The pipes, the pipes are calling…
I wake up from my dream, the soft, soothing melody of the music delighting me. Everything else is quiet; it is 3am and Lyon is asleep. The traffic noise outside my window has died down, there are no conversations to be overheard from the restaurant downstairs, and the only sound is the tune from the lone panpiper wandering through the streets. The tune cuts through the still night air and drifts in through my window.
That doesn’t seem quite right. Sleepy and disoriented, I get out of bed and stumble over to the window. Hanging out to peer at the street below, I see a solitary figure walking along the pavement. He could just be a normal punter on his way home from a night in the town; the difference, however, is that he is playing a tune on some sort of flute as he walks. There he is, just walking down the street, in the dark, on his own, all serious and thoughtful… playing a flute.
I watch him until he disappears from view, and the sound of the music gradually fades away.
It is not for me to question the strange sights I see on my travels. I tried that: there are too many, and I’ve begun to realise that maybe the only strange thing is that I see them as strange. So now I just record them without questions.