Ramallah for Real: Rumplestitchkin in Ramallah, Day II

Murphy is wide awake. As am I. Although perhaps not as wide as the proverbial fat lady, given that she didn't sing until about six this morning when I conveyed the Rumplestitchkins to their respective abodes. Rock n Roll, you know how it is.

It's seven o'clock now. Day two of a long week. After an hour's catnap I chase away the night, reluctantly, with fried eggs and a cold shower, concentrating hard to make sure one is ingested, the other applied externally and not the other way around.

"That the best you can do?" mocks the Muse of Darkness, and I go "Yes," shooting an unblinking glare that could strip the paint off old furniture. Or so I imagine. Don't try this at home.

"Who are you to mock the cousin of death?" I hear.

I think about that for a second, scrambling for Nescafe. I need to buy me some time. Sleep makes a formidable opponent and Murphy goads him on like the eight year-old scalawag that he is.

"Cousin of death?" I yawn, "you been listening to Nas Escobar lately? By the way, call me Clint Eastwood. Faster than my own shadow and such."

The sigh of a raised eyebrow chills the hair on my neck. "What kind of stupid name is that?"

I'm fed up at this point. "Look, Mr. Sand-Method Man, Papa Diddy Nap, Fifty Winks, Jay-Zzzz, Mc Snooze, I don't know what you call yourself these days, I got a lot on my plate right now, like literally, and I've no time to indulge your plagiarizing of rappers, or movies, even if it's classic stuff like Back to the Future. Are we cool? By the way, did Murphy put you up to this? Yeah, I'm sure of it. Go on, shoo! The both of you."

I win. I'm outside, and key-stab the GMC, almost before it has a chance to say "What? We - like - just parked an hour ago, could you please make up your mind. Cars have feelings too, and I was just dreaming of this sweet '69 Stingray..."

"I have to get to the office," I explain, "no time to anthropomorphize fifteen year-old gas-guzzling chunks of metal."

"Fair enough."

"What's that?"

"Nothing," the van whimpers.

"Didn't think so," I conclude peremptorily. They do have character these old V8's...

At the office I get down to work. Armies of people need mobilizing, last-minute tweaks and checks. I hit the phones. The logistics of borrowing instruments from friends and acquaintances requires extensive use of fast re-dial. If you’re not awake now, you sure will be.     

Rumplestichkin is due at Al-Kamandjati music center noonish to introduce about forty young violinists, lutists, flutists, and guitarists to the magical world of Belgian alternative rock. At 11.30 we're a drummer and one guitarist short, and I'm ringing that doorbell like crazy. Murphy's high-pitched cackle adds to the din. And to my distress. 

Nothing. Inside I can hear the telephone clamor for attention. That's me. Can anybody please pick up? I'm a bit of a paranoid android so I start thinking the worst. Ever since Guns n Roses I've associated rock music with trashed hotel rooms, binge drinking and highly debatable fashion statements. I'm not so much afraid of not finding Koen and Olivier as I am of finding them clad in spandex and bandanas.

Turns out they were up early, and decided to go for a wee stroll. And falafel. Wearing acceptable attire.

"We got hungry," they say matter-of-factly when I run into them at Al-Kamandjati.

My stress levels drop. The kids arrive and everything sort of works out. It's a fun day, filled with music, a profusion of laughs, and the rain is kept at bay, temporarily stored in the bags under my eyes.