Every now and then I despair of this country we’ve chosen to live in. On days when we have to pay for a visit to a doctor, or yet another gunman deprives families of the lives of their loved ones, or Donald Trump spouts even more repulsive sexist and fascist bigotry, I wonder if we made the right choice.
But most days, there’s magic here. Looking out of our window is like taking a permanent vacation. Driving across the Golden Gate Bridge never gets old. And on Wednesdays, Troy arrives to teach the children piano.
The kids were about to declare war on piano lessons, but, just in the nick of time, we found Troy. He’s a gentle man, with cowboy boots and a waterfall of long, dark, curly hair that many women would kill for. He teaches improvisation by ear and the children love it. The house is filled with jazz, blues, and songwriting.
It’s a far cry from their stiff, exam-oriented instrument lessons in Britain, and the sound of their playing is one of the many reasons we’re happy to be here.
Here’s a taste of our Wednesday afternoons.