Flying bums and the little red riding hood in the fairy land of Antwerp

Bursts of laughter. "Dupka lata", meaning restless -literally "having a flying bum". It was the witches night after all.
Coincidence made we met on a Tuesday again. Me, the pianist and the composer, tacking between four languages. Them two laughing every time I answer their Polish in Czech, me, although a bit under siege, repaying their laughter with mine. Our mutual  mother tongues understanding was getting better as the bottle of Zubrowka gradually emptied, even if English and Spanish still dominated the conversation.

I had met her - ethereal creature with intense sparkling eyes-, in the South, late at night, and our first Czech-Polish (almost) fluent conversation about Albrecht Dürer and Günter Grass had sealed our friendship.We did consequently share several breakfasts by the river, many beers, a few friends, a couple of all night long walks in Seville, a mattress, and even found out we shared ...but that would be too much information.

I had met him - thanks to her but in her absence -, two years ago in Prague after a beautiful show featuring his not less beautiful music, and after a long day walking around the town on a beautiful summer day, we ended up in a curious bar, ordering a beer and being asked if we were already eighteen. We had to celebrate that!

Now we three were here, sharing our split or bilateral memories and building new common stories out of our shared nomadic fate. We' re especially good at bitching about people who are too "full of themshit", at cooking and comparing similar Czech and Polish specialties, baking weird sweets that end up tasting like matza bread, inviting our childhood friends Czarna Reka (Black hand) and Krvave Koleno (Bloody Knee) to our table, arguing about the name of Jesus, and foremost we're good at laughing, laughing to tears.

And as we ran out of drinks and decided to go out, the pianist put on her red fur jacket with a cap and off we were into the night. As I was looking at her from behind as we crossed the center on bikes I suddenly understood why the fairy tale was called The Little Red RIDING Hood. Charles Perrault or the Brother Grimms would have been surprised, but in Antwerp, everyone, even fairy tale creatures seem to ride a bycicle.