Come Follow The Band
This story was based on an evening I had in Barcelona last summer. We did genuinely end up in the middle of a samba street party. Read and enjoy!
It’s the last day of our trip together. Tomorrow, we get on the return flight that will carry us back to our separate jobs, our separate houses, our separate day-to-day responsibilities. But before then we have one last day to enjoy ourselves.
We spent the afternoon on the beach, keen to sunbathe before the drizzly English summer takes hold. We sipped ice cold mojitos under the clear blue sky, bought from the vendors that wander up and down the beach shouting ‘Mojito, Mojito’. We swam in the warm Mediterranean sea, going out as far as we could before the Lifeguard’s warned us to head back to shore. We napped together on the sand, recovering from the festival all-nighters.
But now the temperature has dropped, and the evening is well underway. We pull dresses over our sun dried swimwear, slide our feet into flip flops, and head inland in search of one last tapas bar.
We head up a narrow side street. That’s when we hear it. A faint fast-tempoed drum beat, from somewhere in the near distance. A nearby live music bar perhaps? Multiple additional drums join the first, building a samba rhythm. A blast of trumpets quickly joins the drums, building layers and layers of noise. All the while, the beats and the brass gets louder and louder, as if it’s moving towards us.
It is moving towards us. We stand transfixed as we finally glimpse the source of the hubbub. There’s drums, ten or so of them each strapped to a man who enthusiastically whacks the instrument with the mallets he holds in each hand. There’s brass, two trumpets, a trombone and even a french horn, which are being played with equal vigour to the drums, creating a cacophony of noise. Their enthusiasm is infectious; we can’t help but move our bodies to the sound, right here in the street. And we’re not the only ones. Surrounding the musicians are a sea of people, men and women, children and parents, teenagers and retirees all dancing along with the band, following the band through the streets, like the Pied Piper. We join them, as they lead us like the Pied Piper to a nearby square.
There, in the square, as the band takes advantage of their static position. The tempo quickens, the sound of the drums and brass verges on deafening. No-one around us seems to care, becoming more animated with each beat. We are moving with increasing vigour, in our salty swimwear and flimsy footwear with the locals, not caring what the diners at the nearby seafood restaurant think of us.
We can’t believe how lucky we are. We hopped on the cheap flight that carried us halfway across Europe in just over two hours and spent a long weekend together in our favourite city where we partied in the streets.
Sometimes, we forget just how fucking lucky we really are.
