On my way into the office this morning, I passed a group of American tourists, gathered hopefully around a somewhat decrepit busker, who must have offered to take requests.
“California Dreaming?” one suggested.
The busker looked confused and, in a suspiciously slurred voice, asked, “Izzzat… whazzit… Hotel California, you say?”
“No,” the tourist, persistent, pressed on, “You know – California Dreaming!” Blank look. “You know! ‘All the leaves are brown… And the sky is grey…’? You know!”
The busker, wrinkled brow and pursed lips, visibly strained to recapture a memory of the tune, and finally achieved a breaktrough: “Oh! That one! Yeah! Yeah! I know that one!”
As I continued down the street, I could hear him begin a rousing, if unique, interpretation:
“Oh there’s a yellow rose in Texas, that I’m a going to see!
Nobody else could miss her, not half as much as me!”