About three or four years ago, I met my friend Nigel, who’s a busker in Andalusia, Spain and we started counting, which of our friends and acquaintances had fallen by the wayside in just one year’s time. We stopped counting when we came to thirty. The street is a very hard place to live and an even harder place to die: alone, despised and forgotten by most. I don’t know if it has made me stronger, these years of being down and out, but I’m still standing and, I’m happy to say, so is my friend Nigel. I hope our friends have gone on to a better place. Amen!
P.S.: If anybody knows of a place to house-sit or pet-sit, when I get back in March, please let me know… anywhere in Spain or even outside of it will do.