Quiet Spanish Guitar
This is from a trip of ours to Spain. I remember walking down the narrow stone streets of Barcelona, of Grenada, or Cordoba. Sometimes you would hear guitar music, drifting like a sweet scent on the air, before you could find where the player was. Then you would come around a corner, and they’d be snuggled down a corridor like this, making you stop, and listen, and fall in love with being alive again.
This is from a trip of ours to Spain. I remember walking down the narrow stone streets of Barcelona, of Grenada, or Cordoba. Sometimes you would hear guitar music, drifting like a sweet scent on the air, before you could find where the player was. Then you would come around a corner, and they’d be snuggled down a corridor like this, making you stop, and listen, and fall in love with being alive again.
This is from a trip of ours to Spain. I remember walking down the narrow stone streets of Barcelona, of Grenada, or Cordoba. Sometimes you would hear guitar music, drifting like a sweet scent on the air, before you could find where the player was. Then you would come around a corner, and they’d be snuggled down a corridor like this, making you stop, and listen, and fall in love with being alive again.