1985

Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance

Veronica Lambert lives in Spain and is a primary school teacher and psychologist who works as a translator, from Catalan and Spanish into English. Introduced to Dylan’s music at age 20 through Blonde on Blonde, she now owns all of his albums “and a fairly decent collection of outtakes and concerts.” Her web site is found at http://members.xoom.com/veronica_m_l/home.htm.

July 1st was a warm afternoon in Catalonia, Spain. I drove a group of friends to Barcelona to see Bob Dylan, my all-time hero, perform that night. The Poble Espanyol is sort of a mini-town made up of small replicas of famous Spanish buildings and squares. It’s a beautiful setting for concerts, which are held on an end stage in the main square.

We arrived with plenty of time to spare, so my friends decided to have a look around the arena. I had other plans; I wanted to search the area and find the most likely place for Bob to come off stage. I spent ages looking before I decided I’d found the place. There were several exits from the stage area, but all but one would take Bob into very crowded parts of the square. It seemed likely that would probably be the one he’d use.

I waited in vain at that spot for what seemed like ages to see if he’d appear. When I heard the band cranking up, signaling the start of the concert, I rushed around to the front to see the show. Of course, it was fabulous. When the encores began, I excused myself from my friends and returned to “my spot.” When I asked one of the bodyguards where Bob would come off stage, he pointed to another exit. As I was making my way there, something intuitively told me it wasn’t the right one, so I returned to my original spot. Minutes later, just after the show ended, I saw Bob walking alone down the back steps of the stage. As he came closer to where I stood, I called out to him.

“Bobby.”

He looked my way, and, to my great joy and disbelief, walked right over. I was dumbstruck, which is unusual for me.

“Hi there,” he said.

I told him I loved the show, and we talked about a few of the songs he’d performed. He asked me which ones I’d enjoyed the most. A few people who were obviously with his organization walked up to where we stood, clearly expecting Bob to go with them. I was just standing there looking into his beautiful blue eyes when he took hold of my hands and held them for a few seconds before saying good-bye. I remember his hands felt as cold as ice. All I could think to say was, “I love you, Bob.” It’s a bit embarrassing when I think back on it now.

My impression was that he was a very genuine person, the same as you or me, and not the disagreeable jerk he’s sometimes made out to be by the press. After sharing my adventure with my friends, they thought I was totally crazy. But that didn’t concern me. I went home on Cloud Nine that night. I felt that I could die happily at any point, now that I had met my idol.

Two years later, on July 24, 1985, Dylan returned to the Poble Espanyol. I decided to go to the concert on my own this time and get there early. I must admit feelings of nervousness raced through me. Half of me thought that if I’d got the chance meet him once, then I could do it again. The other half was nagging that I wouldn’t be so lucky this time and would wind up feeling disappointed.

I arrived at the venue while the equipment was still being set up, only to discover that the band was about to do a sound check and everyone in the surrounding area would have to leave the square immediately. I tried to hide in some shrubbery, but I was caught and ordered to leave the area at once. The place was teeming with bodyguards; not just a few local lads as on the previous occasion, but a group of big guys from America armed with walkie-talkies.

I missed catching Bob at the beginning of the concert, but as the encores started, I again strolled over to the spot where I’d first encountered him. The show ended...no Bob. Rumor had it he’d left by another exit, and I decided to wait around to see for myself. A half-hour dragged by as plates of food went in and out of the stage area. The bodyguards kept urging me to go home, but I told them in no uncertain terms that I had a letter and a small gift I wanted to give Bob. They laughed, saying there was no way I’d ever get close enough to Dylan to give him anything. Besides, they sneered, he didn’t accept gifts from fans. I informed them I was still going to hang around and see for myself.

Eventually, my patience paid off. The bodyguards suddenly started talking like mad into their walkie-talkies. One of them sent two others to watch over me, assuming I was going to be trouble.

Bob finally emerged dressed in jeans and a checked shirt. To my dismay, he was immediately circled by about eight guards, and they all began marching toward the gate.

Once again, I called out, “Bobby,” and once again he looked my way. I couldn’t believe it as he began walking toward me, just as he had two years before. My legs felt like they were going to give out.

When he approached me, I said, “Bob, I have a letter and a gift for you. Will you accept them?” His bright blue eyes bore right into mine. “Yes, I will,” he said. “Thanks a lot, honey.”

As he reached out to take them from me, the bodyguards who’d been sent to keep an eye on me stepped in and tried to block me from giving the items to Bob. Good old Bob just shoved them away and held out his hand to accept them, which annoyed the guards incredibly.

Once again, Bob Dylan held my hand for a few seconds, and I was able to stroke the softness of his skin and gaze into those amazingly intense eyes. I felt such empathy for him at that moment. He looked so tired and lonely—a prisoner of his own fame, a bird trapped in a cage.

I feel so privileged to have met Bob Dylan not once, but twice. I’m just sorry that I’ll probably never get to know him. I imagine he must be a very special person to have as a friend.