Saying Good-bye to Luciano Pavarotti

Luciano Pavarotti was a member of our family.

Well, not really, but it seemed that way because my mother loved his music, and his voice was ever-present in our house.

Normally a no-nonsense, hard-working homemaker, a faraway look would appear on her face when Pavarotti sang O Sole Mio, and I knew she was thinking of her mother and grandmother, Ellis Island, and growing up in Chicago’s Little Italy.

My mother and her family, Chicago, about 1930.

I inherited her passion, never tired of listening to his CDs, and watched The Three Tenors over and over.

I even risked public embarrassment by crashing a press conference with “the Maestro” when he was in San Diego to give a concert. Arts and entertainment writers had been invited to our best hotel, where their credentials were checked at the door to the ballroom. The director of the opera did a double-take when he saw my press pass.

“But you’re a travel writer….”

After some seriously fast talking, I was admitted and even had the temerity to raise my hand and ask a question. When Pavarotti called on me, I was surprised that I was actually able to speak.

I hung around after the meeting hoping for an autograph, but finally gave up and got in the elevator. Just as the doors were starting to close…in stepped Big Luciano. This time, I was speechless and just grateful that my knees didn’t buckle.

When Pavarotti died in 2007, I mourned like so many others. Two years later, I visited Italy with my family and included Modena on our itinerary. I was sure there would be a memorial museum in his hometown, but no such luck.

“You might try visiting the cemetery where he’s buried,” a gelato vendor suggested. “It’s south of town, but it might be closed by the time you get there.”

Everybody jumped back in the car and off we went.

“South of town,” but where? How far south?

Twenty minutes later, my son-in-law came to an abrupt stop and yelled “Elizabeth, get out. They’re just closing the gates.”

The caretaker knew why I was there and nodded his head in the direction of the great man’s grave. I was struck with its simplicity. “The last, great voice” of Italian opera is buried with his family, and the guestbook was open for anyone to sign.

When the caretaker reappeared I assumed it was to ask me to leave, but instead – without speaking – he handed me a funeral card and then left me alone. In the black and white photo on the card, Luciano was smiling.

I signed the book and then just stood there savoring the moment and thinking of my mother.

Tags: cemetery, family, famous Italian, famous tenor, free, grave, Italy, Luciano Pavarotti, memorable experience, Modena, music, singer, travel

Category: Italy