Behind me the piano is playing. But it is not being played. There is a faux elegance present. The invisible hands of technology play Beethoven while I drink the cheapest (overpriced) wine on the menu of this small, strange circular bar in the airport. The bar is made of something that looks like marble. I am eating a dish redundant in both name and practice: the Cheese Quesadilla. To my left, a gentleman is eating a Chicken Quesadilla, which, by the way, has a much different pronunciation. Imágine, por favor, que su hispano favorito esta diciendo: ”Quesadilla.” Por ejemplo, Antonia Banderas y su voz suave y seguro. ”Quesadilla.” Ahora, now, imagine Jeff Foxworthy: ”Chicken Quesadilla”. This is the difference in pronunciation.

The auto-piano perplexes and confounds. Travelers of all walks of life approach apprehensively. They see that they keys are pulled down from underneath rather than pushed from above. Many of them are obviously musicians, or even pianists. They recognize the tune, their family encourages them to sit down and play. They decline. The machine has protected itself from the dangers of spontaneity and unpredictability. ”Please, do not touch,” it requests. And we don´t.

One can see the difference in reaction to both the mechanical and the human pianist. Travelers do not know where to look. The usual places to watch: the pianists’ face and hands, are not available. Watching the keys pull themselves down is not an option; in fact, it is quite frightening. There is no ease to the playing, no uniformity of the piece consisting in the constant movements of hand and body. The term we have chosen for silent spaces in music, ”rests,” does not apply. Nothing is resting, it is stopping. In music, rests are often written to keep the piece within human ability. To allow the hand to ”rest” after long passages. The player piano finds such notions limiting. It can play 32nd note lines ad infinitum.

Yet, despite its abilities, its transcendence of the limits of human technicality, the player piano is met with little in the name of true praise. The ”listeners” do not listen, they stare. A smug look of appreciation, they are looking at something clever, like one of those visual puns. A picture of a human eye with a line above it, and above that, the word ‘’stand.” We smirk because we get the trick.

But the real thing to get is not the ”trick,” it is the secret. It is not that the machine uses a number of carefully designed gears and cogs and levers. It is that what we are listening to is beyond cogs. ”The Entertainer” plays, my water comes in a wine glass. The secret is that our lives require the existence of others. The secret is that the player piano did note write ”Pathetique,” Chopin did. Chopin felt compelled to write it for one reason or another, he did not stumble upon it. ”The Entertainer” is the player piano’s limit. As a world, we have moved to a place in which entertainment can replace meaning. We smirk because we get the trick (Eye Under Stand!) but rarely smile because we have revealed the secret. The player piano plays on, untouched. ”Please, do not touch.” And we don’t.

My ideal world: The cheapest wine on the menu, una Quesadilla, water in a cup, a little girl practicing the first 8 bars of ”Moonlight Sonata,” and her parents to talk to about how proud they are of her.

I’m off to a different concourse. The moving walkway. Stand on the right, walk on the left. What if I want to run?