Friday night was a most perfect night in the city. We went in to see Laura Pausini. We got off the PATH at 34th street and walked the thirty blocks to Lincoln Center. The concert was like two and a half hours long, which was just fabulously incredible and atypical. Unfortunately, Laura is recording Spanish for her CD and DVD this time around, so she sang so little in Italian that it made me want to cry a bit.

Because, facts being facts, Laura is simply more of a goddess in her native Italiano than in any of the other four languages she sings in. Not only is the lyrical flow better, which makes sense since most of her songs were almost certainly written in Italian, but she sounds so much more passionate in Italian. I was, of course, expecting some Spanish, but the last time we saw her in this country she sang mostly in Italian at her New York concert and mostly in Spanish in LA. So I was really holding out hope. But when she started out in Spanish and then said that she was recording Spanish for the live CD/DVD, we knew it was all over. We were officially at a concert that would be seventy-percent en español.

Which I have no problem with… if I’m seeing Shakira or Olga Tañon. Oh Laura, per favore, don’t you know how Italiano bleeds from your soul and Spanish limps out like a lame rabbit? Okay, that’s not true. You wail in Spanish also. I just prefer when you take your power stance and blow the walls down in Italian. Is that too much to ask?

Anyway, every time we are at a Laura concert, the exact same conversation takes place. Since Laura sings in five languages, and has most of the same songs in Italian and Spanish, we always worry about the chaos that must cause inside that utterly gorgeous head with the dark, shiny mane atop it. The conversation goes as thus.

I don’t know how she does it. How the hell does she remember which language she is singing in and not get all mixed up?

She must have a teleprompter or something.

There are no assigned roles in this brief, but necessary, conversation. Who says what varies by year and venue. So we were having this conversation prior to Friday’s concert, wondering aloud what would happen if she forgot what language she was singing in.

Partway through the concert, Laura started singing Escucha Atento and missed a few words, then most of the second half of the first verse. So, just before the beginning of the chorus, she makes an Italian declaration and bursts into the chorus for Resta in Ascolto. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Now, what she said exactly I can’t say for certain, but what I heard was “Fuck it. I’ll sing it in Italian.” And I’m pretty sure at least part of that translation is accurate. Sadly, she switched back to Spanish after the first chorus, but at least we got one moment of pure, passionate Italian sexiness. And our question answered. What happens when Laura gets mixed up in her many languages? Accidental Italian.

Now, here is where I am a bit of a hypocrite, as I say a big thank all of the heavens for the awesome performance of Se Fue, one of the only two songs of Laura’s that I actually prefer in Spanish. And that I get disappointed when she sings in Italian. Go figure.

And once again with the whole Italian/Spanish dichotomy, I was reminded of something I think every time I hear one specific lyric of Laura’s in Spanish. The word ‘muchacho’ simply does not sing well.

It was heavenly nonetheless though. But then, as we are winding down, Laura goes and tells us she’s going to be off the road for two years. Two f’in years! Which meant, of course, that the concerts we hadn’t yet bought tickets to, because we don’t actually have the money for being frivolous right now, we simply had to buy tickets to. Which is why we are currently en route to Atlantic City and will be spending next Friday in Toronto.

Oh, and she sang New York, New York as an encore, which was an entirely unexpected and pleasant surprise.

So, that’s the Laura part of the story. Then, after the concert, we walked ten blocks before the rain came at us, hopped on the subway where we watched a street artist draw a woman across from him in about three minutes and give her the drawing for free, got off at Penn Station, ate overpriced half sandwiches that were microwaved in a paper bag while watching a really good subway performer who, unbeknownst to him, had a mouse sidekick, got to the PATH just as the doors were closing, squished into the first car like a bunch of idiots who had almost missed the train and, as punishment, had to squish into the first car, and got home at one-thirty in the am. And then had coffee.

Ah, if only all nights were like that.

In other news, just arrived in Atlantic City. Never been here. Apparently, never needed to be. On the other hand, as eloquently summed up by Shawna, it does make Vegas look almost classy.