vinceconaway | The Beggar King

I don't remember his name and I'll probably never know what happened to him.

I call him the Beggar King of Taranto, and I've never seen someone with such dignity as a panhandler. He never asked for change but people would walk up, have a laughing conversation, and hand him money as they walked away.

His ethnicity was impossible to determine; years in the sun had darkened whatever his original coloring had been and we all grey the same. I first mistook his darkness for Rom but changed my mind from his cheekbones, the shapes of his eyes, and the kindness he received from the locals.

He was always surrounded by dogs; in a city known for its strays he had gathered his own little pack. I once guessed his approach by recognizing a few of the dogs wandering ahead of him, and they adored him.

I met him once when I was walking along the waterfront, as he and someone else were hanging out on a boat. Recognizing me as a busker he invited me on board, waving his hands in the universal sign for "dulcimer". He offered me a joint, which I declined, and a beer that I accepted. We made small talk for a bit before I left to set up for evening busking, though I can't remember any details.

I haven't seem him since 2010, neither this visit or that of 2011, and I hope he's found another kingdom to conquer.

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