Rocks in La Rioja and Hoya Moros

It turned out not to be just Pais Vasco where people were unfriendly. Just about everywhere we went in Spain, we felt very other. Very much like unwelcome aliens. People stared at us unabashedly. Challenged us with their eyes. While we did meet some lovely people, Spain felt very unsettling. We tried rather hard to enjoy ourselves despite this by employing capitalism. Spanish food doesn't come close to Italian food (with the happy exception of pintxos) in quality, so we tried throwing money at the problem, purchasing more expensive meals, to no avail. We found hosts for only about half our time in Spain, so we threw money at it and stayed in hostels. Spain underscored how much couchsurfing changed these past four years. It's now dominated by men looking for sex, so if you're not a single female you won't find a place to stay (as even well intentioned female hosts and couples feel safer hosting women, too). Very disappointing. Combining our failed attempt of capitalizing our problems away with the unfriendly nature of the locals (which prompted me to not busk), and we spent about 60% more per week in Spain than in Italy. Even the less efficient (frustrating) transit cost more.
Luckily there are rocks in Spain. Lots of rocks. Everywhere we went there was some local crag with enough rock for quite a long trip. We whizzed through Spain at a very unhealthy place, however, so we only had a single day in both locations we went to: La Rioja and Hoya Moros. We stayed with a former couchsurfer of mine in La Rioja. We didn't climb the stunning, main limestone crag there, putzing around the easier stuff nearby instead. Later on, Brent will write an addendum on a concert we went to (won't you?) which was phenomenally awful.


We took Bla Bla Car (ride share) to Béjar and Hoya Moros. We in fact had amazing luck with transit over the stretch of days around Béjar, with a ride all the way to the little town from Logroño, a ride from the climbing shop owner to the base of the trail, and a hitch back down into Béjar from Candelario acquired within 5 minutes of waiting. It took us about a five hour hike to find the rocks, and even then we were convinced it was the wrong place as we were the only people in the entire area. So we established some new lines :). We met the local climbing God, Cuco, who confirmed that our area was as yet unclimbed, and who showed us some gorgeous established lines. More importantly, he helped hike us out with a one hour and a half trail rather than our long bumbling journey in. Hoya Moros is paradise. I wasn't prepared for the sun, however, and got sunburned for the third time in my life.








Despite these lovely people we met, however, (our host, her friends, the climbing store owner, Cuco and his friends, our hitch back into town), Brent and I felt extraordinarily unwelcome in the town of Béjar. Unwelcome enough to dissuade even me from busking with our free time.

Earnings: 0,00€, 0 hours

Pais Pintxos (Vasco)

Hm. I am beginning to fall behind on my post frequency. So I'll very quickly sum up our overall experience of Spain. Barcelona was Disneyland. Awful, wonderful, functional. Pais Vasco felt like North Europe. Cold, drizzly weather, cold people with sophisticated tastes, high prices, clean, ordered streets, and regular work hours. The rest of Spain doesn't function at all.

I played my violin a total of 20 minutes in all of Pais Vasco, as the sudden change in climate made it sound awful - tinny, muffled, lifeless - and I couldn't bear to play it. Our host Félix took us to a square and asked me to play it there, but after playing just three or four songs out there I couldn't go on, and was subsequently overcome with worry about it's health. I like to liken it to a baby. Small, shrill, loud, expensive, squeaks if you touch it wrong, temperamental, delicate... basically the same thing.

We went to Pais Vasco for the Pintxos, not the people. Pintxos did not disappoint. Pintxos are what everyone thinks tapas are. Here are a bunch of them. As an apology for the brevity of this post, I will update old posts with photos. And there was much rejoicing.




















Earnings: 0,00€, 0.25 hours

Barcelona at Last by Pontus Gustafsson

If you have followed my blog since I began busking in May 2010, then you may remember Pontus. If you search his name you'll come up with many posts, as my meeting him reverberated through my entire journey. One of my main aims for this second foray into busking was to meet up with him again. That's why I was so intent on Barcelona, and why despite missing twice and getting distracted for a month, I did end up spending a full week there. He very kindly agreed to write me a guest post. I thought writing about something else might help him as he grieves for something unfathomably difficult.

In 2010 when people told me about Couchsurfing for the first time, I had no idea what it really was or why people used it. “Do you have to host someone if you’ve stayed at their house?” “Do you have to bring a gift?” “Do you have to make dinner for your guests everyday?” was a few of my questions. I decided not to think about too much and give it a try. So I started to host people. And the demand for a couch in Stockholm was big. I said yes to nearly everybody in the beginning with a good couch request. People came from all over the world. I had people from Argentina, Holland, USA, Norway, Austria and a lot of other countries.

That brings me to the summer 2010 when I got a request for a couch from an American guy who was “busking all over the world”. The request was very well written. Everything that I had written in my profile was commented. All the music I listened to and all my interests. I had been out busking myself in 2007 so I knew how it was so I decided to say yes direct. The couch surfers name was Terrence. We decided to meet at the train station right next to where I worked at the time. Terrance didn’t have a profile picture so I didn’t know what he looked like but we found each other at last. He spent a few days at my place in Stockholm and it was my, by far, best and most interesting couch surfing experience. During the days he spent in Stockholm I learned very much about important things in life. We cooked and played a lot of music and I introduced Terrence to my friends. Stockholm was one of the first stop on his trip so he had a long trip in front of him. After his depart I have been following him on Facebook around the world and since some time I understood that he was in Thailand being a music and art teacher and playing in a band. Then he wrote on Facebook something about maybe going to Europe. I told him that he should come visit me in Barcelona, which he did, together with his brother Brent. It was fantastic seeing ,the more hippie- Terrence, again and also to meet his brother Brent.

I have a few favourite places in Barcelona and I couldn’t wait to show Terrence and his brother my absolute favourite bar, l’Astrolabi. L’Astrolabi is a bar in Gracia. I lived in Gracia and the bar was about a ten minutes walk from my place. It’s my favourite bar but it’s not so easy to get all the people to like it. It’s not very fancy and they don’t have any special ways to serve the drinks or anything like that. It’s just a very nice bar filled with great people. On Tuesdays and Sundays when my friend is working there you always find people from different places in the world mixed with people from Barcelona. That’s why it’s such a great bar. And that’s also why I only go there on Tuesdays or Sundays. So we went there and Terrence brought his violin and people were impressed and told him to come to l’Astrolabi more often.

At l’Astrolabi you find people at different age and different background. You can find Ricky, a 66- year old retired professional guitarist that always plays everything that comes to his mind. You can find Nelson, a 46- year old singer from Chile. That’s just two example of very interesting persons you can find at l’Astrolabi.

I was really happy that I could show Terrence and his brother my favourite place in my favourite city in the world.

But why is that? Why is Barcelona my favourite city? I think it’s because there is something for everyone, rich or poor. I went there in the first place because I met the love of my life more than three years ago in Sweden. I decided later on to go to Barcelona to be with her. During these 10 months in Barcelona I have seen so many things in Barcelona. Some things I discovered with her. Some things I discovered thanks to my new friends for life.

Eugenia, the name of my girlfriend showed me around in Barcelona and showed me the real Spanish and catalan culture. It’s a very special culture. Eugenia sadly passed away the 21th of july but I will always love and remember Barcelona and will continue to go there thanks to her, the girl with the most beautiful smile ever.

Brent and I saw them together, happy and full of promise just days before. Pontus has been in our thoughts ever since.





Earnings: 0,00€, 1 hours

Brent's amazing tummy

Before we continue with the remaining month of busking and traveling in Spain et al., I must explain one of the great wonders of the universe. This object defies most natural laws. Never full and never empty. I am speaking, of course, of Brent's Amazing Tummy.

Terrence likes to eat. Brent likes to eat. Brent and Terrence like to eat together. In fact we have a rather unhealthy relationship as we make fun of each other for being fat every couple minutes, then pressure each other into eating larger and larger quantities of food. Such as my no leftovers policy in Chicago. In Arco we'd walk into a Pizza restaurant after a long day of climbing and Brent figured we'd order 4 margaritas and a pasta. I decided this was a bad idea and brokered him down to 3 pizzas (with toppings). I couldn't finish my portion and asked for help. "Aiuto!?" Brent complied.

Aiuto came in handy quite often. Can't finish my half of the paella? "Aiuto!?" Struggling with a hunk of meat? "Aiuto!?" With this wonderful garbage disposal at my.. disposal, we ended up spending rather a lot of money on food. If you ever get the chance to witness this wonder in action, I suggest you make the most of it.

Charles de Gaulle Wat?

One nice thing about writing a month afterwards is that I can compress down time. In this case, a week spent in the US moving bags around, complaining about my shoulder, and waiting for the airplane gods to send me to Spain. I missed and ended up in Paris, but felt so intent on making it to Barcelona that I bought a flight, in cash, at CDG.

I decided to spend my five hours at the airport wisely. I spent half an hour wandering around Terminal 1, half an hour eating, and with rather a lot more time to kill I decided to busk. I'd even found the perfect spot - a little tunnel in the walkway to Terminal 3. Great sound, a bit narrow, but just enough to play and have people pass with their bags and trolleys. Probably a silly idea. I didn't even write notes afterwards

Essentially it was practice time in public. Everyone - everyone - was very confused. Police passed and looked amused and confused. Pilots and stewards passed and couldn't decide whether to giggle, smile, frown disapprovingly or ignore me and ended up with the most split expressions on their faces. Passengers looked generally miffed, in a hurry, or surprised and happy. Everyone was in a rush. Quite a lot of Airport employees (security, food services, gate agents, etc.) passed more than once and offered charming words. No one said anything negative. A few people took photos. One group asked me to play Arabic music, but I sadly couldn't oblige. Families tried to whizz past. A lot of suspicion. I played Ysaye three or four times just to practice, which was great fun. I even felt able to relax enough to play it properly. (I realized the source of my shoulder troubles is bad violin technique caused by nervousness when busking.) In the end i just got one tiny tip, but I enjoyed and amused myself quite thoroughly.



Earnings: 0,30€, 1.5 hours

Happily Humbled in Lugano, Day 4

The airplane gods saw to it that I remained in Lugano an extra day. One more day of busking, then, so financially a net positive day. Can't complain overmuch.

Today, I finally debuted Ysaye on the streets. Over a year since I had it polished enough to play at Fatty's Bar in Bangkok, it had since deteriorated rather sharply in quality. I tried resurrecting it rather quickly, spurred especially on by the Romanians (who left). I played movement 1 twice to the tune of three tips. It's a 2 minute movement. As expected, people respond to flashiness. I played sloppily and with many mistakes. People can be so disappointing sometimes. Play a popular tune and they tip. Play something flashy and they tip. Play something "ethnic" and they tip. I must decide how much I want to make money and how much I want to make music. A balance of my own making. I won't play Ysaye. Nor will I play Wonderwall or the theme from the Godfather. I suppose those are my outer limits.

Back to the pitch. I enjoyed myself out there and was able to disregard the tip flow. I received hardly any for the first half hour. Then a lovely nine year old-ish boy in a Swiss flag shirt ran back, sent by his parents at the top of the stairs, to tip me, smiling, out of breath and shy, and the flow began. Today more women tipped, for the first time in Lugano. Girls in pairs. A few men with bravos. My vocal songs met with little success. My throat felt scratchy and raw, due to the unending chain smoking of the Swiss in all public areas. I had a funny thought that I need to wear my pollution mask here. About half of the time, an elderly man with a poster of some kind stood nearby. He left just before I finished playing and tipped me five francs.

I like how the Swiss aren't embarrased, afraid, or shy about tipping. They take their time to stop and count out precisely how much they want to give.

My second pitch, though it garnered the same earnings, more or less, felt entirely different. While the first went sedately, with a very light flow of passersby, and I played slow pieces to suit, the second had a lot more... motion to it. For instance, I began with Ashokan Farewell - a waltz. I played Horse Racing and Ysaye twice each. For this last pitch in Lugano, many of my tippers hung about surreptitiously at the edge of my vision to listen. The old man's relief, two middle aged women, packed up near the beginning of this second foray and passed me a Jehovah's Witness brochure (in Italian, because I stubbornly requested it) . They said some wonderful stuff about how I must have a beautiful soul and angels must be watching over me and speaking through me due to how I play. A very nice way to start to play.

I received one other absurdly flattering compliment about half an hour later, from a man who likened me to his friend Stephane Grappelli, possibly the most renowned jazz violinist ever. We shared a nice uplifiting conversation. A pair of darkly tanned absurdly pretty children ran back to me laughing with huge huge grins that implied to me that they'd just convinced their mother to allow them to tip. I noticed today in particular that passersby are very interested in my face, probably to check my gender. This amuses me. Here are the remaining tippers (I am too tired to write well today. Too much Airplane God muckery of late):

A gently smiling black lady
A man who tipped and stood by the stairs to listen
A girl peeking from the steps to the platform.
A girl lingering at the top of the stairs down towards town.

I can't concentrate. Too many Filipinas and Nigerians speaking unquietly in this internet cafe.



Earnings: 56,55 CHF + 0,46€, 2.3 hours

Happily Humbled in Lugano, Day 3.5

Didn't feel quite right to conflate (a word in vogue during Brent's time at Hah-vahd, apparently) an awful pitch with a wonderful one. So I won't. Even though this pitch had an awful example of humanity in it, too. Barbara summed up my attitude towards my fellow man best: aggressive hatred. But even this failure of a human being was drowned out by the overwhelming wave of positivity.

Tips right away. Many people double back and tip, as opposed to the previous outings' habbit of intentive tips. A clear audience preference for slower melodies. Huge smiles embolden me to sing better, louder, and calm me enough to breathe properly. These singing while playing songs garner wonderful success. Especially Excuses. A professionally attired woman with beautiful ebony skin accented well by her beige skirt slows as I sing. Stops when I smile before the breakdown section. Looks at me intently, thinking, considering, weighing, then opens a lovely cream purse with golden clasps, a black clutch, and a woven wallet to fetch a twenty pound note, nods, waits for me to finish the third verse, then motions me to pause so as to press it carefully into my hand. Wonderful.

Not long afterwards, a fat Latino man mearing a sombrero, a dull expression, and a fat girlfriend weighing down his left arm hacks up a large spitball from from his cavernous longs and spits directly in front of my case. Malice in his eyes and hatred on his unkempt, sagging face. He waits to make a point of meeting my eyes, then jabs his fingers in his ears, screws up his eyes and makes angry noises on the way down. There are many passersby around. He does not answer to "Per chè, signor?" and the other tunnel denizens offer their puzzled consolation. Some tip.

A young couple - slim Italian girl and fit African man with well managed dreadlocks pass and stop and return and tip with a smile that lifts from one face across to the other. A group of Chinese tourists are shocked that I happen to be playing the Butterfly Lover's Violin Concerto as they pass and one tips furtively. An old man approaches as I improvise in G minor, peering beneath my hair to take a good look at my face before tipping the coins he already has in his hands. A group of young men in suits pass and one encourages his mates to tip. Youth stop tooting their fog horns as they see me, and cheer when I join in their irrepressible "Vai Italia!"s. Italia plays soon. Switzerland will play later. Both will lose in spectacular fashion.

Later, down in the square, the crowd chain smokes, sips aperitivos gentilely, murmurs politely, and makes sure their heads are not obscuring the vision of the people behind them. France scores a third goal against Switzerland in the 40th minute and the Swiss fans sigh disappointedly, chat reasonably about tactics to each other, and occasionally blow their foghorns in as polite a manner as can be managed with foghorns. "Hop Suisse" chants punctuate the affair and no one leaves at half time. We do. It might rain.





Earnings: 51,30CHF, 1.25 hours

Happily Humbled in Lugano, Day 3

Sometimes a single kind word can uplift you despite a horrible pitch. Sometimes the reverse occurs. And sometimes it happens twice in one pitch. I wrote down many notes about my first foray on the 20th of June, but most of them read as distracted interjections against a tide of dejectedness. Unfocused and forced positivity, mostly. Only three distinct positive experiences left any sort of imprint in my mind, and the images are hazy and fading. A widely smiling couple. A dark, middle aged woman. A German family tipping and gifting sympathetic glances. Eyes can be so subtly communicative.

But really, this is the story of two men. The first said but one thing, in Italian, that I don't know if I heard correctly as it was relayed sharply over a departing shoulder as a retort. Something about experience. While the words were unfamiliar and unclear, the tone was very clear. Meant to wound. Incisive. Patronizing. I certainly need more experience, I know that. Despite the cowardly and embittered circumstance of the delivery, the words affected the rest of my playing for most of the day afterwards. I felt unsure of myself, and notes began to escape me, wandering a bit sharp or forgetting to exist at all in the midst of a run.

The other man's name was Łukasz. One may recall that my worst experience busking occurred in Poland, so I am inclined to disbelieve coincidence that this disruptor was Polish, as well. I have met lovely Polish people. But I also seem to run into a lot of awful ones. Gypsies, on the other hand, have been of only the latter sort in my experience, with no redeeming qualities observed so far. Łukasz didn't threaten me. He didn't want to bash my face into a brick wall. He didn't even want to watch and laugh while his friend did. All he wanted to do was listen to music he liked. Unfortunately this made him a complete dick.

Łukasz first approached going downwards into town. He passed very close to me, gave a wide, off kilter smile, and commented about Ravi Shankar and sitar. I was playing Horse Racing at the time. Neither Ravi Shankar nor a sitar.. I smiled back, nonetheless. It seemed a harmlessly ignorant, but appreciative comment. He came back moments later and sat on the bench across and a little ways up the tunnel from me. At first to listen, it seems. I was playing something classical at that moment, and I suppose he didn't approve. So he put on his headphones. I figured he was waiting for the train. I smiled at him, motioned to ask if it was ok to keep playing, and he smiled back to motion it was. Then began to drum loudly and badly on the bench. I waited for him to stop. He didn't stop. I kept playing. He kept drumming. He began to moan loudly to whatever he was listening to. Moaning loudly with a powerful voice without words or real notes to hit, and no real semblance of rhythm. Only afterwards did I realize he was tryign to sing along to his music.

I fought. I fought gamely on while we contributed this awful cacophonous soup, booming around the tunnel to greet anyone coming up or down. I sought solace in the faces of passersby, but most averted their eyes, faces screwed up in concentration to block out the awful wailing. Felt awful. Felt I had to keep going. I had to win. Had to outlast the asshole at this game of his. Surely he had somewhere to be.

I made to pack up and take a break. Łukasz took off his headphones and came up to me. He introduced himself. He told me the music I'd been playing before was great. Like Ravi Shankar. You know Ravi Shankar? Big Smile. So good. Broken English delivered confidently. But what I played when he came back? Awful. Boring. So he needed to drown it out with good music. Ravi Shankar. You know? Sitar. Like me. Where you from? I felt uncomfortable but didn't know how to shake him. I'd already forgiven him of his awfulness, realizing he was ignorant and uncouth, but ultimately appreciative and well meaning (if not monetarily, as he left no tip). He asked about my violin. Two hundred years old!? He touched it. I recoiled inwardly. Boasted of fluency in Italian, German, French, English, Polish. Asked how to say thank you in Chinese. Took a selfie with me. Finally, when I thought I could be disgusted no further, or be pulled further inward with a cuter more innocent exterior wall, he disengaged his grimy claws from my shoulder and bid me farewell.





Earnings: 18,30CHF + 2,00€, 1.25 hours

Happily Humbled in Lugano, Day 2

I met up with Romanians briefly in the park by the lake this day, but they weren't as happy to see me this time, and rather tight lipped. Probably something to do with smaller earnings. The previous day they'd made 600 CHF together over the course of the days from 11h to 18h, but this day they'd made significantly less. 150 CHF per person seems plenty to me, as I was happy to take home a tenth of that. But I suppose it does go less far as they eat in restaurants and stay in a hotel. Switzerland is not cheap. At all.

I set out a touch earlier and busked before descending into town. On the way down I passed by the scruffy dog man from the day before, shirtlessly washing his car with a huge contented smile. He conversed very patiently with me and bid me good luck. Tips flowed immediately with a smashing debut of Jillian's repertoire suggestion: Ashokan Farewell (well, I just play the first few measures and then make stuff up). Two women tipped with small change in succession, greatly increasing the visual impact of the seed change and my confidence. I noticed today that I become nervous when people approach and tend to muck up the more difficult passages. The pressure of interaction with passersby (by eye contact, smile, voice) takes me out of my focus zone. Thus I don't people watch as much with violin as I did with guitar - so less anthropological fun, and less notes to take. I feel more like I'm working with the violin and less like a tourist.

One man passed with profuse apologies for his lack of change and kept turning about to say bravissimo. The vibe felt distinctly different today. None of my Chinese songs garnered much attention, nor did Ue Wo Muite Arukou, even though I played both twice (I rarely repeat anything within a single pitch, but felt confused). As yesterday I had more male tippers than female, which I assume has to do with my long hair and the fact that it often hides my face as I play. But the reaction on seeing my face isn't confusion or shock, though. Hm. Another five euro note from one of these male tippers, and a five CHF coin (yes, coin, Switzerland, wat) from an elderly man who stopped me to talk about music in excellent German English. One man carrying a large heavy table down the tunnel set it down by the bench to find some change to tip me with.

The Swiss seem so polite and kind. A group of boys stopped playing with their football as soon as they saw me in the tunnel, and one held it in the crook of his elbow until they passed, hushing their conversation until they descended the stairs beyond me. One tipper who took a photo asked "Posso?" before taking it, something that really never happens anywhere else. Of course I responded with "Prego!" At the end of my pitch an older Swiss German man who'd settled in Ticino spoke with me at great length about the importance and beauty of travel while young. He told me how "my people" in Taiwan and Thailand are better than the Swiss and how the world is divided into people who understand music and those who don't.
Interlude: Lugano is incredible. Couples of all colors and genders holding hands and seeming so very comfortable in their own bodies. Everyone fit and attractive and enjoying life to the very utmost.
My second pitch, however, felt plagued by all the wrong mood. I've no idea why, but I felt nervous and out of sorts the entire time. Most importantly, I wasn't having any fun. Not enough people out there, but that can't explain my nerves. Perhaps I felt pressured to equal the success of the first foray. Perhaps it was meeting Damian in the tunnel but this also makes little sense as he was being friendly and helpful. Perhaps I felt nervous about messing up in front of him. This certainly happens with Brent. Perhaps I went out with the wrong mindset: I wanted to recoup the money I spent on my sandwich and thus felt too focused on the money. Only a few tips, and all from men.

Luckily, I'd scheduled to meet a Thai couchsurfer downtown afterwards to watch England lose to France, and the confirmation that I could still converse in Thai brightened my mood right back up.



Earnings: 34,90CHF + 5,90€, 2.2 hours

Happily Humbled in Lugano, Day 1.5

Seeing as my last post was so very long, I decided to split this day into two posts. After that inspiring experience, I couldn't very well not busk on my own afterwards. So after a short draw of the beautiful lake, I walked up the hill to a lovely newspaper and street art covered tunnel to play for an hour.

I didn't feel nervous, really, and already felt so happy and fulfilled by my last busk that I really didn't care what reception I received, monetary or otherwise. My slow start didn't bother me, therefore, a I played about fifteen minutes or so (Wu Xia music to start) without a tip. As seems typical for my pitches, however, the arrival of one tip changed the vibe entirely - very curious how the starting seed change can drastically affect the likelihood of tipping. As mentioned earlier, this trip I have started almost every time with just one or two euros, rather than the smarter 5-10 that I did years before. I'm not really sure why, either.

At any rate, a man dressed in cream clothing with sunglasses, a dog, and a cellphone approached and stopped by the bench to my left. I stopped a he neared to allow him to speak, but when he sat down, I asked him "Posso?" and he responded "Vai, vai, prego" rather enthusiastically, implying he stopped so as to listen to me. I played the piece I had just practiced so such great acclaim earlier in the day: Horse Racing. Instantly, a tip from a man in a suit. When I finished, the dog owner, scruffy and friendly both, come to tip and compliment me. Obviously Chinese music is the way here. I continue with more erhu tunes and the tips flow. Another young man in a suit. A middle aged woman doubling back from platform stairs (my tunnel passes below the train station). A young woman. Anoher woman with a friend. An unfriendly stare from a crotchety old spinster.

People ready their tips on the approaching stairs from either side, with less afterthought tips than in Italy and more intentional, planned ones. Perhaps I'm reading into it, but it does seem to reflect the underlying cultures. The acoustics sound gorgeous and unforgiving, amplifying my mistakes so I can hear them lingering for some time after I err. When I depart from my Chinese repertoire the tips dry up, and the flow of passersby slows as well until I very generous and brightly smiling North African man hands me a five euro note on his way to the platform stairs. He dallied in the stairwell within sight to express his appreciation in signs miming violin playing alternating with his hand on his heart.

A thought to conclude. This busking trip feels very different. More of a honing, training process. Experimental and curious, rather than a means to an end. Last time I selected from a vast repertoire of 130 songs, constantly expanding it. This foray I've taken a small repertoire to refine.





Earnings: 9,20CHF + 6,00€, 1 hours