Travel: the other way round

‘What shall I play?’

There is a distinct unsteadiness in his movements as he approaches us and takes Florian’s recently vacated seat at the piano; no doubt he’s come directly from Hild Bede’s college bar next door. I exchange a nervous glance with Sonja and Sören, concerned for the welfare of the musical instrument in front of us.

‘Tell me what to play. Anything, I’ll play anything. Tell me what to play.’

In spite of his tartan trousers, I cannot detect a Scottish accent: merely a drunken slur that nonetheless conveys his determination to play for us. Impatience, I should say. Without waiting for an answer to his request, he sways, positions his fingers somewhat erratically over the keys, and we resign ourselves to listen to an alcohol-infused cacophony of sounds.

And we, the accidental audience, exchange glances in amazement. There is nothing even remotely erratic or cacophonous about this recital. Quite the opposite.

‘I’m so drunk,’ he says, as if he can’t quite believe that he is able to make music in this state – and quite frankly, nor can we. He continues to sway, and it is now impossible to tell whether he’s moving with Beethoven or with beer.

All of us, pianist and audience alike, are absorbed in the music when the door behind us is suddenly flung open. I just have time to catch sight of a red velvet jacket threatening to burst at the seams before I am overwhelmed by the voice. It is a powerful voice – a mighty voice. ‘Alright then,’ says the voice, that comes from somewhere within the mighty paunch. ‘Come on then, let’s go.’

He has presence, this well-rounded newcomer; the pianist knows it, too, and without skipping a beat Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata is transformed into a jazz duet – piano accompanied by a red-velvet voice.

We listen, astonished. I was not expecting this when Iona, Arthur and I were deciding where to take our Austrian and German visitors. We went to the castle and cathedral, of course, which are Durham’s top tourist attractions; and we ventured to the beach, forty-five minutes’ bus ride away. Now we just wanted to show our guests a typical college bar. Sonja leans across towards me. ‘Is it always like this in Durham?’ she whispers. I laugh and shake my head, before asking myself the same question. Have I been away so long that I’ve forgotten what Durham is like? Or did I take it for granted – the eccentricity, the remarkable talented quirkiness – before my year abroad?

The feeling of surprise at the extraordinary performance still taking place in front of us is akin to what I felt on multiple occasions when in Russia, a country that never failed to amaze me. This time, however, I have travelled nowhere. Instead of being welcomed as a guest, I am trying my best to return the favour to my visitors in my home university town. I certainly wasn’t anticipating this; I thought ‘home’ meant ‘normal’. But whatever ‘normal’ may be, it certainly isn’t ‘boring’: you don’t always need to travel halfway across the world to be amazed.