When I sat down and played, even before the tuner had come to settle those jostled strings, I understood at once that it was the right choice: A grand piano-sweet sounding, sensitive keyed, screen free, and utterly indifferent to the quality of your Wi-Fi-has made my life a warmer, lovelier, better-ballasted thing. I’m the guy-the guy who saw fit to spirit a 600-pound piano onto the vinyl-tile living-room floor of his railroad apartment next to a cement factory. Some 90 minutes in, as I peeked out from my kitchen entryway onto the landing one floor below, one of the giants caught sight of me: “Oh. If these stairs give out, I thought-not a distant possibility- I’ll have blood on my hands. At eight o’clock one Saturday morning, six giants appeared in front of the building where I live, propped open the front door, and started heaving a thickly swaddled 1930 Steinway Model L grand piano up the narrow switchbacks to the fourth floor. This article was featured in One Story to Read Today, a newsletter in which our editors recommend a single must-read from The Atlantic, Monday through Friday.
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