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Spain is the noisiest country I have ever lived in. Without a doubt, Valencia is its loudest city. The din of traffic, sirens, car horns, and work crews tearing up pavements is the ambient racket of urban life everywhere. But Valencia adds its own sonic touch: the explosions of firecrackers and rockets, at random, day and night. Was that thunder we heard? No, it was 10-minute volley of explosions celebrating the victory of the city’s football team. Valencia’s patron saint is the Virgin of the Forsaken. I call her the Virgin of Gunpowder.

Not long ago on a quiet street in Havana, a lovely sound I had not heard in many years reminded me of Valencia. It was the gentle trill of a panpipe. A knife-sharpener was near! And there he was, right around the next corner at the back door of a restaurant. Why sharpeners announced their presence with panpipes, I don’t know, but that sound, and the sight of a man with grinding wheels connected to the back wheel of his bicycle, and clusters of women with kitchen knives has been in my memory for nearly 40 years. Back then, the pipes were made of wood. This Cuban’s pipes were made of green plastic, but their sounds still touched my heart.

Panpipe music has all but disappeared in Spain. But not sharpeners. During the months of my last stay in Valencia, I met Álvaro, El Master Filo, whose shop sits across the street from the Ruzafa Market. I included my two favorite knives in the sketch. I’ll take them to him in a couple of weeks. He’ll laugh when I ask him if he plays panpipes.

Of the six brothers, Patrick is the one who most loved fishing. We others did too, but not as whole-heartedly. Our childhood home was only two short blocks from the Fox River as it flowed from southern Wisconsin through northern Illinois to eventually merge with the Mississippi. In The Four Quartets, T. S. Eliot called that legendary river “a strong brown god, sullen, untamed, intractable.” Pat and the brothers closest to him in age, Tim and I, would have agreed. From our own experiences with the Fox we would have added “dangerous” to the adjectives.

We three don’t live in Illinois any more, let alone fish for bluegills and walleyed pike in the Fox. However, for Patrick life without fishing is unthinkable, unbearable. As you see in the painting, this river in Montana is not a sullen brown god. Dangerous? Yes, they all are. Pat, miles away from any cellphone reception, is fishing for trout — brown, cutthroat and rainbow — as he has fished here every September for more than twenty years. Two days ago, he invited me and Tim to join him. Too bad; I’ll be in Spain. But Tim will fly to Montana.

Years ago I painted this image and shipped it to Pat. He politely returned it and asked that I correct a mistake. No problem, I repainted my error and sent the canvas back to him. So what was the mistake? Well, the image you see here is not the corrected version but the original, the one with the error. No one, not even Pat’s fishing buddies saw it, but Tim noticed immediately: “Our brother casts with his right hand, not his left.”

The cab driver at the airport in Havana was confused when I asked him to drive us to O’Reilly Street. My Spanish is pretty good, so his confusion confused me. In a moment all became clear: The driver, and everyone else we later encountered in the city, called the street “O Relly,” without pronouncing the “i.”

The lady in this sketch lived across from us on O Relly St. Drying sheets and clothing outdoors is a daily activity in most of Old Havana. The city radiates light and color, so in my eyes laundry draped over balconies simply added rainbows to the mix. But it was impossible to ignore memories of Switzerland and Lugano, where I lived twice: there you can be fined for hanging out laundry in public view. Playing loud music in public, or anywhere else, is also frowned upon.

In contrast, Havana would not be Cuba without music in the streets, and everywhere else. Spend a few minutes walking and you will be offered tickets to at least 5 or 6 Buena Vista Social Clubs. Do any of those places actually exist? Or are the tickets “chanchullos,” street swindles?

I’ll post more sketches of Havana soon, along with thoughts of music and street scams. Meanwhile, let’s leave the lady on the balcony in peace as she observes life on the street: vendors of mangoes and avocados, cruising DeSotos, Buicks and Chevrolets from the 1950’s, and elderly women in white dresses and turbans smoking cigars. She’ll make sure the laundry is indoors before afternoon storms drench everything. I imagine she’s also hearing guitars and dreaming of rainbows, elsewhere perhaps.