And so for me, the journey ends. By the time this gets posted, I’ll be on board a jet bound for SLC and the Singers will be on their way to Marktoberdorf to begin their competition.

So…what can I say about the past three weeks? How do you frame “extraordinary” in a hundred words? We have seen remarkable cities and experienced amazing hospitality. We have taken a million photos and agonized over a million souvenirs. But my memories tend to be less of the whole experience, and more of the little mental snapshots that will remain mine forever. May I share some of my favorites?

As you might guess, putting 45 people into the confined space of a bus for three weeks meant that most of us got chest and head colds. Worried about keeping my bunkmates awake while I coughed the night away in Koper, I slipped out of our hostel room at 2:45a and padded down the travertine-tiled stairway to wait for the morning to come in the hostel’s tiny foyer. A short time later, while trying to muffle my cough and nurse a vast amount of self-pity, I heard other footfalls coming down the stairs. It was Greg Wendel, the guy in the bunk below me. “I just wanted to check on you,” he confessed. “I wanted to make sure you were okay and that you weren’t locked out or anything.” In the quiet darkness of that early morning hour, I suddenly understood with profound personal clarity the true meaning of compassion.

Prague is a remarkable city by day…but even more remarkable when two friends agree to a late-night adventure that ultimately leads to being the only three tourists at the Prague Castle at midnight. I have a photo of Will Perkins stretched out on the stone plaza in front of St. Vitus, trying to take the ultimate picture.  But the photo in my head is richer with detail and nuance. I can hear Jane Fjeldsted’s joyous laughter in the background and the sound of the two miliary guards walking slowly by, and I can remember the sense of seeing the front of the cathedral stretching up into the night sky as if it were but a single brick wide. And I can forever enjoy walking back through the narrow streets of a sleeping Prague until we found a taxi to ferry us home.

Our Slovenian guide, Andreja Vidmar, became everyone’s best friend. She was the perfect shepherdess, moving us effortlessly from venue to venue on that portion of the trip that required a new accommodation each night. At Brezice she worked with the Singers during rehearsal to hone their pronunciation on the Slovenian folk songs. On the drive back to the pensione that night, she poked her head through the curtain at the front of the bus and quickly said, “You made me cry tonight when you sang the Slovenian folk song, but I won’t tell you which one.” Then she disappeared behind the curtain again. A moment later her face reappeared. “It was Pa Se Slis,” she said, and then disappeared again. The next morning, she sang Pa Se Slis with the choir as our way of thanking the inn’s hosts who had spent the night doing mountains of Singers’ laundry…for free.

Other favorite memories:

Jen Smith monitoring Rachel Hales to make sure she avoided gluten…even when Rachel really wanted to break the rules when some of the desserts were served.

Alasdair Wadell’s ability to sleep on the bus. Seriously, the guy could climb on the bus, plug in his earbuds, pop on his shades and…be gone. Just. Like. That. Of course, the vast amounts of allergy medicine might have helped.

Austin Sharette pedaling past me on a rented bike in Ljubljana, looking for all the world as if he were a Slovenian resident…with the exception of the bright red “Singers” polo shirt he was wearing.

Mike, our German bus driver, mopping his brow after loading and unloading fifty+ suitcases, two performance cases, and four boxes of CDs day after day after day.

The dozen young women who gathered in the foyer after the Gorizia concert to sing a little do-wop Slovenian style to the Singers…but more especially to Ricky Parkinson.

Rachel Webster. Part Ethel Merman, part Madonna, part Beverly Sills, part Mother Theresa. I’ve seen the woman schlep boxes of CDs and programs up a 30-foot hill, check on the well-being of a half-dozen choir members, perform an entire concert with amazing energy and extraordinary vocal skill, and still be ready to sell CDs afterwards with the vigor and chutzpah of a rag merchant. The woman could get a monk with a vow of silence to break out in song. I’m gonna miss Rachel.

Steve Knell’s dialectic abilities, and the look of utter bliss on his face when he sampled the gnocchi at Gorizice. Thanks to Steve, I may never get the word “verklempt” out of my head.

Marianne Mabey’s response to my discovery that the medicine I purchased from the apothecary in Ljubljana was (according to the Google translation) extract of dried ivy leaves. “Well,” she said without so much as a blink, “we don’t prescribe that so much in the U.S.” And then she added, completely deadpan: “On the bright side, I’m sure it’s not listed as a known poison.”

Stephanie Brown’s spectacular knee-slide across half the stage to get into position for Oklahoma! at Gorizia. And any umpire would have called her safe!

The way that Jennifer Smith and Clarke Wilkinson could make even an old vulture feel wanted.

There are a million others. Mental shanpshots that I’m sure will pop into my head for years to come. I won’t bore you with all of them.

Just this last one, that for me is a favorite memory. It occurred in Koper, after the concert and after the small party hosted by the local choir that sponsored the Singers. We were headed back to the bus through the old town square, lit only by the yellow glow of lights from the Cathedral and a sprinkling of random street lamps. In the warm Mediterranean darkness of that evening, Curtis Lee and Karly Smith, dressed in tux and gown, danced a few effortless steps together across the stone piazza. In that golden grey light, they looked as elegant and debonair as Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn — a reference probably lost on their generation, but who else epitomizes grace and style so completely? For those few moments, those quick steps and a spin staged against a 17th century cathedral facade in a city that describes its history in millennia rather than decades, I felt a part of something amazing and memorable. For me, that will be one of my most lasting memories.

Well, that…and the gelato.

I’ll post once more, when I’m in the states — mostly photos with captions.

In the meantime, to follow the Singers progress at Marktoberdorf, you can check this website.

Finally, in words that would undoubtedly bring a little joy to Will Perkins’ heart, “So long. Farewell. Auf Wiedersehen. Good night.” And thank you for letting me share this extraordinary experience.

Pack up the bags one more time. We’re moving from Ljubljana to Salzburg. Ljubljana is such a beautiful city…and what a spectacular way to bid farewell to Slovenia.

One advantage of touring with the Singers is that after a while, I didn’t need to watch the choir. I knew where they would stand for Peace Like a River. I knew what they would be doing in Great American Cowboy. I was even ready to jump in as a last-second dancer replacement in Oklahoma! (Fortunately for American-European relations, that emergency never transpired.) 

Not focusing on the choir allowed me the luxury of focusing on the audience. I got to see their delighted reaction to Adam Griffiths’ soaring tenor solo in Dekla Je Na Pragu Stalo, and their hand-clapping joy when Olivia Woolley and Ricky Parkinson let loose in Worthy to be Praised.  I watched people burst into grins when Steve Knell and Riley Soter leaped forward for their solos in Bile Them Cabbage Down, and saw them sit in open-mouthed amazement as the last notes of Jubilate Deo hung in the air for long seconds after the Singers finished.  

Every performance was good — different in its own way because of the venue — but for me every concert was defined by the audience. And sometimes that took just one person.

In Koper, it was a little grandma with a soft round face, wrinkled and care worn. She sat quietly near a woman I judged to be her daughter, wrapped in a clean white blouse with her hands clasped tightly in her lap…a tiny bundle of a woman in the immense darkness of the Cathedral of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. Her dark hair, threaded now with grey, was brushed back in a shapeless and thoroughly utilitarian style, and she lacked only the babushka scarf to be the archetype of every elderly Eastern European babica. 

At last the Singers reached the end of the concert and began to sing Pa Se Slis. As the first words spilled into the hall, a trace of a smile creased her eyes and her mouth formed a tiny “oh.” And then, too softly for even her daughter to hear, she began to sing along with the choir. And as she sang her face softened, her tiny body relaxed and I could almost see the years slipping away. Was she thinking of all the times she sang that lullaby to her children, I wondered? Or was she hearing all the times her mother sang it to her? I will never know…but when the Singers finished that number she sat for a long time without moving, lost in the memories the choir had brought to life for her.

In Ljubljana, the experience was less about an individual in the audience (although there was the old gentleman in work clothes who quite literally did double fist-pumps overhead when the Singers began to sing the Slovenian folk tunes). Rather, it was the size and sound of the audience, squeezed as it was into a beautiful church on the edge of the Old Town in Ljubljana. That evening brought literal meaning to the phrase “packed to the rafters,” and the result was a concert noisy with applause and, yes, outright cheering. And then there was that moment–during the final verse of Pa Se Slis, of course–when the entire cathedral became so utterly still that it seemed suspended in time. It was a span of pin-drop silence, crytal in its perfection, followed by a tsunami of applause and cheers.

It was in Ljubljana where the Singers performed together with the Chamber Choir Mysterium, a very talented local choir whose conductor will be starting her doctoral program at the U this fall. I think both choirs enjoyed singing together and it was a treat to share music with new friends (even if they could sing Slovenian faster than we could!).

The flower market at Ljubljana.

The Singers have a wonderful Gospel number that begins with the men singing, “I can tell the world, yes, about this.” I’ve begun to think of it as the tattle-tale song because whenever someone says or does something on the bus that could prove embarrassing, one of the men invariable pipes up with “I can tell the world….”

So…let’s tell the world. Let’s start with the important stuff: Curtis Lee has triumphed over the Rubics Cube. More than triumphed. He has totally defeated it. He is now one with the Cube. Watching him spin the faces from colored chaos to complete harmony is like watching performance art. The fact he can work such magic in about three minutes is all part of the performance. I may have to videotape it as part of the Singers diary.

Jared Bybee took a pair of sewing scissors to his hair in Gorizia. The result is…interesting. Some might even call it innovative — but many might not. Doesn’t matter. It reflects Jared’s total embrace of life. We should all be so comfortable in our own skin.

Stephanie Brown became a source of considerable attraction to one of the local policemen patrolling the dock where our bus was parked after the Koper concert. Stephanie swears innocence. After all, it’s her role to take roster of all the Singers so she’s always the last person on board. And it was a warm Mediterranean night so it made sense for her to flip her evening gown back and forth as she waited–seemingly deliberately–outside the bus. The poor constable was drawn like a moth to a flame…but this flame eventually climbed on board, informed the driver we were all there, and sped away into the night.

Caitlin Elmer likes bread, and Slovenia is a country with good bread. She’s not at “bread addict” stage yet, but there were a couple of days when entire loaves would mysteriously disappear. I’m just sayin’. She had a perfectly good excuse: These breads have no preservatives so they would go bad if they weren’t eaten right way. Can’t argue with logic. (And the bread really is delicious.)

And finally, I was fortunate enough to overhear a quiet conversation between Erica Lovell and a choir member on the bus at Koper that revealed an extraordinary depth of patience and compassion. The conversation itself was mundane but the circumstances made it remarkable, and I was lucky enough to learn once again about the great power of simply caring enough to listen.

We’re in Ljubljana tonight, the beautiful capital of Slovenia. The last few days have been a whirlwind of packing/unpacking, singing, driving, and lots of walking. Since I have remarkably good connection tonight, I thought I might let some photos do the talking for me. And forgive me in advance: I make my living as a writer, not a photographer.

Old Town Ljubljana, along side the Ljubljanica River

The bell tower and Stolna Cerkev (Cathedral of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary) where the Singers performed in Koper. According to local historians, the first church was erected on this site in 540AD.

Rehearsing at Koper after a warm bus ride and a cooling wander around town. Sorry, no photos of Will Perkins, Melissa Heath, Bronson Webb, or Jared Bybee swimming in the Adriatic. Nor one of David Martin's sunburned head.

The Singers in performance at Koper.