“Enchanted—Well, I hope you make it!”

In my concert-going life, I have been late to three concerts, and all three have been in Florida.  My most recent tardy appearance occurred on September 25, 2012 in St. Augustine.  The telling of the story begins with another long drive, an unprinted concert ticket, and my hair.

I had not printed my ticket before packing my printer in Colorado, had procrastinated printing it due to the one million other concerns on my mind, and left for my drive from South Carolina to Florida on the day of the show with the ticket only in its virtual PDF form.  As for my hair, I was certain that, in the Florida humidity, which I was newly reexperiencing, my hair would not straighten properly for my preferred, well-groomed Stevie-concert look.  Once at my Priceline value motel, I decided to forego probabilistically futile hair efforts in favor of spending that time searching for a local Staples Office Supply to print my ticket.  By the time I had found both Staples and someone in Staples that could print the PDF ticket file, the 7:30 concert start time had arrived, and with it, the early symptoms of a panic attack.  I hoped beyond reason that Stevie would have an opening act to soak up some of the time it would take me to drive to the venue, park, and reach my seat, and I once more lamented that I am physically unable to propel myself from location to location through flight, apparation, or some other form of cosmic transport.

Once in the car with the engine running, “Gypsy” came on the radio.  “Gypsy” is my significant song that mystically plays on a radio near me in times of turmoil or despair, so I slowed my thoughts and did not panic.  As I approached the amphitheater, I rolled down the window and heard not an opening act, but Stevie, singing Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll,” the current first song in her set.  The venue parking lot was full.  I steered my car down a street, veered it into an overgrown grass lot, possibly someone’s yard, vaulted out, and sprinted in my concert clothes and boots down the highway (on the sidewalk), across the street, and through the amphitheater grounds—easily a half a mile.  By this time, we were into the second song of the set, “Enchanted,” and I vaguely noted the irony of Stevie singing, “My destiny says that I’m destined to run” as I ran.  I noticed that none of the other late comers were running; I was going flat out.

As I raced through the amphitheater gates, Stevie sang, “Enchanted—-Well, I hope you make it!”  This almost compensated for my tardiness.  The security guard at the gate took a small eternity rummaging through my purse, and then calmly informed me  that I could not take my bottle of water into the venue.  “Take it!”  I cried.  The ticket scanner told me that Stevie had just started, and I thanked her quickly as I lunged up the stairs to the strains of “Wo wo wo—I hope you make it!”  and then down the stairs to the stage as security miraculously waved me by rather than spending their usual five to ten minutes scrutinizing each attendee’s ticket.  When I arrived at the stage area with my hair even more of a humid wreck and my otherwise carefully-groomed appearance a thing of the past, I noticed immediately that Stevie had made a similar hair choice—to not straighten—for the evening, and that, A. Her hair looked better overall than mine, and, B. She was probably on time, not making a time crunch hair decision.

This was the show I needed.  Every part of it mattered, but the moment that made all of the effort—the driving time, the running, the internal near-combustion when the ticket wouldn’t print—worthwhile was a ten-second comment Stevie made in her introduction to the last song.  Her nutshell explanation that night was that “Love Is” is about wanting something, having it, not being able to keep it, and accepting that.”  Something about the way she said this, especially the resoluteness of her saying “accepting that,” was so striking to me.  I learn so much about impermanence from Stevie and from her shows.  With this introduction and this particular performance of this song, I remembered both Buddhist teachings of impermanence, attachment, and craving, and Christian examples of loss, suffering, and acceptance.  Did I mention that I have a now-distant background in comparative religion?  That helps.  Anyway, I forget what I think I should already know and I forget how cravingly I can become attached to things I want or to things that I think should be a certain way, even to ideas and conceptions that aren’t good for me, until I hear Stevie say something about accepting loss or until I have a moment that I try too hard to hold onto.  The big idea of “Love Is” for me now is trying to be happy with reality after our expectations and attachments are torn away.  With hesitation, I would like to add that this was my 17th exposure to a “Love Is” live performance.  Sometimes I require multiple experiences to get the point.

On my more leisurely exit after the show, I realized that I didn’t recognize any part of the venue through which I had spirited myself in my race to the show.  I also realized that my calves and hamstrings were indeed sore after my unanticipated pre-concert workout, that my hair was and will always be irredeemable in the Florida heat, and that I had, through some manifestation of good fortune, managed to turn my car off and take my keys with me, permitting me to spend the remainder of my night in happy contemplation of a concert well lived rather than waiting in someone’s back yard for triple A to show up and let me into my car.  For this and all other graces of the evening, I am grateful.

Sweet Dreams are Made of This, Part 1

On March 15th, 2005, I had an unexpected day off from work. With the normal structure of my day collapsed, I had to figure out something else to do with myself. I drove to a park to run, and on the drive, listened to (Fleetwood Mac album) “Say You Will.” It sounded new. I had the same sense of impending possibility that I had when I first listened to “Say You Will” two years earlier in my apartment in Maine, sitting on the edge of my futon with a glass of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay, hosting my own private listening party. The feeling was like an emotional flashback, a very clear nostalgia.

I had felt bored recently, and I had begun having dreams of Fleetwood Mac concerts. In one dream, Fleetwood Mac opened their set with “Edelweiss,” to say the least, a unique selection for them, even in the dream world. This is the song that my mom requested to have played at her funeral. At the start of the dream concert, I was in the front and unconcerned. Whenever Dream Me became conscious of where I was or worried about maintaining my position, I was immediately transported to the back of the audience, by myself and away from my place of meaning.

Real-life me had thought frequently of Las Vegas because I had spent time there the previous two Marches with my parents, talking and gambling with my mom. This time of year always reminds me of Las Vegas. I associatively worked my way from these thoughts to thoughts of my mom’s birthday, which was May 10. One of her friends had mentioned having some kind of celebration or merriment that year. My daytime, reality- constrained self reasoned that a journey of some sort, possibly to a concert, possibly to Las Vegas, would snap me out of ennui. No travel was on the horizon, however, so my journeys seemed to remain mental travel into the past.

The question of the moment remained: What to do with my unexpected free day? My first plan, a lunch date with a friend, didn’t take wing because of his schedule. This friend did inquire about my graduate school application, something that I had made into a focal point of self-crucifictory angst and mislaid hope. I had applied at the end of fall to graduate school in the thin and ludicrous belief that this was my only chance to get out of my current life. I frequently characterize my life during those years with a quote from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, spoken by Clark Griswold when he learns that Cousin Eddy and family will be spending the holidays in their home, complete with their RV in the driveway: “If I woke up with my head sewn to the carpet, I wouldn’t be more surprised than I am right now.” Getting back into a graduate program seemed a reasonable way to keep my head from metaphorically being sewn to the carpet and to circumvent all related lunacies.

No, I hadn’t heard from the program. I established the new afternoon plan of inquiring after the fate of my graduate application, vowing to email the graduate director as soon as I hung up the phone. First, however, I decided to check for pertinent updates on the Stevie Nicks websites, hoping for news of upcoming interviews, concerts to be shown on television, and other off-season pleasantries.

What do my wondering eyes behold?

“Stevie in Vegas!” The headline accompanied a press release from Caesar’s Palace describing Stevie’s four-night engagement at the Colosseum Theater. The show is titled “Dreams,” and it opens on May 10. Stevie, Las Vegas, dreams, May 10. What more encouragement could I need?

My phone rang. My friend Melinda called to tell me that the surf camp we had planned to attend was changed from late May to early June, at a time when I couldn’t go. Had the call come five minutes earlier, I would have been disappointed. Timed as it was, it meant I could channel the money I had saved for surf camp to Stevie in Vegas.

I went to work, fervently looking for ticket information. My dad walked in with the mail, which, as my ironic life dictated, included a letter from the Emory University Neuroscience grad program. I tossed the distracting parcel aside and continued my frenzied research. My dad flabbergastedly exclaimed, ” You’re not going to open it?!” I opened the letter, skimmed it, called out, “I didn’t get in,” and threw the letter away from the keyboard so that it would not intrude upon my ticket mission.

My dad proceeded to mutter and curse, coming back into the room to tell me to not be too disappointed. “Okay!” I said. I was already to the refrain of “Rhiannon,” so we had a picture of him grumbling overlaid with “All your life you’ve never seen a woman taken by the sky…!” I think I disappointed him by not being disappointed. I tried to appease him by saying I would probably be disappointed later, although I knew this would never come to pass. I was too elated to worry. Several months earlier, I was convinced that my life’s progress out of that house and back into life hinged on getting into that program at Emory. Sitting on the edge of my seat, warbling “Rhiannon” lyrics, I thought, “C’est la vie. You win some, you lose some.”

What I learned from this unexpected day and the concerts to follow is to pay attention: The thing that you think is your last and only hope probably isn’t, and the thing you least expect might well be.

Lost in Translation in Sydney

On December 8, 2009, I disembarked from the last in a series of flights that left south Florida several days before and stepped into Sydney’s Kingsford Smith airport.  Harry and Maz were waiting for me when I cleared customs.  They had a new Australian cell phone for me.

During the Sydney portion of the Fleetwood Mac tour, I was to stay at Vicki’s house in Epping, a suburb outside of Sydney.  Vicki was still in Europe, finishing the medical certification program that so conveniently placed her in England during the European Fleetwood Mac tour earlier in the year.  Vicki’s husband, Rob, was expecting my arrival, but he was working at his office when I turned up on the doorstep that morning.  The scene developed into Harry, Maz, me, and all of my luggage—large backpack and supplementary carry-on backpack—arriving to be greeted by Vicki and Rob’s Asian housekeeper, a man to whom Harry and Maz gave the affectionate and perhaps slightly politically incorrect nickname “Mr. Miyagi.”

Mr. Miyagi was not a native English speaker.  Although Rob had presumably explained to him that I would be alighting at the house to stay for a while, Harry, Maz, and I detected that something had been lost in the translation.  We three, in our variants of the English language, tried to explain the purpose for our arrival, and encouraged Mr. Miyagi to call Rob at his office to confirm our story.  Mr. Miyagi called Rob, said, in his own accent, “There are three people here that want to come in the house.”  Pause.  Mr. Miyagi reports, “He said no.”  I have been on airplanes for over 20 hours, across my country and the entire Pacific Ocean, to get to this house.  When the moment of absurdity passed and our stunned faces regained some expression, Harry foraged through his cell phone directory and called Rob himself.  The slightly truncated version of what could become a protracted explanation is that Vicki, still in Europe, had hired a yard service to work on some trees in the yard.  When Rob heard Mr. Miyagi report that three people at the door wanted to come into the house, what he heard was, “There are *tree* people here, and they want to come into the house.”  Harry, Maz, and I, unlike the tree people, were most welcome.

Harry and Maz deposited me for a nap, planning to return that evening to collect me for the show.  I had a second nap, standing up, in the middle of the concert during one of Lindsey (Buckingham)’s chronically extended speeches about how they are all working to overcome their emotional history and learn to just have *fun.*  This might have been the show in which Stevie and John (McVie) attended to the activities of the lighting crew, up in the rafters, while Lindsey spoke.  The show when Stevie, out of the spotlight, propped her leg on the drum kit and stretched out her calves during Lindsey’s first speech of the night was a classic episode from earlier on the American tour.  Moving along in Sydney, I had quite a nice experience mildly hallucinating due to exhaustion and mesmerization during “Gold Dust Woman” but otherwise managed to remain conscious for the remainder of the concert.

At the end of the show, someone in the audience wanted to give Stevie flowers.  Lindsey saw this and retrieved the flowers for her.  She seemed pleasantly surprised and thanked him sincerely, which prompted him to cast around for more flowers to retrieve and present to her.  Upon receiving the second bundle of flowers, courtesy of Lindsey, Stevie offered the first batch back to Lindsey, presumably so that he would have flowers, too.  Watching this scene was like watching school children try to get along.  I found it endearing and added it to my mental list of amusing moments, another episode in the continuing character play.

After the concert, Maz declared that I looked “shattered” (exhausted), and she and Harry drove me home, feeding me Tim Tams on the way.  I was in better shape for the second Sydney concert the following night, and we learned from Maz’s friends what comedy and drama we had missed the night before because of our early departure from the scene.

Maz’s friends had met Stevie.  They had been idling in the back of the arena when Stevie’s car drove out, backed up, and stopped so that Stevie could get out and talk to a wheelchair-bound boy that had been at the show.  Stevie then talked to the friends.  All is well in this story thus far.  After a happy conversation, one of the friends, the one with a larger bosom, shyly held her concert ticket to her chest and asked Stevie to sign her ticket.  In the heavier Australian accents, “ticket” can sound like “teekt.”  Therefore, what to an Australian sounds like, “Stevie, will you sign my ticket?” to Stevie, an American, sounded like, “Stevie, will you sign my t***?”  They say Stevie’s expression dropped; she went from smiling to a look of disbelief and confusion, perhaps quickly devising an exit strategy.  The woman understood what had happened and annunciated more clearly while holding out her ticket.  Stevie reportedly said something like, “Oh!  Your ticket!  Of course.”  I imagine she experienced perplexity similar to our incident in Vicki and Rob’s driveway that morning when informed that we, the tree people, could not enter the house.  Maz, meanwhile, found the story of the boy in the wheelchair inspirational, and announced her idea to beat Harry up a bit and wheel him around after the second night’s show.

By this time in the year, I had an excellent attendance record at the Fleetwood Mac shows.  I do not doubt that other people would best me on an attendance roster, if such a roster were to be made, which would be ridiculous, because this business of concert-going is never about the numbers.  I do doubt that anyone could have a finer time with more interesting people, however.  Near the end of the second Sydney show, Lindsey, long accustomed to my presence, asked me, “Are you coming to Perth?”  I didn’t see how I could avoid going at that point.  The offer of a ride would have been welcomed, but I was pleased enough to continue the journey by my own transportation schemes.

First, however, I enjoyed a day trip to the Blue Mountains with Harry, Maz, and Maz’s nephew Cory.  Somewhere in the Blue Mountains, among the scenic overlooks, is Landslide Lookout, marked by a classic wooden sign that I am fairly certain was public domain.  Maz was busy giving Harry and Cory instruction on how to detach the sign from its post and maneuver it into their rental car as I asked, “Isn’t that your nation’s property?”  “It’s rightful place is in my home,” Maz replied.  I helped push the back seat down and volunteered that if we all hunched over for the ride home, the sign would, in fact, fit into the car.

This sign remains in its original location.

It would not satisfactorily fit into the car.

A Visit at the Ritz

July 28, 2007

My friends and I stood on a street corner outside the Dodge Theater in Phoenix, AZ.  Many other happy concert attendees waited nearby.  Our friends Michael and Joe had departed  after a brief post-concert review.  During the show, Michael had given Stevie a laurel wreath for her hair, which she wore for the remainder of the song and then removed offstage.  Michael assumed this would be the final fate for his wreath.  My little cadre was told that  some of the band would be visiting at the Ritz Carlton, and that we should come by.  “Okay!”  We didn’t need to be asked twice.  We presumed Stevie would not attend the Ritz gathering, so we waited to see her come out of the theater, which she did with her mom and with Michael’s laurel wreath again fastened on her head.  We were so pleased for Michael in absentia as we made haste to the parking garage to get the car and figure out how to direct ourselves to the Ritz Carlton.  On our power hike up the parking garage stairs, we were slightly winded.  “We have to train for events like this,” I said, “not for road races or competition, but hurdling over chairs in front of us in a venue, flying up stairs to get a car, or hightailing it to a post-party.”

I made it to my rental car and had it backing out of the garage while someone else called information for directions to the Ritz.  Let me pause a moment here and admit that had I been an early iPhone adopter, our navigational process would have been far smoother.  As it were, we had to memorize or scribble down (I don’t remember which) a verbal set of directions and follow these directions through road construction sites, attendant with potholes, barricades, and detours, through the dark Phoenix night.  I have seldom been so resolute of my direction when driving a car.  We careened into valet by the lobby and bell desk.  I took a half moment to reflect that this may not look normal when a wonderful man greeted us, asked if we were staying at the hotel or just visiting in the lounge, and spirited our car away to who-cares-where for us.

We walked as an anxious group dressed in formal yet festive black through the lobby toward the lounge.  The first person looked in, stopped, and said, “She’s here.”  I said, “I *really* have to go to the bathroom.”  I was having a problem that could not be postponed.  I wish not to be graphic, but I will take this moment to mention that this was neither my first nor my last difficulty while on concert tour with bathrooms and other facilities intended for either clearing or dispensing materials undesired on one’s person.  Why, as recently as last October 2011, I, after a long drive, arrived at a nice hotel in Las Vegas coated in gasoline and other debris.  I have learned that trouble that presents itself due to absurd circumstance before a momentous occasion is usually a portent of magical and decidedly cleaner experiences to follow.

I will spare you the state of my consciousness as I improved myself in haste and made my way, now solo, back to the lounge, *except* to say that I mused with angst that it would be just my luck to bolt out of my stall and bump into Stevie in the midst of a restroom run.  This did not happen.  Clearing the lobby and skidding into the lounge, my first sight was Stevie, by way of the laurel wreath now a familiar fixture in her hair.  I rejoiced again briefly and silently for Michael, bless him, somewhere in a club oblivious to our situation, noted that Stevie was at a table visiting with her friends and that I wouldn’t have interjected myself even had their been an open seat, and found the others talking to (guitarist) Carlos.

Carlos is delightful, and he seemed as interested in our impressions as audience members as we are interested in them as performers.  He agreed with my sentiment that no two shows are alike.  I presented for my example the two Atlanta concerts I had attended earlier that summer.  The first show had been very good musically and entertaining, and Stevie was engaged and gracious, but it was just a great show.  The second night was stunning, the band mindbogglingly in sync, and Stevie in such a spellbinding state of flow that the core audience was so mesmerized as to have to sit a spell afterwards before attempting to find cars and drive home.  What makes this difference?  Carlos wasn’t aware that fans notice when the band is “on” or in a flow state, and everything comes together. I found this interesting.  He said they can never know in advance exactly what will happen, or if telling friends to come to one show of a two-night engagement, which show will stand out.  Fascinating.  Carlos also noted that Stevie was talking more than she had in recent years, and that he liked hearing the stories behind her music.  We all could have burst forth with the true declaration, “I could never tire of hearing her talk!” but we held composure with the more measured, “Oh yes.  Those stories are interesting and fun.”  We have since remarked that, for all our love of the music, the lyrics, and Stevie’s soaring vocal expression, we would pay to see her talk for two hours.  I digress.

I ordered one glass of red wine at the bar, and by some stretch of conversational coincidence, struck up a dialogue about tequila, cactuses, and running with a member of the road crew that was enjoying Patron shots.  What I found most silently interesting and perhaps subversive of the dominant paradigm of this scenario is that the discussion really took off with the topic of running.  I had told him about running into a cactus in Sedona the previous year, and he asked, “You run, too?”  He had started running a few years previous, and reported that he tried to run whenever he had the opportunity while working on the tour.  I received my glass of wine and walked back to my little enclave, really pleased to have met another engaging, normal, and above-board person in the Ritz lounge.

Around this time, someone whose back was to the main table in the center of the room, announced her wish to grow eyes in the back of her head.  I, sitting perpendicular, reported what I could see out of the eye I had cranked around to monitor the scene to my left.  “They’re all talking and laughing together, like normal people.”  Those might not have been my precise words, but that is what was happening.  One of the people at that table was a young drummer for the musician that opened for Stevie, Trevor Hall.  We had spoken to Trevor Hall himself after the concert.  At that time, we politely limited our part of the conversation to comments about his show, but he told us about meeting Stevie, saying that she was very cool telling them stories, and that she has no ego.  He then said, with a note of awe, “She’s like a wise grandmother.”  “You didn’t use that term, ‘wise grandmother,’ when speaking with her, did you?”  we asked.  Fortunately, he had not.

Chris, the drummer for Trevor Hall, recognized us from the past two nights of shows and came to out table to visit.  Chris, who was all of 20, seemed eager to tell us about the stories Stevie was recounting not 20 feet away.  We remained our composed selves, not pressing for detail.  We mentioned that a friend of ours had made the laurel wreath for Stevie.  They had, only moments before, talked about that very thing at their table!  It’s as though our tables had been in conversation, except not verbally projecting to one another across the distance.  Anyway, Chris told us that Stevie told her conversational partners that she put the laurel wreath back on her head after the show, looked in the mirror, and, with a thumbs-up gesture, said, “I look goooood!”  This is a second or second-and-a-half hand report, but verifiable in that I had only to cast my eyes to my left to see confirmatory evidence.  I called Michael the next morning, or rather later that morning, to tell him the happy fate of his creation.

We were given an explanation of laurel wreaths in Greek history and I was informed that, with my religion background, I should know these details.  I hadn’t thought to study ancient Greek history and religious philosophy for this tour.  Next time.

Two A.M. was growing nigh with spirits and conversations running high.  A young waitress announced to our table that the lounge would close soon.  A few people doubted that the hotel would close the lounge for the night on Stevie Nicks and her crew, but when that little waitress announced to one and all that we would have to leave soon so that they could clean, Stevie and everyone else promptly stood up, said quick farewells, and made tracks for the exit.  Over the years since, our little group has reminded each other of Stevie’s prompt and gracious departure from the Ritz lounge that night.  When one of us reads a story about a famous person treating another person with disregard or encounters non-famous people in everyday life behaving as though each wish and assumption is theirs by title and design, we write to each other, “Remember how Stevie sprang from her chair *immediately* when the waitress announced closing time?”

We referred at the time to this evening as the “icing,” I presume on the concert cake, which for me was the inadvertent meaningful constant in my life for the previous few years.  Much earlier in the night, an obviously drunk patron on his way out of the theater asked us if we were in the band. “No,” we said, “We just think we are.”

For Michael, who got this particular party started.
Photo by me, Marlene.

Strangers on a Train

Imagine traversing the English countryside by train with your Australian friend (or if you are Australian, with your American friend), enjoying beer and conversation, eager in anticipation for the evening’s Fleetwood Mac concert.  Such was the state of my affairs on October 27, 2009, when aboard a Virgin Blue train bound from London to Manchester, Vicki and I shared a seating quadrant comprised of two ample seats per side with a convenient table in between.  I faced the forward direction of the train, and Vicki the rear.  At the start of our journey, the steward for our car, an elderly and affable English gentleman, tottered down the aisle asking after meal requests from interested passengers.  As the English gent passed us and inquired at the section of a mother and son that had boarded shortly after we were seated, I overheard the mother ask the child if he would like the smoked salmon sandwich.  My understanding is that culinary interest in smoked salmon indicates advanced age in a child, even an English child.

Let us fast-forward further into our journey.  Vicki and I are catching up on the various day-to-day stories in our respective lives, enjoying a pint of Guinness (me) and Stella Artois (Vicki), when I see Vicki’s eyes go wide.  I hadn’t said anything extraordinary.  In fact, I recall being in the throws of a rather mundane description of my living situation in South Florida.  I mentally bookmarked Vicki’s reaction to ask her later.  I didn’t have to ask her, because a few minutes later, following a scheduled stop and the disembarkment of passengers seated behind me, Vicki exhaled, rolled her eyes, and shook her head—all one fluid behavior—and told me what she had witnessed that I had missed as I drank Guinness and chattered away unawares.  The mother of the son who was a fan of smoked salmon had proceeded, after giving the boy’s lunch order, to breastfeed the child for their entire ride with us.  This she had done without apparent concern for concealment.  Vicki reported that the woman had summoned our elderly Englishman conductor to her side to retrieve for her a bag from the overhead storage, gesturing vigorously with an arm that extended unabashedly from her fully exposed bosom.  I don’t know, having been oblivious to this entire display, if the woman wrapped her top in any covering before leaving our train.

Vicki noted that the group seated directly across from the breastfeeding duo would have been in a particularly awkward and visually inescapable position.  One of the men in that station had to leave his seat at one point, edging around the woman seated next to him and then around the breastfeeding section. Naturally, Vicki and I discussed the entire scenario for the remainder of the train ride to Manchester as well as on our journey to our hotel, when we should have been reviewing details from past shows to prepare ourselves for the night’s concert.  Vicki pointedly wondered what the group directly next to the breastfeeding area thought, and we acknowledged that their experience was likely to remain a mystery to us.  That discussion got us to our hotel (which was quite lovely), where we forgot about the train incident and proceeded with our concert preparation: nap, champagne, decisions on attire and makeup application.  The show was outstanding; Stevie was radiant.  As though walking lightly on a cloud of joy, Vicki and I floated from the venue and around the street corner, coming upon the Manchester Hard Rock Cafe, where we happily repaired for dinner and discussion.

Seated as we were, across from each other with Vicki facing the interior of the restaurant, I was perfectly positioned to see Vicki’s second wide-eyed expression of the day when, nary a fraction into our post-concert analysis, she exclaimed, “Those are the breastfeeding people from the train.”  Vicki qualified her exclamation by telling me that she recognized these witnesses because they were seated in the same formation, because the man on the inside of the seat made his way out in the same way as he had on the train, and because she subconsciously noted the similarity in motion.  She sped to their table to make introductions.  The group visited our table for further discussion.  In their nostalgic recapture of the events on the train, one of the men asked Vicki, “Did you see the part where he (the child) sat up and drank from a cup before diving back in?”  We then revisited my favorite topic, the smoked salmon sandwich and the age of a child that would request a smoked salmon sandwich.  Following, Vicki and I ate, reflected, marveled, and laughed ourselves into a doubled-over stupor all the way back to the hotel.

Introduction to Concert Travel

On July 10, 2012, at approximately 6:15 in the morning, I dined in the breakfast room at the Ramada Inn south of Boston, MA.  I associate sitting in a mid-level motel eating reconstituted eggs with the start of my Fleetwood Mac adventures in 2003.  Driving from my then-home of Bangor, ME to Worcester, MA and to Bridgeport, CT for individual episodes on the Say You Will tour required overnight stays in public accommodation, which at the time I thought extravagant.  For this, my second concert venture, I rerouted a drive from Bangor to the Portland, ME airport to include an overnight concert stopover in Worcester.  Reading my notes from the time, I apparently concerned myself with my mental stability at such an act as going out of one’s way to attend a concert.  Looking into the bathroom mirror in the Red Roof Inn of Southbourough, MA on May 27, 2003, I wrote, “Is this out of hand?  My trip [the previous week] to Philadelphia hits the stability meter at whimsical and spontaneous.  I’m a bit concerned that this one has crossed to the other side.”  I was happy!  That state of being was rather unrecognizable in me at the time.  I had a card that read “Leap and the Net Will Appear” by my desk at home, and I tried to abide that advice when Ticketmaster churned out the 10th row seat to the show at the Worcester Centrum Center.  My self of a year prior might cast a skeptical eye upon my pursuits, but my self sitting with the reconstituted eggs at the Boston Ramada over nine years later, recuperating from an overnight flight for a concert the coming evening, shan’t bat an eyelash.

I’ve traveled around the world, and while my Fleetwood Mac/Stevie Nicks concert travels certainly haven’t exhausted the possibilities of world travel (I don’t think I will see, for example, Siberia or an Arctic outpost on tour) or even of U.S. travel, the journeys have been varied and storied, as have the people I’ve met and the places I’ve seen.  Some of these stories are from the shows themselves: nuances dissected with great enthusiasm in the wonderful conversational company of the folks I’ve met along the way.  Other stories speak to the trials and travails, whimsey, and occasionally outright outlandishness of a fan’s life on the road during tour time.  These stories and reflections obviously happened in linear time, and I wrote many things in my journals as they happened (or directly afterward).  My memory is not so linear (less so than ever before, in fact), so my recollections will very likely go back and forth in time.  I have to expect that this will all make sense in the end.