San Francisco, circa 1997. I'm working on something under a deadline. It's a quiet Sunday morning, I can get this thing done. The fog begins to lift off, I get in the groove. I focus. Then, I hear music. Roommate? No, it's classical. Neighbour? Perhaps. The track-housing walls are old and thin. The melody is pleasant enough. I can focus again.
But then, it gets louder. Christ, it's a symphony. Now, the sound really carries through. Good speakers though. Maybe I can roll with it. I try. For a few minutes it works. Suddenly, a booming voice cuts deep into my temples. And it grows. And grows. It reaches such a profound crescendo, the house begins to vibrate. I'm furious, but curious. I drop what I'm doing - no point, really. The morning is lost. I pour myself a java and come outside. The aria is in full swing. Not my thing, the opera, but this voice is hard to resist. It flows through the entire block - I see a few people coming out in amusement. We look at each other and shrug. The source of the sound is a mystery.
Minutes go by, perhaps half an hour. Sitting on my doorstep, I can't shake off a feeling that this voice, this absolutely magnificent tenor, is now a personal soundtrack to my Sunday morning. Forget the deadline. Just sit there, let it all soak in. Maybe all days should begin like this. I'm fully tuned in. All kinds of thoughts flow through my mind, and they are all pleasant. A nice change of pace, for once. Even the sun finally comes through above the park next to the house.
There is a thundering applause when the performance ends. A live recording the likes of which I've never heard. All smiles, I get back in the house and go about my business, refreshed.
Next day, I read the paper. Big headline in the entertainment section: Luciano Pavarotti Mesmerises Audience in a Free Concert at Stern Grove Park.
I don't cry often, but that Monday I wept for hours. Luciano Pavarotti sang for me in my backyard, and I didn't even know it was all for real. Or was it?
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