Making a meme
I'm making a meme, based on all my nostalgia tonight and something I found in my boxes:
What is the best show you've ever seen, or most significant or whatnot?
Celia Cruz and Johnny Pacheco at the Beacon Theater in Boston, Jan. 27, 2001.
Imagine rolling into Boston, walking past the Boston Common, and, by the turn of a door, entering Cuba. English disappears, as Spanish -- Cuban, Mexican, Puerto Rican and Dominican varieties -- permeate the air.
The crowd attended in all their finery. Embroidered velvet jackets. Women in brightly colored, provocative halter-topped dresses. Men in white suits and straw hats. I was no slouch, either; burgundy button-up with black suit pants and long black coat. I had to look good. Deanna, the love of my life that never was, was my date.
Before the show proper some people from the local Univision station popped up. Deanna was immediately jealous of a woman we saw interviewing people in the crowd for the local Univision station. "Who is this chick?" she kept saying, followed by "Why am I calling her chick?!?!" But she was wearing an overcoat then. Wait until she took the coat off.
She was easily one of the five most beautiful women I have ever seen, a woman so full of curves and legs and luxuriant hair that the whole room -- male and female -- collectively said DAYUM when she walked out. She was then accompanied by an equally hunky man -- which made Deanna happy -- and, for classically Univision-y comic relief, an fat woman with bright pink hair.
Johnny and his Orchestra were impeccably dressed in sharp tuxedos. Men in their 80s dancing in time, stepping here and cutting there. Johnny danced and piped into his flute, calling us all to him.
And then Celia, that queen of salsa, entered the room, bedazzling in a blue ball gown covered in sequins, a cape around her shoulders, her hair piled a mile high and her makeup even moreso. The crowd roared, blowing whistles and waving Cuban flags for a homeland they may never see again, just trying to relive memories.
It was impossible to sit still. The back of the concert room turned into a dance floor, and Deanna and I joined in the salsa, and flashing feet and twisting arms.
As Celia prepared to leave, she sang "Me voy! Me voy!" -- "I am going!" -- and the crowd yelled "Noooooo!"
My friend and I left refreshed and so alive. Like a miniature vacation. Deanna was Argentine, so it felt great for her to be among Latinos again, and to escape her senior thesis for a while, too. We were in Cuba that night, swept in the spell of Johnny Pacheco's flute and the Queen of Latin Music screaming "Azucar!"
When Celia died two years later, I kept thinking of that magical night, and how honored I was to share in it and know her presence up close.
And, I found out today, I still have the program and ticket.
What is the best show you've ever seen, or most significant or whatnot?
Celia Cruz and Johnny Pacheco at the Beacon Theater in Boston, Jan. 27, 2001.
Imagine rolling into Boston, walking past the Boston Common, and, by the turn of a door, entering Cuba. English disappears, as Spanish -- Cuban, Mexican, Puerto Rican and Dominican varieties -- permeate the air.
The crowd attended in all their finery. Embroidered velvet jackets. Women in brightly colored, provocative halter-topped dresses. Men in white suits and straw hats. I was no slouch, either; burgundy button-up with black suit pants and long black coat. I had to look good. Deanna, the love of my life that never was, was my date.
Before the show proper some people from the local Univision station popped up. Deanna was immediately jealous of a woman we saw interviewing people in the crowd for the local Univision station. "Who is this chick?" she kept saying, followed by "Why am I calling her chick?!?!" But she was wearing an overcoat then. Wait until she took the coat off.
She was easily one of the five most beautiful women I have ever seen, a woman so full of curves and legs and luxuriant hair that the whole room -- male and female -- collectively said DAYUM when she walked out. She was then accompanied by an equally hunky man -- which made Deanna happy -- and, for classically Univision-y comic relief, an fat woman with bright pink hair.
Johnny and his Orchestra were impeccably dressed in sharp tuxedos. Men in their 80s dancing in time, stepping here and cutting there. Johnny danced and piped into his flute, calling us all to him.
And then Celia, that queen of salsa, entered the room, bedazzling in a blue ball gown covered in sequins, a cape around her shoulders, her hair piled a mile high and her makeup even moreso. The crowd roared, blowing whistles and waving Cuban flags for a homeland they may never see again, just trying to relive memories.
It was impossible to sit still. The back of the concert room turned into a dance floor, and Deanna and I joined in the salsa, and flashing feet and twisting arms.
As Celia prepared to leave, she sang "Me voy! Me voy!" -- "I am going!" -- and the crowd yelled "Noooooo!"
My friend and I left refreshed and so alive. Like a miniature vacation. Deanna was Argentine, so it felt great for her to be among Latinos again, and to escape her senior thesis for a while, too. We were in Cuba that night, swept in the spell of Johnny Pacheco's flute and the Queen of Latin Music screaming "Azucar!"
When Celia died two years later, I kept thinking of that magical night, and how honored I was to share in it and know her presence up close.
And, I found out today, I still have the program and ticket.