Rainy morning Titicaca; bleary lake Peru. Breakfast guests from around the world (Japan, Canada, Germany, Argentina) absent mindedly push quinoa cereal around their bowls while looking out on incessant drizzle... the little stereo came alive and music filled the morning chill. "Oh, isn't that the Paul Simon song?" Just because we´d already been chatting a little, I felt I could mention that the title is "El Condor Pasa" (The Condor Passes), an old Andean folk instrumental. "By the way, it never had lyrics." "Really?" "Really." The petite japanese lady said, "Guess, that´s how he got a hit. He gave it words." "Where can I hear the Andean one?" asked the impossibly blonde woman from Dusseldorf. "Youtube," I reply softly. We went back to the condor passing, black coffee and our dreams of floating islands built by the Urus just outside muzzy fogged windows... as the summer rain continued to fall.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
"El Condor Pasa (If I Could)" - "I'd rather be a hammer than a nail"
Rainy morning Titicaca; bleary lake Peru. Breakfast guests from around the world (Japan, Canada, Germany, Argentina) absent mindedly push quinoa cereal around their bowls while looking out on incessant drizzle... the little stereo came alive and music filled the morning chill. "Oh, isn't that the Paul Simon song?" Just because we´d already been chatting a little, I felt I could mention that the title is "El Condor Pasa" (The Condor Passes), an old Andean folk instrumental. "By the way, it never had lyrics." "Really?" "Really." The petite japanese lady said, "Guess, that´s how he got a hit. He gave it words." "Where can I hear the Andean one?" asked the impossibly blonde woman from Dusseldorf. "Youtube," I reply softly. We went back to the condor passing, black coffee and our dreams of floating islands built by the Urus just outside muzzy fogged windows... as the summer rain continued to fall.
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