We were living in London, at No. 1 Cranley Gardens. It was posh, and the landlady liked us. Good thing, because we got caught by the cleaning staff for putting Passos, coins, into the hot-water meter so we could get hot water. The cleaning staff got to keep that money. The landlady told us it would not be a problem, as long as we could have our sheets changed once a week instead of every day.

Except for that lovely flat, which we only got because the landlady liked us, we were pretty broke. We spent most days in parks or museums, especially the Tate. We would find some smoke or acid, then spend the whole day there, drifting between the Turner Room and the Dalí Room.

One day we were at the Tate and Bob wanted to smoke some hash. We made our way to the big cafeteria. Once we were seated, I told him I was nervous about it, and that I would just have a cup of tea. Bob got up and headed toward the restroom.

He was gone a long time. When he came back, he looked a little funny. I asked if he was all right, and he said, “Well, like, I went in there and there was an attendant cleaning, so I had to wait. But that was a good thing, because I noticed one of the cubicles had a little window above it.”

As the attendant left, Bob slipped into that cubicle. He opened the window, got out his hash, and then noticed the stall door would not shut tight. Quick thinking, he decided to pull down his pants so that if anyone walked in, they would get embarrassed, not really look, and just walk away.

So far, so good.

He sat on the toilet, lit a cigarette, put a piece of hash on the ember, and drew in the smoke. Then he put another piece on and kept going. That is when he smelled something weird. He looked down and realized his underwear was smoking. On fire. Making a lot of smoke.

He jumped up, tried to fan the smoke out through the little window, flushed, pulled up his pants, and got out of there. It was lucky he did not get caught. It was also very Bob.

The hole in his underwear was larger than I thought it would be.

Next, we had an interesting experience in Venice.

We went to Venice, Italy, and every place was full. No accommodations anywhere. We tried a pension. No luck there either, but they had connections to residents in the area who had rooms available. So, very cool, we ended up in a great spot, up a flight of stairs, in a beautiful apartment.

Inside it was very dark, with only one light on in the kitchen, but it was extremely clean. At the front door there were felt pads, like thick insoles. We were meant to stand on them and slide across the floors from room to room. All the drapes were drawn. There was just one old man living there. I had the feeling his wife had died, and he was in mourning.

He wanted to be sure we were married. He asked to see my wedding ring and our passports. Communicating was difficult. He wanted to know how long we were staying, and he wanted his money every day, for that night.

He was so frustrated with Bob. The man spoke seven languages and we, embarrassingly, spoke only English, and Bob spoke Bob-language. The man would get exasperated, shake his head, take the money from Bob, and sort of shove him back into our room while saying something sharp in Italian. It happened like that every day.

We loved Venice. We left early each morning and returned in the evenings after dinner. But one day we came back early, for some reason, and the man was not there.

I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. As I drank it, I peeked through the heavy curtains and took in the lovely view. When I turned around, I saw a beautiful grand piano covered with a tapestry.

I called out, “Bob. Piano.”

He flew into the room, pulled back part of the tapestry, opened the lid, and started to play. He played and played, so beautifully. I listened, half in awe and half worried we might annoy the man, since things already felt a bit dodgy. But Bob was in it, fully.

As I feared, the front door slowly opened. The man came in, removed his shoes, and slid across the floor quietly to where I was standing. Neither of us made eye contact. We both just stood there. I do not know if Bob sensed him, but he slowly brought his improvisation to an end and sat in silence.

The man said something in Italian, his voice cracking with emotion. I looked up and saw tears streaming down his cheeks. Then I started to cry. Bob stood up and the man embraced him, kissing him over and over on the cheeks. He squeezed Bob’s hands, laughed through tears, and said something else in Italian.

That evening he brought us cake, and he never asked for money again. We still left payment on the table every day for the last week of our stay.

Here was proof, beyond proof, that music is the universal language.