A mariachi band appeared on my Subway train car the other day.
They seemed to materialize out of the blue, as if deposited there by those impish Shakespearean faerie beings that decided we could all benefit from a mariachi band performance in the middle of a Monday afternoon.
I was in the midst of reading a really wonderful book and enjoying some really wonderful music on my phone when they sauntered onto the train – an eclectic collection of accordion, guitar, and tiny string bass toted by three men clad in vests and hats.
And my immediate response to their band’s sudden and inexpungable sound that blared into my Subway car, much to the contrary of my family-instilled appreciation of musical and cultural experiences (thanks, Mom and Dad) was “CRAP. A mariachi band.”
When before in my life have I EVER had that thought before? Who have I become?? And how is that these occurrences are now everyday in my world?
As they played on, their raucous music blaring through the subway car and blasting through my earphones’ feeble attempts to block it out, I noticed the man across from me.
With sleepy eyes half-squinted shut, clearly roused from his nap by the music, he sat with a deadpan expression on his face, seemingly resigned to the craziness surrounding us. Apparently he too knew that a mariachi band concert is just part of an afternoon commute home on the F train.
And that’s when I started audibly snickering at the ridiculousness of it all.
This is my life now. Welcome to New York.