THIS STORY WAS PUBLISHED IN MEDIUM’S THE DAILY CUPPA, WITH A LIMIT OF 150 WORDS.
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Naturally, he played Billy Joel’s Piano Man with those lyrics of regret. But tiny Johnny’s Piano Bar in San Miguel, Mexico, was no melancholy place. Maybe it was because it was a Friday and not Saturday night, and 6:30 instead of 9 o’clock.
More likely, it was Maggie and James, half of Rebecca’s Spanish-speaking group that meets weekdays at the Instituto Allende. Maggie, a retired jeweller, recently widowed and 85, suggested Johnny’s. James, 65, is a visual artist with a studio at Fábrica de Aurora. From Connecticut, he’s lived in San Miguel for 18 years.
At 8:30, Maggie took out her phone and dialed Uber. Rebecca followed suit with no immediate success. Looking at me, she said, “Let’s walk, it’s only 30 minutes up Aldama.”
“I’ll walk with you,” offered James, “It will clear my head for work.”
As we departed, a new piano man settled in.
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