Rediscovery

Waves lurched from a green waterfall overlooking Old Nice, and suspended in the current beneath its showering gaze, swam a coin. One euro, tossed into the overgrown pool in exchange for a wish by someone’s someone. That wish now granted or ignored, but more importantly forgotten.

The euro lied mostly dormant. Heavy rain shuffled it an inch to the left. Maintenance workers shifted it back. The fingerprints and cigarette smoke that caked the euro’s edges have been washed away by the tumbling current. Algae and dirt replaced the former cast; extracted metal returned to the earth.

One side of the euro – tails – gazed up to heaven, burned and faded by the sun. A chiseled crest of a kingdom retreating. Its other half – heads – turned down against the pool’s bottom, nested amongst gravel and grime. An engraved bust of a ghost, living through enamel.

Beady-eyed pigeons idled on the surface of the shallow pool, rocked slightly from the waterfall’s turbulence. A young bird paddled through the ripples towards the euro and disturbed the current. The undertow lifted the edge of the euro and teased the captive face trapped against the ground. The bird mistook the coin’s movement for some deformed fish, and dove to catch the false prey. Its beak caught the lip of the euro and lifted the prisoner up to face the light – the coin now balanced on its edge, suspended between the push of the fledgling and the pull of the current. The freed heads made its own wish, to land facing up, to curse tails to the dark amidst this ancient water. The coin leaned, respite within grasp –

A cannon sounded over the bay. The flock erupted, leaving behind turbulence that pushed the euro’s head down to the pool’s floor, sealed away. I looked up from my espresso, peering above my sunglasses up towards the hilltop that emanated the boom, and muttered to the table, “it’s already noon.”

I scanned the town square. This bright avenue, now filled with market stalls and families on holiday, defined the setting of our first night on the French Riviera. Elderly locals stirred and sipped morning coffees and smoked breakfast cigarettes in place of the young flames that rummaged for cover charges the night prior, illuminated by the street lamps that paved the cobblestone paths.

Our past selves stumbled around winding turns, enclosed by towering church spires and Parisian windows, and finally arrived at the hottest locality of the historical French town – an Irish pub, Wayne’s Bar. Its dark green facade was dropped into the surrounding Mediterranean blur, shipped off from some Dublin avenue or an average American college town. Inside, tourists mingled under aging cedar beams and flying Guinness propaganda. Forged celebrity signatures adorned posters across the walls, thanking the owner for their imaginary visit. We snaked towards the back of the bar and climbed stacked benches to reserve our home for the night, on the dance floor.

A nondescript cover band took to the makeshift stage soon after our arrival. The three-piece outfit shuffled through all the standards. Radiohead, Nirvana, blur – every hit from the 90s white people music canon, unremarkable for an Irish pub, especially one tucked away in this corner of France, but obviously, quite fun. Sweat and beer coated the table tops we jumped on, a slight stick as we soared.

Tired legs finally idled at the end of the first set, another randomly selected alt rock MTV charter. I took the chance to refuel my glass and refill my body, rested by the bar. I wiped sweat away, and my ears adjusted to the bar’s drone, half-tuned to my compatriots’ conversations and half-tuned to an intoxicating melody that dripped from the speakers above me.

I honed in on a funky riff, alien synths, pounding bass, nonsensical musings – all danced in my head. All around me, I couldn’t focus on any part enough to conjure recognition. It was something new to me, and it cursed me. The explosive track dissipated into the room’s atmosphere, away from me, and I stood alone amongst the crowd, touched by an otherworldly power and left on Earth.

Such stories are common in our lives, lyrics and melodies fading into our subconscious until the enchanting chords become elusive forever. I can’t name just how many songs I’ve heard and forgotten. I forgot them, after all.

I’m reminded of The Perks of Being a Wallflower and the main trio’s “tunnel song.” A triumphant tune that captured the spirit of freedom and youth and was lost by the main characters – heard only once on the radio while they cruised through a Pittsburgh tunnel. In an age without independent music journals on WordPress to tell you all the good music to listen to, the trio was stuck, unable to track down their tunnel song, praying to hear it on the radio again.

Fortunately for them, coming-of-age tropes kicked in at the end of the story and “Heroes” by David Bowie (or “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac for the nerds) came back to the group. But when would my tunnel song come back to me? It felt impossible – I didn’t know the lyrics or the language, and I heard it at some unremarkable pub. My mind sorted through possible genres to scour when the brunch table came back up beneath me, and the waitress placed a sad omelet in front of me. It was remembered at least, unlike my friend’s crepe, forgotten. The trip resumed, I lived, and forgot more songs along the way.

Two months later, I saw my French compatriots again. I remembered nights at Wayne’s and Waka, of my lost song, and of something else, something that lurked in my memory and my phone, something the Wallflowers didn’t have. There it was – a voice memo. June 4th, 2023: an entry titled, “insane pub song.” I pressed play. In between the bar’s chatter and a doomed call for another round, there danced my song, found again.

A certain song detection app (no free advertising) queued up the ballad in seconds, rediscovery. Familiar sound waves washed over me, a cathartic feeling. I recalled Wayne’s forest green walls and battered floorboards. I felt blistering rocks under my feet, salted air. I heard the waterfall, and the euro I tossed into its wake.

My coin felt the song too – “Let’s Make Love and Listen to Death from Above” by CSS. The Brazilian indie rock group powered the French Irish pub, the whole city, the current, life. The euro lifted itself up, heads triumphant, resting in sunlight after finally landing face up. Wish granted.