It’s true that I have a fair amount of superstitious beliefs. It’s also true that the distinction between superstitious beliefs and regular ‘ol everyday beliefs is purely semantic. What makes voodoo a superstition, while making the Eucharist a sacrament? Cultural perception I suppose.
Anyway, I was crossing my fingers as I went out for day number 13.
I went up to the downtown Berkeley Bart station. I’ve had some pretty good luck there in the past. Yesterday was no different. The powers that be put in a coffee shop that rhymes with “Meets” since the last time I had been there, so there was now a little place for people to chill out and listen to a busker busk. Which is exactly what a small group of people did for me yesterday. It was great. They even clapped between songs.
The other unique thing about yesterday was the amount of blind people that crossed my path. First there was this cute blind couple that approached as I was singing a Tom Waits song. He was snapping along to my beat, and she was smiling widely. About thirty minutes later, I was noodling aimlessly as another blind lady began approaching me. She got about two feet away before I stopped playing and said, “Hello.”
“Oh! I didn’t realize I was so close to you,” She said.
“It’s quite alright,” I said, “Thanks for coming to say hi.” Then she dug out fifteen cents and apologized for not being able to give more adding that times are tough. Which, of course, is why I’m busking in the first place…
Then she started singing a Doors tune and I played along for a little bit.
“I think that song is supposed to be in E. I’m not sure where I landed there when I started.” She said.
“Oh, you were on G.” I replied.
“You have a great ear young man.”
I thanked her and she went on her way.
That night I went into San Francisco to meet some of my friends at Hyde St. Pier. On the first Saturday night of the month there is a community of salty seamen that gather to sing sea shanties until the wee hours of the morn.
The best part of this is that they sing on a ship straight out of 1886 called the Balclutha. If one gets tired of the shanty singing, one can go out on the deck and enjoy the fresh, freezing night air on the bay. The views were spectacular as the lighthouse on Alcatraz strobed, and the lights of the city glittered like tinsel through the fog.
Given my superstition, I was fully expecting the ghost of some old sailor to appear during the singing. Or maybe the singing was supposed to repel the ghosts.
Anyway, the experience as a whole was rather transcendent.