Last Week

Monday
On my first day in Belgium, Wies asks a guy playing an oboe on his street corner for busking advice. Oboe Guy has no teeth and doesn't speak any Flemish, French, or English but somehow manages to tell us how I can get a permit, where the best places to play are, and that he wishes me the very best of luck. Yes, I have found a friend in Crazy Oboe Guy.

Tuesday
On my second day in Belgium I go to the festivities office for a permit. 'What kind of music do you play?' asks the nice man filling out the forms. 'Er, I just play one REM song over and over again on the guitar,' I explain. 'Well, I'll put down folk music for now,' he says, kindly, and then wishes me the very best of luck. Yes, I have found a friend in the Festivities Office Guy.

Wednesday
On my third day in Belgium I decide I don't want to be a busker after all. I'll spend my month in Ghent annoying Wies in his lovely office instead. He prods me out of the door with a stick. 'Go!' he says. I stand in a small market square and start nervously playing the same REM song over and over again. After five minutes a woman drops a euro in my guitar case and I nearly swallow my tongue in shock. I stop playing immediately so I can text Wies the good news: Oh my god I am going to be rich! I make €7 before having to stop because my hand is cramping up. Turns out it is not possible to play one REM song over and over again for more than one hour. Come on — it's not possible to listen to one REM song over and over for more than an hour, is it.

Thursday
On my fourth day in Belgium I get busted by the cops. 'Do you have a license?' they ask. 'Yes,' I say, smugly producing my permit. 'This is from last year,' says the cop. I look at the date. He is right: the Festivities Office Guy has put down 2008 by mistake. Hmmph. I pack up my guitar and go off my friend the Festivities Office Guy a bit.

Friday
On my fifth day in Belgium I go back to the square only to find that Crazy Oboe Guy is in my spot. Hmmph. I play on a picturesque cobbled street all afternoon, make 70 sodding cent, and go off my friend the Crazy Oboe Guy a bit.

Saturday
On my sixth day in Belgium, Wies tells me what I need is a gimmick – like a parrot or a dog or some shit like that. Or couldn't I at least do a little dance or something? I shake my head sadly as tears drop into my small, frothy Belgian beer. 'Come on Annie,' he says, giving me an affectionate arm-touch. 'At least strap some kind of plastic lion to your shoulder.' 'Okay then,' I sniff. Wies attaches a plastic lion to my shoulder with sticky-tape and I make about 14 euro almost as soon as I've stepped out of the door.