We were in Barcelona and it was spring. Beautiful music, flutes and drums, drew us to an open campo where, among the plane trees and the groups of old men playing bocci, a small band was playing. They were dressed like shepherds in hats and serapes, and we assumed they were Basque.

Instead of an upturned hat or open guitar case for donations, there was a small table beside them where they sold their CD; we bought one. I slipped it into my purse and then into my suitcase, and we never really looked at it until we unpacked back home.

Unpacking the mementos from our trip, I found the CD and actually read the cover. The band was from Peru. "The Peruvian Pipe Band," read the banner above their smiling faces. We were somewhat chagrined that what we thought was support of indigenous folk music was misplaced, but the music was beautiful and the band was indigenous to someplace so my husband went to put the CD away.

"We already have this CD," he called from the next room. "I remember why they looked familiar. I saw them a couple of years ago at Arts and Apples (a fall arts festival in our Michigan hometown)." Michigan, Barcelona, same Peruvian band. We were obviously meant to have that CD.

We were in San Francisco and it was fall. It was two years later and we were touring Pier 39 with two of our grandchildren when beautiful music drifted along the promenade. My husband and I looked at each other. It couldn't be The Peruvian Pipe Band. The kids didn’t understand our laughter as we approached the small table of CDs. There they were, same banner, same smiling faces. The Peruvian Pipe Band, Volume Dos. We bought it. Maybe someday we’ll find out who’s playing in the park in Lima.