Thirteenth Day in America....

And that night, a Fiddler played tunes his great grandfather had brought from Aberdeen but evolved into that flat mountain style that can make you simultaneously dance and weep. And after also playing magnificently Andy celebrated, again magnificently, with the local musicians (I think probably everyone in Madrid is a musician) and about thirty students from the Native American Art School in Santa Fe, who were not there to play music, just listen and drink, and some to just drink, and he had then (I think. I had also by then reached a very un-clear section of the evening) set out with them all, led by a girl who had won the shots and beer competition that she herself had initiated, for a party in the hills.

But Andy had lost them or had been mis-laid by them, and then somehow groped his way back to the car where I was freezing, not sleeping. He, being young and drunk, slept well and noisily for three hours then woke in the daylight with no memory of what had happened to the Dobro. I woke (if I had slept at all) in the morning as close to Death as I can remember.