We’d bought the last tickets for the concert and our seats were in the back row. The program didn’t matter. This was Amsterdam’s Concertgebouw hall famous for its unparalleled acoustics. At first, all I could do was marvel at the splendor of the concert hall. Teardrop chandeliers sparkled throughout, illuminating the high-ceilinged, rectangular space. Red upholstery, rugs and curtains contrasted beautifully with the decorated pale beige walls and gilded pillars.
When the conductor raised his hands and the musicians readied their instruments, the chandeliers were slightly dimmed, leaving the hall in a glittering tenuous light. And the music. Oh, the music. It soared and rose, taking me with it, transporting me to a place of light and beauty.
Afterwards, I regretted we hadn’t remembered a program. With my mind brimming with travel impressions, I couldn’t remember the name or the composer of the violin concert that had cast its spell over me.
Today, two years later, I turn up the volume on our kitchen radio. A magnificent violin concert strikes a chord within me, but I’m at a loss to identify it. The notes penetrate my core, triggering a sense of splendor and euphoria within. Why is this concert so familiar?
At the end of the piece, the announcer identifies the orchestra as Amsterdam’s Royal Concertgebouw and the piece as Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E minor, Opus. 64. Suddenly, I know why the concerto is familiar and moves me so.
I’ve recovered something precious that I’d thought lost to me.