Here’s the thing about Nevada City in December—the music is everywhere. You’ll be smelling cinnamon and roasted nuts, and then suddenly a choir of school kids pops up on a corner, singing “Jingle Bells” with that off-key charm that makes you tear up a little. It’s not a show you buy tickets for; it’s just… life.
One evening last year, I was freezing my fingers off, and a group of fiddlers started playing on a porch. People just stopped, stood in the middle of the street, and started dancing like nobody was watching. A woman in a giant red scarf grabbed my hand and spun me around. I don’t dance. I danced.
