPS/ Sorry... I'll be putting up a real post soon. I was just thinking about this before I went to bed and thought I'd share the story. Good night...
3 comments:
That name couldn't be better. :) I'm really sorry we couldn't hang out last weekend... any chance you'll be swinging by London Town sometime?
Hi Cody! My name is Charles and I'm work with Laura. I am enjoying reading of your time in Paris. It brings back fond memories of my two years there. I've got a few cafe and restaurant recommendations if you're interested. Drop me an email at charleseverson at gmail dot com.
well just think last year at this time you had a crowd standing outside of your door listening to you. and i dont know why you thought it was weird?? hope your having a blast in paris!
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