A beau bow.

No-one would accuse Rhode Island Avenue in College Park of resembling Diagon Alley. It has that typical bleak, inner D.C. Beltway, post apocalyptic, 60’s style panache, and is the site of Gailes’ Violin Shop, where the inside is better than the outside.

This time I went for a bow. And I wanted it to be a good bow, which put me at a slight disadvantage since I wouldn’t know one if I saw one.

So, I figured what I would do is walk up to the counter, trying to ignore all the music books whispering ”You need the Celtic fiddler’s book o’tricks...you know you do,” and ask the scary counter lady, who unquestionably would scoff if she knew what a pretender I was, if I could see some nice bows please. Then she would duck back a room, where Mr. Gailes’ and the grey-bearded, other smart-looking man were tweaking violins and grab a fistfull, and I would embarrassingly scratch out a few notes on my fiddle, hoping for invisible help from the invisible bow muse.

But, actually, she disappeared a bit deeper into the back than that, reappeared with nothing, and said she had a room ready for me.

And a nice room at that, with a special fold-down table on the wall--really rather like those diaper changing stations, but instead of Little Tikes plastic it was wooden, with a velvet-lined surface. And there, on the fancy fold-down table, was a special velvet-lined, slotted box holding an array of 15 or so assorted violin bows.

I smiled and thanked her, trying to look either smart or talented since I doubted I could look both, as she left and closed the door.

Here’s what I was hoping would happen as I looked at those 15 bows (which were probably snickering at each other like 7th graders waiting to see whether their substitute teacher can summon an ounce of authority.) I was hoping that when I picked up the right one, blue sparks would shoot cunningly from its tip, as if to say you have chosen well grasshopper, and when I placed it daintily against my fiddle strings I would realize that I was Bonnie Ridout afterall, or at least Charlie Daniels.

Not surprisingly, there were no sparks. But I was hopeful that that room was at least a little soundproof as I put each bow through a bit of Sheebeg Sheemore or Gilderoy. Ultimately, I chose one on the basis of feel and dumb instinct. The weight, the balance, and other senses which I have no particular reason to trust, but I chose one.

The two smart-looking men in the back oohed and ahhed a bit that I had chosen such a fetching and clever bow which turned out to have been made in France or thereabouts, 100 years ago or thereabouts. But then, it would have shown poor business skills on their part so say “you picked that? Hah! What the hell, ring’er up.”

I told the scary counter lady that I hoped the room had been soundproof, and if not, my apologies, and she quite charmingly confessed to having recognized many of my tunes and “enjoyed my selection.” No-one ever referred to my selection before, so again, I note that the people at Gailes’ violin shop at least know what to say.

So. I have a lovely old bow. And a lovely old fiddle. And lovely old fingers. The latter have some work to do.