He was here

Growing up, I listened to my father play Bob Dylan on his guitar; it became my lullaby, the soundtrack of my time with my ultimate hero: dad. The opportunity to see the legend himself fell into my lap, and I felt obliged to take it.

Sunday proved to be a beautiful afternoon and beautiful weather for an outdoor concert: overcast, just like I like it. Unfortunately, the clouds darkened as my group of Dylan enthusiasts reached Park City. Not planning for rain, we all had minimal clothing and brought light jackets — if we brought jackets at all. Sprinkles of rain pattered on the windows even before the gates at Deer Valley Resort opened. The rain gained as we took our place among the Bob fans in the queue.

My meager jacket was soaked through by the time we reached the opening gates, as were the jackets of my friends. Once we were inside, the rain really began to come down. Each time the rain seemed to lighten up, the crowd cheered and Mother Nature mocked our enthusiasm with another thunderous bang, and even harder falling drops consumed us. Hail pounded my bare hands and my little ballerina flats filled with the icy water. I was standing in these conditions just to wait for Bob Dylan, only a small source of my childhood nostalgia, yet another hour? But so it was.

Miraculously, it seemed, the rain lightened about ten minutes before show time. Considering that Deer Valley has a rain or shine policy on its outdoor concerts, the lightening of the rain was hopeful, at best, for some time. I was utterly soaked and the chill air of the Park City mountains haunted my spirit once the music began.

Playing only a few songs I recognized, Dylan endured the weather for the rest of the crowd hungry for his gift. My friends’ excitement when their favorite songs were played helped fuel my desire to stomach the cold. Trying not to be a party pooper, I danced, I swayed, but mostly I tried to forget about the freezing cold I was experiencing. Finally, the show was over. We threw in the towel once the rain, again, began to scour the night sky. I was soaked, freezing, and dissatisfied. The experience I was expecting was a nostalgic one, filled with Bob Dylan, the American icon, doing what he does best. Instead, it was a wet, miserable affair, best suited for the die-hard — among whom I am not, nor did I have the stamina to become one during the experience.

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