I met J on one of my first nights in Envigado. He was one of the trovadores walking around the parque in the center of town, under the lights of the cathedral, singing old Mexican and Cuban tunes with his requinto guitar. Most of the singers were older, but he was one of the younger ones — around thirty, like myself. They all wore black suits every day, playing for tips and drinks. Sometimes an accordion or percussion player would accompany them, but J usually played solo or with a guitar player as backup.

Chloe and I had only been in Colombia for a week. The first week was spent in Poblado, the tourist district of Medellín, while we looked for an apartment. A friend led us to an apartment in Envigado, just outside the city, and we loved it. We were just a block away from the parque, and it was lively but the noise in the street didn’t bother us. We immediately started to practice our meager Spanish on a daily basis by chatting with the fruit sellers, the musicians, the bartenders, and the old men relaxing in the park.

That night, the night we met J, we had taken our instruments to the park — a favorite activity these days. Chloe plays the guitar, I play the mandolin, and we both sing old and new folk tunes, country songs, and once in a while, a bluegrass version of a pop song. In the US, this will bring in some money. In Colombia, we haven’t earned money doing it, but we’ve made a lot of friends and downed many free glasses of aguardiente and chicha!

J was instantly intrigued by the mandolin and the travel guitar. His friends gathered around him and they debated what to call our instruments. Jokingly they argued whether, in Spanish, it was una mandolina or un mandoleon. (According to my spell-checker, the first is undoubtedly right.) Then the song-trading began. We played Whiskey in the Jar; J played Ódiame by Los Tres Reyes. We tried to play along with each other’s styles, and the laughter and beer started to flow.

At the end of the night, we worked out a deal. J would teach me to play the requinto, for 10,000 pesos an hour (about $5 USD). We’d meet next Tuesday at the park, and twice a week after that.

He didn’t speak English, and my Spanish was limited to the present tense, but I figured musicians speak their own kind of language and I’d be able to get along. I mean, a note is note, right? This was mostly true. What I didn’t count on was that, in Spanish, chords are referred to not as C-D-E minor, but as Do-Re-Mi menor. That took a little bit of work, when he was calling out the chords, to translate in my mind. J also had a numbering system for the strings and frets that I had never encountered; but he was very patient. He taught me a simplified solo for Ódiame and a spiced-up version of Für Elise. He showed me a few Cuban songs. He taught me to use the uña or the cat claw, a thumb pick exactly like you use to play the banjo, along with the tops of my fingernails to play the higher strings.

I would pay him for the lesson, plus a beer or two, and he’d usually ask for bus fare for the ride home — the equivalent of a dollar — since he wasn’t earning tips by playing for the passing crowd. I didn’t mind this. But once, after a lesson, he asked for an advance on the next lesson. He needed the money to buy new strings. We had established some rapport, so I gave it to him.

However, the next time we had a lesson, he asked for the payment at the end, and I gave it to him without remembering that I had pre-paid. It only occurred to me as I walked home. I chalked it up to my own absentmindedness, but the next few times, he asked for more advances. He even offered to sell me his requinto for $300 USD — a price I thought was over the top, and money that I didn’t have to spare anyway. I was slightly disturbed, but it didn’t seem to offend him when I kept saying no. I brushed this difficulty off. I practiced the songs at home on Chloe’s guitar, and when we met, he’d play backup to my solos while he sang. I loved it.

We only stayed for a month in Envigado before we found our much more tranquil finca in the countryside of Santa Elena. We still visit Envigado often, though, for parties and potlucks at our friends’ houses. Each time, J is there, ready with a song and un abrazo.

The last time we met, I was sitting outside at a restaurant with a beer and a bowl of mondongo (pork belly soup), watching our backpacks while Chloe did a little shopping. J came up, all smiles, and I offered him a beer; he took a fresco instead. He asked about life in Santa Elena, and we talked about music; after a few months, my conversational Spanish was definitely improving. I played him a new song I was working on — of course I had my mandolin — and gave him a few thousand pesos to play a new song with one of his friends.

He finished his drink and left to play for money across the street. I picked softly on my mandolin, ordered a new beer, and watched the people walking by.