Voyassitude

Some songs were accidental, some perhaps a bit forced; a few places seemed not to match the rhythm, much less the lyrics, and others felt like the antithesis of what a song conveyed. However, for one reason or another, some of the cities I’ve visited throughout the years have had a particular song attached to them in my memory, a melody immune to the passage of time, able to take me back to a ferry or the top of a mountain far, far away from where I am, all thanks to the magic of voices, instruments, and that indescribable power of the music I love.

It started with my first solo trip back in 2016, two (initially) terrifying days in New York in which inexperience and paranoia made me believe I’d be kidnapped, robbed or thrown to the Hudson River. But on the contrary, things went well, so much better than expected that on a Thursday morning when I boarded the Staten Island ferry I had the biggest smile on my face despite being at the mercy of a freezing weather. I took my white-wired headphones out and by plugging them in turned off the noise of the ferry motor and the world to hear the voice of Robbie Williams in The Heavy Entertainment Show. It wasn’t about the lyrics, it almost never is about that for me. It had to do with the cadence, the enthusiasm, a song as a mirror of my excitement at exploring a colossal, historic city on my own, each second of the almost three-and-a-half minute tune aggrandizing my ferry trip as I contemplated the Statue of Liberty from afar with pure bliss.

Fast-forward to today, it’s been more than a month since I came back from Sydney and I still cannot listen to Wolves by The Cat Empire without getting nostalgic.  This song does carry a special meaning in regard to its lyrics. It was Monday afternoon, and a few hours before I had done a walking tour of the city with a great guide that, among many other places, recommended the rooftop bar of the Shangri-La Hotel for a not-so-expensive cocktail to accompany the unbeatable view of the Harbour. So I went up there as sunset came upon the city and by the time I got a drink at the bar, the view of the sun hiding on the horizon felt like an explosion of color and emotions. “Maybe one day we’ll all stand still, and watch the sun fall down over that hill,” sings Felix Riebl in Wolves, and no, there wasn’t a hill in sight but the sun did fall down in the distance, dancing away to the rhythm of the trumpets, pianos and drums of a song that will forever sound and feel like Sydney to me.

I do take time to absorb the sounds of the places I visit, to feed my ears with rain, honks, foreign words I can’t comprehend in noisy streets somewhere on this planet. But there are moments in which I need to isolate myself in order to reflect on where I am, to let the sublimity of what I have before me sink in as I drown in my favorite artists and songs. That’s when some sort of spell occurs inside me and a song ends up forever linked to a city, its midnight streets or quiet cathedrals attached to  guitar riffs or  heartbroken choruses I repeat in my head as a charm to conjure up the view of the places I have fallen in love with.

A Parisian stroll by the Seine would not be complete for me without the beats of The Pigeon Detectives playing Wolves (yes, same name as the Cat Empire’s song). I remember playing it over and over again one time as I sat in front of Notre-Dame at 3 a.m. just hours before leaving the French capital. Open Window by Warhaus transports me to a bus full of Chinese gamblers leaving behind a casino parking lot after a precious, placid afternoon in Niagara Falls. I had saved the song a few days before on my phone but hadn’t listened to it that much. However, that day it was played randomly on my playlist and it fit so well with the falls, the autumn leaves crunching below my feet, the utter tranquility of the landscape. It was a perfect match as I listened to it on repeat during a two-hour ride back to Toronto. Wrecked by Imagine Dragons also sends me back in time to a bus, this one en route to London from Cardiff on a night that was nothing but amazing despite the emotional wreck of the song itself, which hit even harder once I found an acoustic version of it on Youtube.

But one song that goes a level above in terms of uniqueness and specialty to me is Calma, the remix with Pedro Capó, Alicia Keys and Farruko. I had just landed in Cartagena, Colombia at 9 a.m., and five hours separated me from the check-in time at my hotel. I began wandering around downtown streets for a while, trying to ignore the increasing heat, fighting it with an iced coffee that never stood a chance against the merciless temperature. So I checked on Google Maps for rooftops options because I needed yet another drink. Not far from where I was there was a hotel with an open bar on its fifth floor, so I ended up there at 12 o’clock with a soaking wet t-shirt and a dry mouth longing for a strong, refreshing beverage.

She was the first person I noticed, sitting in a corner with her back facing me, a splendorous view of the city all to herself. I sat close to her, able to get a decent view of Cartagena, though she had the best spot in the house. I ordered a mojito or a margarita, but the drink was no longer important; all that mattered in that instant was the city but, most of all, her. Her. She wore black, flat shoes, a red dress that left her shoulders uncovered, her short, blonde hair oscillating with the breeze. She was alone at first but soon a guy sat by her side. They didn’t talk much, and she never gave me the chance to notice her face. Then it happened. Calma. The speakers came to life with that song inundating the whole rooftop. Just like the drink, it got into my system and reached deep inside, its Caribbean cadence shaking my body, awakening my senses to the grandeur of Cartagena standing right before my eyes. I did notice the city, but I also wanted so desperately to look at her eyes, her mouth, observe if she was enjoying herself. “Vamo’ pa’ la playa, pa’ curarte el alma,” offered the song, its contagious beat reaching her because I noticed one of her legs swaying in sync with the rhythm. The end of her hair barely managed to caress her shoulders, undulating leisurely at the will of the wind and her soft, coordinated movements accompanying the song. It was perfection. Scoring surreptitious glances at her, she seemed to me ever so untouchable, elegant, invincible, a goddess dominating the sight of ‘La Heroica’ from above.

The song and the moment stuck with me. I eventually managed to disassociate Calma from that unique episode to turn it into my beach and sea and pool melody, the one I play multiple times whenever I’m walking on sand or enjoying some sun by the water. But it’s a matter of focusing for a few seconds, closing my eyes and voilà, the rooftop reappears with the faceless girl calmly swinging to the voice of Capó, Keys, and Farruko.

I don’t know if this would work for others, but if possible I highly recommend trying to link a song to a special place. The euphoria, the vividness of the moment will dissipate with time, but all it takes is that one melody to take you back to the sights and emotions you experienced during a trip, one lovely way of keeping it alive, making it last an eternity in your memory.