You can be twenty on Sugar Mountain, though you think you're leaving there too soon.
I just heard from an old acquaintance I used to hang with when I was going to school in Philadelphia in the early seventies. His dad was a Jewish jeweler from Philadelphia who had married a woman from Puerto Rico, and moved there, where my friend was born and grew up. He had never been to Spain (yet) and I had never been to Latin America (yet), so though we usually spoke Spanish together, we knew only a few songs together.
He got us a brief gig in a downtown Jewish coffee house. I don't speak or read Hebrew, and he didn't know much in the way of Jewish songs either. He wormed his/our way into playing by saying we sang Sephardic songs (yeah, right!). But in those days, anything for $5 and a cup of coffee. They thought I looked the part, but I know about as much Hebrew as Chauncey Gardener knew Russian, so I shut up and played.
What I didn't know was that someone had taken a picture of us while playing: 47 years ago. I was 20, he was 22. He just sent it to me. I don't know whether to be horrified or amused!
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Those were the days, hey?
NOW you can be honored. Not for some $5 gig in a forgotten Philadelphia coffee house!! 
The remorse and nostalgia about growing up.
