Far from Over

A hotshot in an Armani suit yells into his cell phone, drops something paper in my guitar case, and keeps on walking. So far, it's been my worst day ever as a street musician, with only a handful of coins to show for the four and a half hours I've been playing. I'd just been starting to wonder if maybe I should pack up and call it a day, but now it seems my luck is picking up. I hurry through the rest of the song and take a peek into my case. Did Armani drop in a mere five-euro note or, by some miracle, a twenty?

The answer is neither. I fish out his offering—a napkin smeared with chocolate gelato—and that settles it. I'm going home.

I count up my earnings: a depressing two euros and fifty-nine cents. I can't help wondering: Have I been playing the wrong songs? I thought a handful of Italian pop songs might go over better than my usual American music, but they didn't seem to help. Even my lucky song—the Nico Rathburn cover I was playing the day Lucy turned up in my crowd of listeners—didn't attract a single soul.

Or maybe I just picked the wrong place to set up shop. With all the stores and restaurants in this part of town, you'd think Piazza Carita would be the best place to busk in all of Naples. Today the street is crowded with shoppers and the occasional tourist, but nobody has slowed down to listen for more than five seconds. They just keep averting their eyes like I'm some kind of beggar, and that bothers me even more than the pittance I've taken in—not even enough to cover my share of gas for the ride into town.

I've just started packing up my gear when I see a familiar face coming my way. It's a girl I've seen somewhere before. I stop what I'm doing and think hard, trying to remember where I know her from. Something about the way she walks—stopping to glance in a store window, smiling to herself about something she's noticed there—reminds me just a little bit of Lucy, the girl I met in Florence and spent a few pretty intense days with. But then lately, everything reminds me of Lucy—even this girl who, apart from being pretty, looks nothing like her.

I can tell at a glance the girl's not Italian, and not just because she's very blond. Her clothes—shorts and a lacy white camisole—make her stand out from the Neapolitan girls, who tend to wear darker colors and show a lot less skin. When she's a few storefronts away, she catches me watching her. Instead of averting her gaze, as most people would, she smiles as though I'm an old friend she's happy to see. Then she heads straight for me. She's slender, with long legs and hair that glistens in the sun. I let go of my guitar case and it drops hard to the sidewalk.

"I know you," she says in English, surprising me again. From looking at me, most people guess I'm Italian, instead of Italian American from New Jersey, but she's guessed right. "But from where?" Her accent is German, maybe, or Scandinavian.

"I'm not sure," I answer.

We gape at each other for a minute, and then she snaps her fingers. "I know. I've seen you on the CV."

"Oh, yeah, right," I say. "That's it." CV is short for the Circumvesuviana, the train that runs between Naples and Torre Annunziata, the town where I've been staying with my friend Nello and his family.

"I've seen you carrying your guitar case, and figured you must be a musician." She sounds pleased with herself for being correct. "But you're done playing for the day?"

"No! Not if you want to hear a song or two. I even take requests." Feeling hopeful for the first time in hours, I start unlatching my guitar case.

But she glances at the delicate silver watch on her just-as-delicate wrist, then shakes her head. "I'm late for an appointment. Maybe another day?" She gives me an apologetic smile, and then she's gone as suddenly as she arrived.

"There might not be another day," I mutter as I watch her hurry down the street, ponytail swinging. For the first time, I wonder if maybe I should call it quits not just for the afternoon but for good. It's hard to believe that just weeks ago, when I was performing in the streets of Florence, crowds would gather almost as soon as I started to play. There would be actual applause and song requests. The crowds even seemed charmed by my feeble attempts at speaking Italian. When I counted up my change at the end of the day, there was enough to save up for wherever my future might take me, like quitting my part-time job at the Hostel Bertolini and coming here in the first place.

But Naples is way less touristy than Florence. For a few weeks now, I've been telling myself that's why my luck here hasn't been that great. Nobody wants to stop and listen to me play when they're late for work or headed to the grocery store. Now, as I shrug into my hoodie and pick up my guitar case again, I wonder if maybe it isn't time to move on.