If you travel on the F train in the evening, you may see a woman playing an accordion on the subway platform. Her hair I recall was dark brown, but now it’s blonde. The color suits her.

The other evening the forecast predicted rain and the musician stood with her back to one of the wide station pillars wearing shin-high rubber boots and thigh-high knit socks under a flouncy miniskirt and a dark fitted jacket. A tattoo peeked out from under one sleeve. Her eyes gazed down as the fingers of her right hand fluttered across the keyboard while the fingers of her left hand alit fluidly upon small round buttons. Her arms spread and folded around the instrument like a bird seeking flight.

The arrival of my train was delayed. I listened to her play as the music melded from jaunty to mournful. Her eyes never looked up. The music transported me to a distant land: perhaps folk tunes from her Eastern European hometown. Her look had a foreign air.

I went to put some money in a box that lay by her feet and when she came to a long pause, I asked where these songs came from. In a distinct New York accent she replied, “Oh I’ve been playing some Satie, Johnny Cash, Springsteen.” I expressed my surprise. “Everything played on an accordion sounds as if it comes from somewhere else.”

I readily agreed and thanked her for the journey before getting on the train.