If, as they say, timing is everything, then I’ve got nothing. My timing is notoriously crummy. I routinely jump the gun or show up after it’s been fired, causing me to miss out on everything from those “ground floor” investment opportunities to good bra sales. I put the blame for many of these miscalculations right where it belongs—not on myself, of course, but squarely on the shoulders of the universe, which, contrary to inspirational memes, most certainly does not have my back in this regard. It’s been my own fault maybe once or twice, but I refuse to accept the slightest responsibility for the greatest mistiming tragedy of my life. Seven years later, I’m still nursing that wound—that profoundly deep, great, and grievous wound—inflicted by none other than Signor Andrea Bocelli.
That’s right, Andrea Bocelli, whom I have revered since the early ‘90s when most people asked, “Who’s she?” at the mention of his name, and who returned my devotion with utter disregard for my general well-being and more particularly for that of my wallet.
For years, I’m talking actual years, people, I had dreamed of seeing him in concert. In his early career, he didn’t tour in the U.S. Later, when he became a worldwide sensation, his U.S. stops were typically in New York, Las Vegas or other far-flung (from Atlanta) locations.
So, I contented myself with CDs, DVDs, and PBS specials while I waited for him to come to Atlanta. After a decade of waiting, I realized Mohammed would have to go to the mountain because the mountain hadn’t made a move toward Mohammed. Thus, in 2013 when I learned Andrea Bocelli would be performing a Valentine’s concert in South Florida, I bit the bullet and shelled out money for concert tickets for my husband and me, plus plane, hotel, and rental car.
The concert was simply sublime, everything I had imagined and more. Romantic and powerful, every song flooding my senses, every note full of meaning for me. When I heard the opening strains of “Anema e Core,” I could no longer contain the tears. They streamed freely down my cheeks as I thought back to my dad singing it as he worked around the house when I was a child. I left the concert emotionally spent, but with an immensely grateful heart.
And how did Sig. Bocelli show his appreciation for the dent he’d put in my budget? By announcing, three days after my return from Florida, that he would be appearing in concert for the very first time IN ATLANTA at the end of the year. I was speechless. I had just spent the equivalent of a 401k contribution for my “once-in-a-lifetime” opportunity to see him and now he was going to appear in my back yard. (I’m not kidding, the venue is exactly 5.6 miles from my house. With free parking!)
If I had waited, there would have been no plane tickets to buy, no hotel room, rental car or meals to pay for, no cost but the concert tickets themselves. If I had spent that much money on the Atlanta concert, I could have bought two seats on the damn stage! And as if to twist the knife a little more, he has appeared in Atlanta several times since. Oh, Andrea, paesano mio, how could you have betrayed me this way, me, the granddaughter of four Italian immigrants? Che vergogna!
And so, this evening, Valentine’s Day 2020, when Andrea will be performing around the corner from my house, I will be home listening to Spotify. I still love you, Andrea, but all is not forgiven. 😉