Lake Zurich / Zurich / Switzerland
To the south the crags of the Swiss Alps rise up to dominate the horizon - and everything else.
They dominate everything: The spirit of Zurich, the ethos of Switzerland, all other mountain ranges, the very idea of mountains themselves. They house blonde girls named Heidi, and very likely wizards and orcs.
From those heights water flows downward, northward and westward. It fills Lake Zurich, with its sunning bathers and boaters. It spills at the Northwest end to create the Limmat river, which runs through the city, past pointy and precise clock towers, past my hotel, and into the mighty Rhine to carve out nation’s borders and mythical valleys, until it reaches the North Sea at the massive international shipping port of Rotterdam.
I spend the day by the lake, with the dogs and street musicians, all of us happily in agreement on the preponderance of beauty. In most cities natural beauty is sequestered in parks surrounded by city, here it envelops human efforts.
I walk past the street musicians and appreciate their efforts, if not their music. It is the curse of busking that puts the open instrument case front and center, and turns the musician into something of a coin-op marionette: I pay, they play. I stroll past them with a soft spot in my heart, but no stirring in it. Is it art, or pandering? I want to feel it, but am instead, caught up in thinking about it. Is art for money merely empty, or impossible?
I have dinner on the grass lakeside, considering that question. The sun sets at the west end of the lake enlightening everything in its past as its final gift of the day. Then the full yellow moon rises from the water at the east end, and takes over the sun’s duty. This is art which its maker loves. There is nothing left for me to do but to absorb it.
I follow the water back west toward the Rhine, toward my bed and the setting sun. But as if there is an answer trying to track me down, there is one more offering awaiting me, attempting to drive the point home. There, under a hanging willow canopy, in the dark of dusk, lit only by second-hand light reflecting off the lake, are four reckless singers, their arms raised and clapping. A guitar, a middle eastern instrument I don’t recognize, and words I don’t recognize, but a spirit that I do: People singing what they like only because they like it. Playing together only to play. And I am drawn into it, only by its authenticity.
There is no open case, just friends together for a tune at the lake, hidden under a tree. There is no open case, but even still money would not be the right measure to express my gratitude. Instead, I absorb their offering, which was not even for me. I wish I could bottle it. But in the end I can only count it a privilege to share in their spirit for those few moments by the lake, at sunset, in Zurich. I return to my stroll down the Limmat with a satisfied smile, and a new middle eastern tune in my head, past the pointy towers and to my bed.
*Also, no part of this implies that artists should not be paid or pursue being paid. The opposite is true. Only that the most infectious art is art which the artist loves first.
A magical music moment…the best of surprises.