D... It was mid morning and the streets were cleared from the rush of early traffic. The beeping horns, the moaning break squeaks, the pouted lips, and furrowed brows often observed through rear view windows were vanished at about 10:00 a.m. and were exchanged for the occasional hum of a car or two through an intersection of a napping stoplight. It is errie in a way, this sudden change from fast to slow, from busy to calm, and it hints to the subtle feeling of being left behind from something or having woken only to have found yourself in some sort of small town which has all the conveniences of the big city, drug stores, bus stops, delis and shoe stores, but a small population with friendly carefree people. It is at this strange hour, mid morning, where I find I like to run most of my errands. So it was during such an hour that I decided to take my classical guitar, the one with the popped string that has sat in its case long enough so dust could collect around the clamps, to the music shop. So I drove through my quiet street and my quiet town to the music shop. The music shop, or music room it could be called was very small with an assortment of mismatched instruments adorning the walls, the shelves, and the floor. Their origins were just as well variegated as their type. Some were from Hawaii, others African percussive with animal skin linings and colorful beads, some were from Asia, with bells and brass, others were unknown to me, but interesting to say the least. However all of them reminded me of my guitar case, and were eloquently embraced with a thin layer of dust. And there the owner of the shop sat down at his desk and proceeded to replace my string. And then it caught my eye up there behind the counter. “It” was an instrument looking like a guitar but consisting of a carved gourd like base and a very long thin neck. A bouzouki from Turkey, varients played in that region since biblical times. The shop owner took it down from the wall and played it for me, its twining, thin, melancholy sound seemed to fill the room with pictures of a Middle Eastern bazaar. It was quite a lovely instrument, but considering my pocket book, was not one I could afford. Instead I placed the three dollars I owed on the counter, took my guitar, and gathered up with me the free twangs in the air, unwanted and left-over by the bouzouki, and headed back on the mid morning streets home.