On Monday evening, for almost an hour, I was thirteen again. The good thirteen, not the insecure, pimply version of teens. The thirteen of life-long friendships, unrequited love, a clean slate of adulthood and opportunity stretching ahead of me. The thirteen of colt-like, tanned limbs and cherry lip gloss, of slushies and wine coolers.
It is not often that you get to step into a time machine, it is not often that your teenage dream comes true.
On Monday evening, for almost an hour, I was thirteen again. The good thirteen, not the insecure, pimply version of teens. The thirteen of life-long friendships, unrequited love, a clean slate of adulthood and opportunity stretching ahead of me. The thirteen of colt-like, tanned limbs and cherry lip gloss, of slushies and wine coolers.
It is not often that you get to step into a time machine, it is not often that your teenage dream comes true.
The other night Bruce and the E Street Band played the whole soundtrack of my early teens in sequence - just like I had listened to it so many times that the cassette broke and I had to tape it back together - and I was there, singing with him.
Nothing like the notes of that album can bring back those warm summer evenings spent hidden on the back porch roof, that handful of scorching black tiles where everything I wanted and needed was at arm's reach. My best friend, a soda or two, and shared stories over stolen menthol cigarettes of holding hands under a beach towel and sloppy kisses. We sometimes changed the names and words of his songs to create our own stories, our own oaths, but his music was always with us, in the boom box on the window sill, in our walkman. We sang about factories closing down, unions cards and relationships gone bad, but we only heard what our young ears wanted to hear: love, adventure, lust, camaraderie.
Time changes things and almost three decades later, I have changed too. Now, when I listen to the Boss, I see the whitewashed windows and vacant stores*, not just the girls in their summer clothes. The only one who never seems to change is Bruce himself, jumping up onto the piano in one leap after singing and running all over the huge stage without a single break for over three hours. The man was born to run.
Nothing like the notes of that album can bring back those warm summer evenings spent hidden on the back porch roof, that handful of scorching black tiles where everything I wanted and needed was at arm's reach. My best friend, a soda or two, and shared stories over stolen menthol cigarettes of holding hands under a beach towel and sloppy kisses. We sometimes changed the names and words of his songs to create our own stories, our own oaths, but his music was always with us, in the boom box on the window sill, in our walkman. We sang about factories closing down, unions cards and relationships gone bad, but we only heard what our young ears wanted to hear: love, adventure, lust, camaraderie.
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| Chocolate milk shake |
Time changes things and almost three decades later, I have changed too. Now, when I listen to the Boss, I see the whitewashed windows and vacant stores*, not just the girls in their summer clothes. The only one who never seems to change is Bruce himself, jumping up onto the piano in one leap after singing and running all over the huge stage without a single break for over three hours. The man was born to run.
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| Leaving San Siro - Good bye Bruce |
I sang my heart out to my very own Bobby Jean, remembering how we used to sing in the car at the top of our lungs with our windows rolled down. I hummed to I'm on Fire using the flashlight app on my iphone instead of a lighter. I clapped my hands until they were sore and went down, down, down with him and the other 60,000 enthusiastic fans in the stadium. And as I sang along about those glory days that will pass you by in the wink of a young girl's eyes, I realized that I had been that girl too.
Thank you, Bruce, for the magic. And for working on my dream.
Thank you, Bruce, for the magic. And for working on my dream.
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| Fries come with all burgers |
If, like me, you were born in the U.S.A. and you get homesick sometimes, I suggest trying out Tizzy's N.Y. Bar & Grill, a place that reminded me of my hometown.
Although it is a definitely more hip, Milanese incarnation of your typical American blue-collar diner, it is definitely the most authentic American meal I have experienced here so far.
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| Beer from home |
It was the logo of the Brooklyn Brewery (and the disenchanted hope for a decent burger) that first lured us in like the Odyssey's sirens, as it brings back many memories of good friends and great food shared on the other side of the pond. We couldn't resist the calling and it helped us get through the long wait in a place that unfortunately does not accept reservations for parties under 8 for Sunday brunch .
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| Jumbo hot dog |
