Big Bella Goes to Town

No good me writing blogs. I am still hurting, cranky, and not very thoughtful. And my hit-counter tells me my crabby new attitude is not popular with readers, either. (Or maybe you all are on holiday?)

Maybe it is time for a gut-check, time to review my methods, renew my spirits, examine what´s working and what is not. 

Naah. 

What the heck. There´s a perfectly good writer sitting across the patio from me, with a much better attitude, at least this week. Name is Patrick O´Gara, another retired hack, who in his own words is doing "f--- all in technicolor." So today he will do a "Guest Blog." 

A "slice of life." About a dog. Who´d have guessed? 

Bella, our newest dog is still a puppy. She´s a year old. Still a baby.

A big baby. I tried to pick her up to weigh her on the bathroom scales, and just couldn't. So I will guess.

Bella is a Leonese Mastiff. She weighs at least 60 pounds, and maybe 80. She is big, beautiful, clever and potentially - if not properly trained - dangerous. Not because she's vicious -- she's not. Just big.

I decided we must do a little work on her social attitude. So the two of us walked together, to Sahagun. Just us, with no others to distract us.

Sahagún, the "big city" of 5,000 inhabitants, is about six miles away. The day was hot and cloudless. I donned my stylish straw hat and carried a bottle of water. We got out of Moratinos with no trouble, despite a gang of men digging a ditch and making a bit of a din. We arrived in the next village  half an hour later walking nicely, side by side in reasonable and peaceful harmony. 

This is news. When I go out each morning with all five dogs, I'm heading up a wolf pack. Any little dog or cat that dares show its face meets five potential murderers. But on her own, without the ravening pack around her, Bella is a different kind of dog. 
 

In San Nicolas del Real Camino, an amiable local Spaniel lounged contentedly against a sunny wall, and
not a growl was heard from either dog. A brief mutual tail-wag of greeting, (between them, I did not participate) and on we went. A stop at the Rio Seco for a good slurp by Bella and a swig of the bottle for me - then off alongside the N120, headed for the border with the Province of Leon, about a mile on. A  long stretch with no shade and nowhere to sit down.

All went well. lla responded to my suggestions about walking alongside me instead of pullead, bribed by a string of treats ankind words. 

Suddenly, silently, a Brazilian cyclist (he had a big, dopey flag) appeared alongside and out of nowhere,  spooking the pair of us. Bella tried to jump into the ditch alongside. I spoke sharply to the buffoon, first in Spanish and then more harshly in English for good measure and added fluency. I admonished him to give notice in future by ringing his bell, or else I would wring his neck. 

He cycled off  at great speed, without saying a word in any language.

Next stop was Virgen de la Puente - a site made famous by Reb's novel -- a scant couple of miles outside Sahagun. There an old Roman bridge crosses River Valderaduey, a handy watering spot for Bella.

Refreshed, we hiked together along a broiling cinder track, under a road bridge, onto the odorous alley behind the shuttered "Hotel Posh." Alongside the railway station, over the rail bridge, and into Sahagun. A small dog came from a car repair shop to inspect us. We were duly approved, and sent  on with a woof and a wag. Not so much as a gurr from Bella. 

But as we wove down the sidewalk of Calle Constitución into the town centre, the noise and traffic and people increased. Bella was decidedly skittish. When children veered near to pet her, she ducked and dived away. 

I realised myself, listening through her ears, how incredibly noisy and frantic even a sleepy little town like Sahagún can be. Doors slid and banged, cars and trucks shrieked and beeped,  machinery whined and throbbed. The tumult of people talking, shouting, coming and going - it's unnerving. We humans are inured to it all, and hardly register it. But young Bella lives in a quiet town, indeed in a very Peaceable Kingdom. The community howl, a morning wake-up ritual for  most of Moratinos´ canine population, is all the hubbub she knows.

I had to hold her on a very tight lead and soothe her into the Plaza Mayor, where we both gratefully slumped down at a shady table outside a bar and ordered refreshments. I won't say the first sip of my gin and tonic made it all worthwhile. 

But it did. 

The walk was good for us both. 

We will do it again.

Pain on the Plain

I have been to the mountaintop, yeah. And I came back to earth with a kidney-punch. I am still recovering from the hike up to Espinama, detailed in the blog entry below. Seems the carsickness and the ensuing daylong dehydration pretty much shut down my left kidney. Kidneys do very important work, quietly and in the dark. Take care of them, I warn you, treat them with care and respect. Once insulted, they do not forgive easily or quickly.

I will not bore you with the details, but suffice it to say I have had several massages this week, two by David the Sahagun Strong-Arm Man, and two by Civita, a gentle Reiki-style healer pilgrim from Italy who stayed a few days in Moratinos to help Bruno. So my chakras now are all spin-balanced and my energy channels are blown open and dusted out. I have a splendid little map of bruises on the left side of my lower back, where a softball of pain still nestles. I will recover. But it will "hurt like a blow to the balls" for a while, David says.

Meantime, I should go to the thermal spa as often as I can. Doctors´ orders.

I love deluxe self-indulgence as much as anyone, but this week of rubdowns and water therapy is, sadly, not as fun as it should be. It is very much a treatment for a physical ailment. "Blow to the Balls" pain takes the pleasure quotient way down.

Nothing is more dull than listening to other people talk about their aches and pains, so I will stop here with the kidney business.

Life at The Peaceable is strangely cut-up lately. The heat and the harvest have finally set in, with tractors roaring in the fields well into the hot nights. We keep the blinds down, so the upstairs does not become a greenhouse. The flies are moving in, and thunderstorms. We sleep at odd hours, wake up in the middle of the night, read and write and chat, then go to sleep again. It is a bit like living on a submarine.

Pilgrims find us, but only a few. Enough. There are not so many pilgrims out there just now -- they are all in Pamplona chasing bulls, one wit told me. I returned to Moratinos last night at dusk, just after a thunderstorm had passed through, and found a half-drowned bike pilgrim making camp on the church porch. I brought him home. He snored like a lord all night downstairs. Or maybe that was the thunder I heard.

Today came in bright and clear, our 10th wedding anniversary. I put on a nice dress and we went to a party at the albergue in El Burgo Raneiro, where a friend is hospitalero-ing -- it´s her birthday today. We celebrated with volunteer hospitaleros from Bercianos and El Burgo and Calzadilla de los Hermanillos, Dutch, Americans, English, and Basque, Valencian and Asturian. Nice people, jolly and dedicated. Outside the pilgrims lined up and peered into the windows, watching as we cut the cake and poured the wine.

Paddy and I went on to Mansilla de las Mulas, to a fine fancy anniversary lunch at La Curiosa, our new favorite eatery. I am not eating much these days, and I am drinking even less where alcohol is concerned -- but the Albariño sang sweet harmony with the goat-cheese blini. (Paddy had a steak. He said I am the best wife he´s had in the entire last decade.) 

And then the medicine wore off. We came home, and the sky filled up with spectacular clouds like the titles from The Simpsons. A storm came roaring in with a tide of tractors and combines, and the power went out. There was nothing to do but take a nap, so that is what I did.

I woke up a couple of times when thunder cracked close, but slipped back again to dreamland. I woke up finally. It was 8 p.m., and the storm was still blowing, the house still dark. Paddy dozed on the sofa, Momo Cat draped over his shoulders. Lightning flickered. I lit candles, but blew them out again. The kitchen clutter vanished into shadow.

It was fine in the dark, with the rumbling of snores and thunder. I sat still. I did not feel any pain.  

Tough Times on the Mountain

photos by David, whose last names I must find

The alarm went off at 6 Sunday morning. I rose before dawn, put on my boots, and clomped out to the car. My lunch bag was already out there, my hiking poles, my little backpack. I headed up to the Picos de Europa to hike with the Amigos de la Ruta Vadiniense, the people who (kinda) waymarked and mapped the trail from the mountain fastness of Potes down to Mansilla de las Mulas. We would hike the first day of the trail. Because (I´ve gotta say it) the waymarks on that first stretch are still somewhat nonsensical or non-existant, I wanted to hike it with the experts, to ensure the trail guide I wrote last year is accurate.

I should have read the warning signs: a bad night´s sleep, an aching back, a dead fox in the road. In a village under the streetlights I dodged another new carcass, this one a cat. Another cat stood over it, heartbroken.

I should have just gone home, but no. This was an opportunity. Maybe I would make friends. Maybe I would see something spectacular. It was not unfamiliar country --  I walked the 20-km. walk from Potes to Espinama two or three times last year, but kept losing the waymarks, finding myself trailing along the highway in the valley -- I never could find most of the footpaths that zig-zag along the mountain-faces. 

We met up in Cistierna, a mining town halfway where the Amigos are headquartered. There were 13 of us. We drove the rest of the way in cars. I am not used to riding in back seats. The switchback roads and the bright flashing light of morning sun between the peaks to made me very very carsick. Atop the Puerto San Glorio I had the man stop the car.

On the way down the mountain, just outside Potes, I had the man stop again.

While I hunkered along the highway I looked at my boots. Something was wrong. I had put one of my newer hiking boots on my left foot, and one of my old, worn-out boots on the right. One brown, one tan -- they are the same make and model, but Jeez. This is how people get labeled "eccentric," I thought. Or just "wierd."    

We started walking after a short coffee break. I probably should have eaten something, but my stomach was still unhappy. We walked uphill from the 8th century monastery of Sto. Toribio. We walked along those mountain faces, uphill uphill uphill. Wild cherry trees grew along the trail, we ate, we stained our fingers with blood-colored nectar. The man with the GPS unit, the man wo painted the arrows, he  took wrong turnings. He stopped the march and had us turn back. Not just a couple of times. We started to fall behind schedule. I heard grumbling.

We walked at a good clip, a lot faster than I ordinarily go. The people chatted and laughed and enjoyed themselves. Birds sang. A roebuck jumped up the trail ahead of us, his face hard and serious. We passed over little mountain towns, towns where I know they sell lovely goat-milk cheese, but we did not stop.

We passed over towns with fountains where hikers fill their water bottles. They did not stop, but I did. I need lots of water when I hike, and we were hiking in 90-degree sun. I fell behind. We stopped for a beer at a bar in Las Llanes, but not for long -- we were behind schedule, had to get going. I bolted my sandwich. I noticed my Spanish was not up to par, English kept slipping into my sentences. I noticed I did not need to use the toilet. I was drinking volumes of water, but not eliminating it, not the usual way. 
The GPS man, took me aside and apologized. "You walked this before. Tell me, are we going wrong again?" I looked him in the eye. "I followed the arrows before, and always ended up along the road. When it comes to the mountainsides, you and your machine are the experts," I told him. Or I think I did. "I am here today because I want to see where your trails go. You show me."

Maybe I was hard on him. But as time went on and the kilometers racked up, I ran out of compassion. I ran out of goodwill and curiosity and finally energy. We followed wooded pathways, saw vultures and eagles and massive 500-year-old chestnut and oak trees, and a ruined castle. Carlos and David, two of the company, realized I was struggling, and walked with me those long final stretches. They filled my bottle for me at waterfalls, tried to engage me in conversation, stopped with me when I had to stop and breathe. They made excuses for me, saying I live down on the plain, I am not used to the altitude. But I live at 900 meters. Their town, Cistierna, is only 30 meters higher up.  

We fell into "devil take the hindmost," a group dynamic that gives the people up front frequent rest breaks while the people behind catch up. Once we arrived, everyone jumped up and took off again. We laggers never had a rest. It made me think of capitalism. The bright sun through the tree canopy made me think of mirror-balls at a disco, until I started to feel the spin. I wondered if I was in real troubled, if I was having a heat stroke.

Then Carlos pulled an orange from his pack. He kept walking as he peeled it. He handed me half. "You are eating this," he said. And yes, I did. It was miraculous, that orange. It was the finest, juiciest orange I ever ate in all my life, and it hit my system like jet fuel.

I call all the blessings of heaven down upon Carlos, because he and his orange saved my ass.

After 30 kilometers we struggled finally into a tiny town called Pido, where I immersed my head and shoulders into a spring-fed water trough. My back screeched, but my head rejoiced. I´d made it back alive.

On the long drive home I was not ill. I saw a fox, a live one this time. It was a very dark night. The lights on my dashboard stopped working, then came on again. I stopped the car out in the fields. I looked right up through the Milky Way into deep, deep space. I said Thank You. 

That was Sunday. This is Tuesday. I slept through most of Monday, and this afternoon I will visit David the Massage Therapist, whom I hope can put my back back to right.

I am humbled. I have learned. I will join the Vadiniense amigos group, but I will not go hiking with them any more -- too late I learned that most of them are also members of a mountaineering group. They walk like mountaineers, straight on and up to a clear goal. And me, I amble. I stop when I am tired. I walk like a pilgrim, a person whose only goal is probably weeks away.

On Being Nice

The recycling truck came to town yesterday and wreaked more than its usual degree of havoc.

Somehow it caught itself in the thick braid of electrical cable that swags from post to post down the camino. A great concrete post sheared itself in half and smashed to the ground. A streetlight went down in a shower of glass, and the cables and guttering on the front of Marina´s house clattered to the pavement alongside. Moratinos was plunged into darkness.

Well, semi-darkness. It was a bright and sunny day, and thankfully nobody was passing nearby and Marina hasn´t arrived yet for her summer stay. No one had lights, and because the water system runs on electricity, no one had water, either. The businesses closed their doors. The street filled up with big noisy trucks from the electric company, the street light guys, the giant concrete pole supplier. They cordoned-off the camino. The job took several hours. It all happened at the busiest intersection in town, so everyone gathered in the shade of the plaza to watch the show and re-direct the pilgrims to the safe alternative along the two-lane road.

It was only a little inconvenient. Everyone made lunch from what they had on the counter already, or they hiked over to San Nicolas for a menu del dia. They talked about what Moratinos was like 50 years ago, before electricity arrived, before the streets were paved, when everyone used paraffin lamps and candles, and cooked over wood- or coal-fired stoves. They were almost all kids then, but they remember. (Manolo and Angel still slow-roast their winter lunches in a stoneware pot on the hearth.)

In the afternoon I walked with Julia over to the spring to fill water jugs. The spring is hidden away under massive ash trees, nestled between the N120 two-lane and the big new autopista beyond. Julia treated it as a revelation, she thought I had not been there before, she loves showing me new things. It is a beautiful, quiet little spot, the water that flows from the stone is shockingly cold and sweet. 

The lights came back on just as the sun went down. A pilgrim arrived, a young man called Alisdair, from Cambridge. He was here last summer, he said. I had brought him home from the church and repaired his bad feet. And it´s true, I did that. 

He told me how meaningful that foot-repair was to him, how that act of kindness grabbed his attention. It slowed him down and utterly changed how he walked his camino afterward.

I was flattered, of course. We asked him to stay over. His face lit up. He dropped his bag in the salon and headed out the door. He went all the way back to the labyrinth, where he knew another pilgrim was sleeping rough, and brought him back to our house. Paddy fed them on three-egg omelets and fried rice. They are young men, smart and educated and unemployed. They don´t have many prospects, but they still are full of hope, even joy.

Late this morning I sent them out the door and on their way. At the same moment a man rolled up on a bicycle. His name was Jesus. I knew him right away. Jesus Buzarra. Jesus Buzarra was one of the very first pilgrims ever to stay at the Peaceable. He slept on the floor of the little kitchen then, and he would do it again, he said, if that´s all we had. 

He stopped to say hello, to see how we were, to say thanks. Thanks again, seven years later, for a space on the floor. He is biking his way from a hospitalero assignment in Navarette to another one in Samos, giving up a month of his vacation, giving something back to the camino.

And this evening, on the patio out back, I sat and thought. 

I thought about how the accident knocked out our lights and brought our town out to talk with one another. I thought about Alisdair and his bad feet last year were the same feet that brought him back to us  this year. And how he then blithely added another kilometer to his day´s total to ensure another pilgrim had a bed. And I thought about Jesus, too, riding from one hospitalero assignment to another,.

I thought about how overwhelmed everyone is by the injustice in the world, how protesters shout for change and voters vote for new policies and programs, and we all wonder if our leaders can discover some new "ism" to save us all from ourselves.

And I wonder if the answers are not right here under our noses, in our houses, on our streets. We can  come out of the house and talk to the neighbors. If someone is in pain, patch him up. Stop in and check on somebody, see how they´re doing. Show someone where fresh water comes out of the rock. Say thanks again for some kindness done in the past. It costs nothing. And if everyone did such things just once a day or so, the benefits would be incalculable.

A policy won´t pick up the candy wrapper on the sidewalk. But we can.  
 

Moratinos Makes the Scene!

Moratinos made the local news a couple of weeks ago.  They did a short piece for the evening newscast, and this for the hardcore, late-night audiences, and maybe for you who are studying Spanish.

You can see the local news is kinda slow-moving, but hey -- we all can´t be X-Men. (Except maybe Modesto.) Me and Paddy appear at about 3.55, but Julia and her brother Pin are really worth seeing. And Bruno, toward the end, with his "Templar Pizza..."

http://youtu.be/jkzZUTfwpaM

What Happens When You´re Gone

MoMo, before I left. The patio in order, more or less

I was gone for two weeks. It was an odd holiday, set out in five parts:
+ a big shmooze in Santiago de Compostela,
+ a long walk down the beach and across the water to Portugal,
+ Lisbon and Sintra with three wild women,
+ the beach down south with Filipe and Dick, and
+ two days in Madrid with Patrick.

I traveled the first four with Kathy, my perrenial hiking pal from San Francisco.

Kathy and me, in Praia Altura, Portugal

Parts of the trip were beautiful and limpid. Parts were manky and cranky. I met Julio Llamazares, an author I admire. I sat in an ancient monastic church where the old Gallego ladies chanted the rosary, passing the prayer across the aisle in their oil-and-vinegar voices while the waves crashed against the sea-wall outside the open door. Farther south we poked through another empty monastery, this one a tiny cluster of cells cut into rocks and lined with cork-wood. I bought a handbag made of cork-wood. I slipped inside the hollowed-out heart of a big old cork oak tree, and it felt like an embrace.

I ate many, many fishes, caught fresh and roasted whole, and many shellfish, too. And squids, and cuttles, and octopi. The sea gave up its bounty to me, and I made sure her creatures did not die in vain.

Meantime, here at The Peaceable, the rain fell and the sun shone. Paddy oversaw the rebuilding of the plumbing connections under the patio, and replacement of the tiles. He fed the chickens and walked the dogs and watered the plants. All was well. The crops ripened in the fields, and out back, the grass grew.

Monday afternoon we came home.

Everyone was glad to see me. Tim, who has been dieting for a month, is noticeably slimmer and more energetic. There was no mail to speak of. No word from the tax lawyer, no news from England or America. Aside from a few half-mopped spills and some black vegetables under the sink, the place looked pretty well cared-for. I needn´t have worried. Paddy got along just fine without me.

And then I went out back to visit the hens.
I could not see the hens. The trees are in full leaf now, and the grass is thigh-high, swirled by the wind into whorls, hiding the chicken pen from sight. The garlic is budding, the onions will soon sprout afros. And the flowers, Oh my, the little orange and yellow calendula flowers that want to take over the flower bed... well. They´ve done it. They are bursting over the curbstones and spreading into the raised beds, colonizing the yard. They bloomed in a spectacular way sometime last week, and are this week gone spectacularly to seed, their dead heads smile with a thousand teeth each.

The vegetables? I am not sure. I have not looked. I think the potatoes have taken over their corner of the garden. There were French bean plants where there were none two weeks ago, but when I loosed the hens into the great green jungle, they made a beeline for the beans. They stripped the seeds off  the weeds, they leapt into the air to snatch moths in flight, they dusted themselves in the onion bed. They delighted and desported themselves out there, and I enjoyed the music as I began the slow work of dead-heading the vast banks of calendula flowers.

The sky is stormy. I worked with thunder grumbling to the south, I worked til the rain drove me indoors. I am not even half finished with that job. Tomorrow I must tie them up, and weed-whack round the raised beds. I must go to town and buy dog food and spray cleaner, and have the sickle sharpened. I must answer emails, just a few -- my email box had 400 unread messages in it, but only about 20 were worth reading. Tomorrow I will strip out the dross, unsubscribe to all those "quotes of the day" and decorator porn and Holiday Bargain sites.

I will chop out the weeds, clear up the things neglected while was away, doing maintenance on my self.   
 

Hens in the mayhem of what was the garlic patch

A Cliff Full of Swallows

This week I walked a "throw some things into a bag and go" kind of walk. With a friend and a dog.

The friend is Malin, a Swedish woman of 36 who lives in a camper up in the mountains above Astorga. Her dog is Bjork, a splendid  Border Collie that is smarter than most people.

A week ago Malin and Bjork and their man David rolled up in Dusty, their big green VW van. We'd only expected David. He is our standby fix-it man, and he'd just finished up a gig setting up trapezes for a troupe of acrobats. (For real!) And so he was primed to do some maintenance on our house.

Malin had an idea for us. Malin wanted to walk home from The Peaceable, with Bjork the dog, along the Camino de Santiago. She asked me if I would walk with her, at least as far as Leon, maybe all the way to the little mountain village where she and David and Bjork live.

I thought hard about it. This would be a good exercise, I thought. A way to let go of my need to oversee the repair works. I put them into David's hands, seeing as he knows how to juggle. Michael the Italian, his volunteer helper, is also a capable worker. I had nothing to worry about, I told myself. And so on Monday we set out.

It was walking weather, bright and cool. Bjork wore a little red backpack with her dog chow inside, and behaved like a perfect lady. We had to adjust ourselves and our budget to find shelter where a dog could go, too, but Malin and Bjork spent only one night in the little tent we carried along. (They froze, but they slept anyway). We did two almost-30 km. days, and three shorter ones.

Me and Malin walk at about the same speed. We both know how to travel light, we both are fit. The only hitch happened when my new boots rubbed troublesome blisters onto two of my toes. Like pilgrims do, me and Malin talked about everything. We sang sad songs and drank rank wine, ate strange food. I had pig knuckles in Mansilla de las Mulas, gave the bones to Bjork, and hours later stepped on the masticated remains in the dark floor of the albergue in Puente Vilarente.

We saw a fox. We met two know-it-all Spanish men who, once they learned we are foreigners who live in villages in the region, set about to instruct us on everything we already know about where we live, from dog breeds to building materials. They were sweet and sincere, and convinced that we are utter morons.

A lumpen German told me Bjork is "subnormal" because each of her eyes is a different color. (Malin was inside the supermarket then, which is a lucky thing for the man). The same guy that night put on a stupendous snoring extravaganza, the most spectacular of all my years of albergue use. I took up my bed and repaired to the lounge, where I kinda slept on the sofa.

We met a pretty blonde Zimbabwean woman who writes travel stories for GQ magazine. (The know-alls told her she can't be from Zimbabwe, because she is not black!) We met a fastidious Canadian whose primary passion is folding paper into origami sculptures. We met many hippies of several varieties, an ageing Austrian surfer dude with a snowy pony-tail and perfect shiny teeth, and an American "Shamanic Crone" who had so much to say she could not stop. Not even when we pointed out a cliff face peppered and salted with swallow-nests, alive with tiny birds bee-bee-beeing to their babies, she had to talk, talk, talk.

We only walked five days, across the plains and into the foothills where the soil turns red and rocky. My heart wanted to keep going west into the mountains, but my toes said No.

Yesterday I scratched Bjork goodbye (and hugged Malin) and boarded the 2:20 train to Sahagun, and from there to home.

To the lumberyard in Cea, the paint store, hardware, feed store, fruiterer, the call to the plumber when the sewer line started bubbling smelly water out onto the driveway, to greet the young Buddhist who knelt in the living room for hours, sorting our CDs into topical and alphabetical order. He arrived here with Patrick the Czech, who stepped into the traces when Michael the Italian went back for the weekend to Valladolid. Patrick and David are mixing concrete by the ton, to fill in cracks in the walls, the holes dug by dogs in the barn, to re-render the bodega's rugged face.

The plumber left the gate open, and Lulu and Bella escaped into the afternoon. Paddy turned white and swore a blue streak. There is no word from the tax lawyer. The plumber pulled out a pneumatic hammer and smashed holes in the newly-tiled patio floor. The upstairs bathroom suddenly smells like a swamp.

Me and Kathy are due in Santiago de Compostela Monday evening, for the start of a tightly scheduled two-week holiday. She is supposed to fly tonight from San Francisco, but her plane is overbooked. She is on standby. Maybe Barcelona, she says.

Stress leans on the door, waiting for a crack big enough to slip through. I can't leave here. Not with a literal shit-storm piling up under the patio.

I know I will likely go. The trip will not go as planned, it rarely does. And awful things may well happen while I am gone, because that seems to be the nature of things. (Awful things happen when I am here, too.)

I am making this into a big drama. I gotta let this go.

I gotta think of that little slip of a grey fox way up the road. That cliff full of swallow-babies, the "bee bee bee" of their parents bringing them bugs to eat. It was only yesterday I heard that, and already I let the daily noise rob me of it.

This yappy American woman's just gotta shut up for a minute and hear the music.