â€œRing ticka ting ricka ting ricka ting.â€<br/><br/>The bashing of a tambourine and a soft voice echo through the crowd as more people begin to gather. Children peek through adults legs to try and sneak a glimpse of the fabled gypsy caravan. The sound of a violin is also heard but a little bit more distant. Flames lick the sky and as everyone manages to see whatâ€™s going on, dancers swirl around gracefully. Around the little performance are a few rickety wooden booths set up; mysterious fortune tellers weaving their futures while magic tricks send oohâ€™s and aahâ€™s through the looking crowd. A terrified but excited scream pierces the air as a girl swallows a sword. The music comes to an end and an eruption of cheering booms through the small square. Coins are tossed and the girls gather them up quickly, bowing to the â€˜adoringâ€™ crowd.<br/><br/>They continue for a couple more performances before all piling into that old, rickety multi coloured van with the broken handle on the left side. Just as quickly as they came, they vanish again.  No one knows exactly where they go or where they will appear next but the singer makes sure to paint a sky blue streak on the wall of the highest point in wherever they were performing. No one streak is in the same place. Today, she scampers away after climbing onto a balcony in Volgograd, Russia, the azure paint staining the concrete beside the window.<br/><br/>The van rattles down the road into a tiny Russian town with a population of about two hundred. The gypsyâ€™s change into regular clothes and wash off any make up before finding a sweet inn to stay for the night. A kindly woman lets them in and each take their own room, some sleeping in twoâ€™s if they prefer. In the early hours of the morning, they will leave the money on the table and disappear into the darkness, just like they always do. No one knows who they truly are, where they are from, whom they belong to and they plan on keeping it that way. An air of mystery surrounds them and they live off of it.<br/><br/>Each settles into their routine. For Socorro, itâ€™s a good bottle of vodka for the road to calm herself. She doesnâ€™t get drunk, has only been really drunk once and says the vodka is for â€˜medicinalâ€™ purposes. Laying in bed, she's already near half way through the bottle, savouring the feeling of the alcohol in her throat. The other knew well enough that a good seventeen other bottles were in the back of the truck for her. She knew she smelt like vodka, she knew everything around her smelt like vodka and she honestly did not give a flying fuck. Crossing her arms behind her head and taking another swig she sigh contentedly. This was her life and she was proud to have started it.