Private concert

The world has voted, and it has voted for the Red Sox. (I define the world as the readers of this blog who voted. You guys mean the world to me.) The poll answered the vague question, Red Sox or Yankees? Whether the question meant coolness, likelihood of reaching playoffs, or, um something else -- that was up to the reader! The Red Sox handily beat the Yankees, who garnered less votes than those who resent baseball´s affect on our youth. The Yankees supporters can at least brag that they are as numerous as those who voted "C´mon, Tamba Bay, all the way," and "I´m all abute Toronto."
So, to the beloved Red Sox -- congratulations. Now please, please, don´t collapse.

Spanish classes started today. The school is tiny, 80 students, and with that smallness comes quite personal attention. Yesterday, when I signed up, the director of the school personally drove me to the sister school at which I´d be taking my classes.
I´m in the high-level group. The class has seven students, and three were absent today. In addition to my amiable Chilean teacher, my classmates are Bulgarian, German, Dutch, and French. Not one comes from an English-speaking country, which is great. Claudia, the teacher, conducts the class in Spanish from start to finish.

While I was on the way to classes, my train car got a private concert. In England, they called it busking. People play for money in the underground halls or on the metro trains themselves. Something like the Promenade, but no freakshows, and better quality. The violinists, singers, and guitarists almost always play beautifully.
Today, on the train, two men entered, mumbled something in Spanish, and took out their microphone, speaker system, and flute. They had a CD playing behind them, drums and backup vocals.
They sounded CD-quality, playing without missing a note. I wondered whether they were lip-syncing and lip-fluting. But then, the flautist put away his flute, and I could hear the whoosh of air as he took it from his mouth. He started shaking maracas, and the shakes lined up with the sounds. Then, after the maraca chorus, he took out a wooden harmonica, and I could again hear that whoosh that proved the playing was real. They were moving, really getting into their music.
I wondered how they made money, thinking that perhaps they sang for fun, out of the kindness of their hearts. The rest of the train car seemed unaffected, as if they were used to the good show. I must have stood out, with my wide stupid joyful grin. But then they finished their second song, mumbled something in Spanish again, and went around the train car. Half the car, maybe more, gave change. I left at the next stop, and saw them in the next car.