Snap Studios

Late Friday, I get off the bar train.

In the bad old days, downtown Oakland near city halls deserted.

Nothing but boarded up windows.

Locked doors.

And with four women, three guys, friends walk and huddle close for safety, head on a swivel, don't want no funny business.

And then, like from a fairy story,

we hear the peels of a bagpipe.

What?

Who knows?

Maybe there's some underground Scottish thing going on.

Let's maybe check it out.

This music. Pied pipers us along and there.

Between two dark buildings,

warm light spills onto the sidewalk and open door,

and there are people,

old people, young people, mothers holding babies, men hugging old friends, laughing,

shout and singing, grandmothers dancing to the backpiper.

Throwing back, tiny glasses of something that looks alcoholic in the window.

A small handwritten sign reads, Bulgaria at night.

We peek in like wild-eyed refugees and if we're greeted with smiles, with slaps on the back.

Hey man, what's going on with the bagpipes?

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