The Traveling Guitar

May 22, 2025

FRANK - THAILAND

“All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go, I’m standing here outside your door…”
A voice—considerably less tuneful than John Denver’s—carried into the warm, smoky night.

Faces around the campfire flickered amber in the firelight. Some nodded along. Others joined in, murmuring or belting out lyrics with varying degrees of accuracy. A few, emboldened by one too many Singha beers, sang in full-throated, joyful abandon.

Frank strummed his narrow Martin backpacker guitar, his constant companion through months of travel across Southeast Asia. He was now deep in the jungles of northern Thailand, staying in a Karen village with a group of twelve other tourists on a three-day trek.

“Leaving on a Jet Plane” wasn’t his go-to song—especially not back home in Bend, Oregon, where he preferred the likes of Arlo Guthrie and Harry Chapin—but he knew his audience. Mostly Europeans, plus a couple of Aussies. This song was karaoke canon across Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos, all places he’d passed through recently, and he knew it would land.

As he played, he noticed a blonde girl from Sweden smiling at him from across the firelight. She tapped her foot softly to the rhythm, humming along. Her name was Julia, he thought—though he wasn’t entirely sure. They hadn’t spoken much; Marc, a jacked-up German guy, had been monopolizing her time.

But as the night wore on and the group began to drift off to their tents, Julia stayed. She edged closer with each song, and by the time he finished, she was the only one left. She told him she liked his playing. He told her he liked her smile. Not one to miss a moment, Frank leaned his guitar against a log and kissed her.

He woke the next morning to the sound of Julia unzipping the tent. She gave him a sheepish smile, murmured something apologetic, and slipped away. Frank rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stepped outside.

The guitar was gone.

It wasn’t where he’d left it. He searched the area, asked around. No one had seen it. Suspicion flared—he confronted Marc, assuming the German had swiped it out of jealousy. But Marc denied it, and Sarah—one of the Aussies—confirmed he’d been with her all night.

Frank was gutted. The guitar wasn’t just a travel companion—it had been a gift from his  older brother on his 20th birthday. His brother had died a few years later. That guitar was the last tangible link between them.

As the group packed up and prepared to set out on the second day of the trek, Frank took one last, desperate look around the village. The Martin was nowhere to be found.

 MAURICIO - MOROCCO

Mauricio had been to Morocco before, but this time wasn’t about sightseeing. He’d been trekking through Southeast Asia for the past month, planning to return to his hometown in northern Spain in just a week. But then the call came—from Roberto and Ignacio, two of his oldest friends.

“We’ve taken over a bar in Marrakesh,” Roberto said excitedly over the patchy WhatsApp call. “We play live music every night. You have to come.”

Mauricio didn’t hesitate. The idea of reuniting with his old bandmates, making music in Morocco of all places, felt too perfect to pass up.

Back in college at León University, the trio had played together often—Mauricio on guitar, Roberto on flute, and Ignacio on percussion. Before that, Mauricio had spent his teenage years busking on the cobbled streets of his hometown of Orduna, a sleepy village not far from Bilbao. Music had always been his happy place.

There was just one problem: he didn’t have his guitar with him, and he couldn’t afford to fly home and get it. He tried a few pawn shops in Bangkok, but everything was either too beaten up to bother or too large for a carry-on. He had learned the hard way never to check a guitar on a flight—once bitten, forever shy.

As he stepped out of the last shop on his list, a scruffy man in a faded ball cap sidled up beside him.

“You looking for a guitar?” the man asked in a hushed tone.

Mauricio tensed. Years of travel had taught him to stay wary, but he nodded.

“I got one. A Martin,” the man said with a heavy Thai accent, eyes darting. “Very nice. I sell it cheap, cheap.”

Mauricio kept walking. “Sure,” he said casually. “Let me see it.”

“Not with me. But I can take you to it.”

“Not gonna happen,” Mauricio replied, shaking his head. “If you want to show it, bring it to the Nomad Nest Hostel near Khao San Road. Lobby. 5 p.m.”

He didn’t expect the guy to show up. But he did.

The guitar was a travel-sized Martin—slim, lightweight, perfect for the road. Mauricio picked it up, gave it a strum, and felt a spark of recognition in its rich tone. As he inspected it, he noticed a name faintly etched into the wood inside the sound hole: Frank Hutchins.

“Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“Bought it from a tourist in northern Thailand. Few months back,” the man said, too quickly.

Mauricio didn’t trust him—and didn’t pretend to. But for $25, it was a steal. He haggled the price down, paid in cash, and the man disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

Three days later, Mauricio stepped into Café Clock in Marrakesh, a cozy cultural venue known for its intimate performances and candlelit vibe. The space was simple—small tables, wrought iron chairs, a few colorful paintings that looked like they’d been done by children. But it had charm.

Roberto spotted him from across the room and wrapped him in a bear hug. “Mau! You made it!”

When Mauricio pulled out the tiny Martin, Roberto laughed. “Wait, you’re gonna play with that thing?”

“Unless you’ve got another guitar for me,” Mauricio replied, smirking.

“Nope. That’s it.”

Ignacio grinned. “It’ll do. Let’s run the old university setlist.”

And just like that, the three old friends were back in sync. For three weeks, they played night after night at Café Clock, filling the space with music, laughter, and a little magic.

But as things often do, they changed.

Roberto fell hard for a South African traveler and followed her to Cape Town. Mauricio and Ignacio tried to keep the set alive as a duo, but without their animated frontman, the energy faded. They packed it in a few weeks later.

Mauricio flew back to Spain to visit family and, as his mother put it, “find a real job.” On the way home, he had a five-hour layover at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris. He found a stool at Les Bleus, an airport sports bar, and ordered a beer to pass the time.

Next to him, a young man was speaking animated Spanish to someone at the bar.

“I’m from Cuba but I’ve been living in Berlin,” the man was saying, clearly flustered. “The airline lost my luggage—my clothes, my guitar, everything. I’m on my way to Argentina for my best friend’s wedding. I’m supposed to play a song he wrote for his bride. The wedding’s tomorrow. I don't know what I am gonna do?”

Mauricio took another sip of beer, then turned to him.

“Hey, amigo,” he said in Spanish. “I couldn’t help but overhear. It might just be your lucky day.”

The man looked at him, surprised.

“I’ve got a guitar,” Mauricio continued. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll do the job. Honestly, I’ve already got one at home—I’d be happy not to lug this one back to Spain.”

“Are you serious?” the man asked, eyes wide. “That would be amazing. I’ll pay you, of course. How much?”

Mauricio shook his head. “No need. It didn’t cost me much. Just promise me one thing: when you’re done, pass it along to someone else who needs it.”

The man beamed. “Deal. Thank you—really. I’m Juan.”

“Mauricio,” he replied, shaking his hand.

“I’d better run. My flight boards soon,” Juan said, already backing away.

Mauricio handed him the guitar—Frank Hutchins still etched in the wood—and watched as Juan jogged off down the terminal, the guitar slung over his shoulder and a smile on his face.

Mauricio finished his beer, feeling a strange, satisfying warmth. The music would play on.

JUAN - ARGENTINA

Tears streamed down the bride’s face as Juan strummed his guitar and sang the vows his friend Alejandro had written—words Alejandro never intended to be performed, but which Juan had delicately set to music. The garden ceremony in Córdoba was already beautiful, but this moment made it unforgettable.

Around them, guests dabbed their eyes. But Alejandro noticed none of it—his gaze was fixed on his bride, who smiled at him through her tears. He’d worried the musical vows might feel a bit cheesy, but she clearly loved it. And Juan had done a beautiful job.

Later, during a lull in the reception, Alejandro pulled Juan aside.

“Thanks for doing that, Juanito. It was beautiful.”

Juan grinned. “Of course, my friend. Honestly, I’m just relieved I pulled it off. The airline lost my bag on the way from Berlin. I thought I was screwed.”

“No way. You serious?”

“Totally. I was sitting at a bar in the Paris airport, freaking out. Then this random guy from Spain—Mauricio was his name—overhears me and says, ‘Hey, I’ve got a guitar. You can have it.’ Just like that.”

Alejandro blinked. “Wait, he gave it to you?”

“Didn’t charge me a cent. Said he already had one at home and just asked me to pass it along when I was done.”

Alejandro shook his head in amazement. “How does stuff like this always happen to you?”

Juan laughed. “Good karma, I guess.”

“Well, salute to him—wherever he is.”

“Salute,” Juan echoed, lifting his glass.

By the time the celebration wound down, most of the guests had long since left. Juan was among the last to leave, wandering through the quiet aftermath of joy. As he made his way toward the exit, he noticed one of the catering staff hauling out trash bags. He’d seen her earlier, flitting between tables with easy grace, quietly humming along to the DJ’s playlist.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said as he passed her. “It was a great party.”

She smiled warmly, but didn’t stop working. Something about her energy gave Juan pause. He turned around.

“Hey,” he said. “I had this guitar for the wedding reception, but now that it’s over, I don’t really need it. I’d like you to have it.”

She looked surprised, then laughed. “But I don’t even play guitar.”

“That’s okay,” Juan said. “You can learn. Or sell it. Doesn’t matter to me. I just want you to have it.”

The woman paused, studying him for signs he might be joking. But he wasn’t. She smiled again and said, “I’m Carolina.”

“Juan.”

“I’m moving to New York in a few weeks,” she added. “Trying to make it as an actor. I’ve done a few commercials and plays, but… you know. Big dreams.”

Juan raised an eyebrow. “Then you should learn to play. Be a double threat. Or at least earn tips busking on the subway.”

She opened her mouth to object, but he waved her off. “Look, if I leave it here, someone’s going to toss it by morning. Or you can take it and see where it takes you.”

Carolina looked at the guitar, then back at Juan.

“Well... okay. Thank you,” she said, accepting it with both hands, as though it might vanish if she hesitated too long.

Juan smiled. “Good luck in New York, Carolina.”

She watched as he walked away into the night, the last stragglers of the wedding now just shadows. He was slightly unsteady on his feet, the wine catching up to him at last.

But in his wake, he left something more than an instrument—he left a new possibility.

CAROLINA - NEW YORK CITY

Carolina fell in love with New York City the moment her taxi rumbled across the 59th Street Bridge into Manhattan. Buenos Aires was a major city, sure, but it didn’t have the dizzying concentration of massive skyscrapers that made Manhattan feel like something out of a movie.

She settled into a small apartment in Hell’s Kitchen with a Brazilian flatmate named Leticia and landed a job waiting tables at a churrascaria restaurant in Midtown—thanks to a connection Leticia had arranged. In the whirlwind of starting her new life in New York City, Carolina had all but forgotten about the Martin guitar, which sat propped against the back wall of her closet, gathering dust. But one afternoon, she noticed a flyer for guitar lessons pinned to a lamppost near her building. She tore off one of the number tabs and made the call.

The teacher’s name was Roger. He was also an actor. Carolina was a quick study, and under Roger’s guidance, she picked up the basics fast. In addition to chords and rhythm, she learned a lot about the New York acting scene—its promise and pitfalls. After about six months, she felt ready to perform. She tried playing in Washington Square Park and even in the subway, but soon gave it up after realizing she was drawing more attention for her appearance than her music.

Still, she kept at her lessons. When Roger felt she was ready, he introduced her to his friend Vito, a booker at The Bitter End in Greenwich Village. She auditioned, and Vito offered her a late Monday night slot—the kind of time usually reserved for newcomers or hopefuls without much draw. If he was being honest, he gave her the chance partly because she was striking, with her accented English and magnetic presence. He figured she'd at least bring in curious onlookers, if not fans.

Over the next few years, Carolina built a steady following. She began playing several nights a week at The Bitter End and other singer-songwriter venues in Manhattan and Brooklyn. Eventually, she made enough to quit her day job at the restaurant. Acting hadn’t panned out the way she’d dreamed, but she found deep joy in making music and poured herself into her craft.

By then, she owned a couple of high-end guitars with internal pickups. The little Martin backpacker guitar—Juan’s guitar—sat mostly untouched in the corner of her apartment. She still treasured it. She wished she had Juan’s contact info to thank him again, and she often wondered about Frank Hutchins, whose name she’d found etched inside the soundhole.

The Martin held sentimental value, but space in her apartment was limited. One day, she decided it was time to pass it on. She posted an ad on Craigslist offering the guitar for free—with one condition: it had to go to someone who would love it and make good use of it, not leaving it to collect dust in a closet as she had all those years ago.

Several people reached out, but Carolina chose a young girl named Alisa. Her mother had written a heartfelt message saying that Alisa dreamed of becoming a singer-songwriter but they couldn’t afford a guitar or lessons. When they met, Carolina handed over the little Martin and took a few minutes to share her own story—how music had become her life, even when the path didn’t unfold as she originally imagined. Then she hugged Alisa, wished her luck, and walked away.

Carolina never found out what happened to Alisa or the Martin guitar after that. But if she had, she would’ve been pleased.

Alisa became a skilled guitarist. Eventually, she saved up for a full-sized instrument and passed the backpacker guitar along—just as Carolina had. Over the next decade, the little Martin circled the globe, changing hands six more times. It went from a hospital nurse who played for patients in Fort Collins, Colorado, to a blind, homeless man who strummed for tips on San Francisco’s piers. It traveled with a deported Mexican immigrant back to Oaxaca, flew around the world with a United Airlines flight attendant until she lost it in Panama, found its way onto a Norwegian cruise ship with a lounge singer, and finally ended up in the hands of a young Finnish man, who bought it to take backpacking through Southeast Asia.

He didn’t know Mauricio’s or Juan’s or Carolina’s or Alisa’s names, or the stories stitched into the frets, or the quiet miracles the guitar had woven across continents. But in his hands—like in all the hands before—it still made music. Still turned silence into solace, restlessness into rhythm.

Over the years, the guitar passed from stranger to stranger, always moving, always becoming something new while carrying the echoes of what had come before. It played lullabies under foreign skies, serenades that cracked open guarded hearts, and clumsy songs that became inside jokes among traveling companions who had only known each other for days—but would remember each other forever.

It weathered monsoons and border crossings, long bus rides and longer goodbyes. It witnessed declarations of love, moments of grief, the simple holiness of people pausing their lives to listen. It was never famous, never owned by anyone for long, but it stitched a quiet thread of music through the lives of wanderers, dreamers, and the occasional fool.

No one kept it, but everyone who held it was, in some small way, kept by it.