I was watching Live From Lincoln Center when I was struck with a bout of melancholy--yes, again.

It reminded me of nights in Seattle when I would go to the Seattle Opera House and hear amazing musicians: Wynton Marsalis and his brother Branford.  I loved those evenings, driving into the city just as the lights of the skyscrapers were coming on, and the Sound was a dark streak in the distance.  Sometimes we would go to dinner first; often, a tiny hole-in-the-wall family run place--usually Italian.  "There were often friends who would join us and we would be laughing and anxious for the show.

This was many years ago, back when I had it easy and didn't realize it.  I'd probably never be able to afford tickets to a jazz concert--let alone dinner out at a four star restaurant.  Sometimes I close my eyes and see . . . oh, so many things.  So many things that I miss--that I took for granted at the time.  Things like walking into the lobby of the Opera House and seeing all the people so differently dressed, from evening gowns to jeans.  That's something that is so typically Seattle:  everyone is free to enjoy the arts and it's not considered "affected" or "snooty," attitudes which I have experienced fully here in Ohio.

What else about those jazz nights is typically Seattle?  The parking garages blocks away, and having to walk past blocks full of ethnic restaurants--all of the glorious fragrances of exotic spices.  The traffic, especially the taxis.  Groups of young men and women hanging out at the bus stops, sometimes asking for change.  The air would smell of Puget Sound-ocean-fresh with a tinge of salt to it.  And the aroma of coffee!  Yes!  Every corner: Starbucks; Tully's; Seattle's Best; and the many other smaller coffee-houses that have made Seattle the coffee kingdom of the U.S.  Even in the lobby of the Opera House I could by a mocha and sip it while waiting anxiously for the show to start--and then again during intermission.

The concerts were so amazing, the artists absolute legends playing the stuff of their legends.  I remember closing my eyes and letting the music fall upon me like a drenching rain; a rain that washed away those little annoyances of the day and left my soul clean and pure.  I am very sensitive to music and have always felt it quite strongly.  And jazz had a power over me, I had to move my feet or hand or head in time to the music.  If I could have I would've gotten up and danced.  I dreaded the moment the show would end, because it was so sad.  We all would applaud until arms felt light and our palms stung, just so we could get as many encores as possible.  None of us wanting the music to end.  Yet, when it inevitably did we all would file out, smiling like children at a fair.  We'd left many of our cares behind us, beaten down by the jazz, and washed away for the night at least.

When we'd emerge from the lobby we would huddle in our respective groups and made our plans.  "Do you want to go?"  "I know a wonderful place that serves a killer cheesecake."  "How about a cup of coffee?"  And we would troop off in our little groups, huddling together to protect that rush we'd gotten from the music from the downtown night.  It would sometimes be chilly, and it would quicken our steps to our next destination.

One of my favorite places was Dilletentes' Chocolates.  My girlfriend and I would order the "Plate of Designer Chocolates" comprised of the confection of our choosing.  And we would order that wonderful dark rich Seattle-style coffee--and when it would arrive there would be a perfect cube of raw sugar and one disk of chocolate in the bowl of our spoons.  Or, we would ask for brown sugar and whipped cream and drank our coffee like that.  With all of the sugar, caffeine, warmth, and music strumming through us we would talk and talk for hours.  We would each tell what had been our favorite part of the concert; then we would each sample each other's desserts, and decide who had made the best choice.

After too much coffee, non-stop talking, and sometimes impromptu humming of favorite songs--we would reluctantly put on our jackets, leave larger tip than was ever needed or expected--then we'd trundle into the street.  The streets were so empty, and it seemed like a different city than the Seattle of the day light.  After awkwardly saying our goodbyes and making tentative plans to meet soon--we would reluctantly turn and walk into our separate lives again.

In my mind I like to think only of those moments during the concert that filled me so completely I thought I would burst with all of it inside me.  With closed eyes I can invision the bluish stage lights; the brighter spot lights reflecting off the brass instruments; and the reflection of all of it on the sequin dresses of the fancy dresses.  For me, I'm lucky.  I can revisit those moments--I just close my eyes and I can transport myself to those Seattle nights.  And I see the empty downtown streets, I smell the chocolate and rich aroma of coffee.  I hear the excited crowd; and experience that magical moment between the second all noise would cease, and the moment when the very first note would reverberated out across us all; bonding us in a small way in this one place in time.  Then I see all of the lights go out except for one blue spot on the piamist--a lone pianist and he's playing so very softly:

In time the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble
They're only made of clay
But our love is here to stay.