The Taxi Driver Who Sang

On a trip to Dublin, I got into a taxi with a driver named Seamus who was about seventy and asked me, within thirty seconds, whether I liked music.

I said yes. He turned off the radio and started singing. "Molly Malone." "The Fields of Athenry." "Danny Boy," with such feeling that I had to look out the window. His voice was rough and beautiful.

Between songs he told me about his wife, his nine grandchildren and the pub where he'd sung every Friday for fifty years. He gave me directions to it.

The ride was twenty minutes. He sang for all twenty. When I got out, he refused a tip. "You listened," he said. "That's payment enough."

I went to his pub on Friday. He was there, singing in the corner. When he saw me, he waved and dedicated a song to "the American girl from my taxi." The whole pub cheered.