In was the summer of 2009 and I was living la dolce vita in Rome, blissfully unaware that the world was about to change.
I’d escaped my hometown Amsterdam for a week-long Italian adventure, taking the night train to Milan before continuing south through the rolling countryside to the Eternal City. My accommodations? A couch in the outer suburbs, courtesy of a generous young Italian couple who didn’t just offer me a place to sleep, they welcomed me into their world.
While they worked, I played the tourist with dedication. Vatican City, the Pantheon, pizzas, and the mighty Colosseum. Being the history nerd I am, I probably visited all 19 basilicas. But mostly, I did as Romans do: I ate gelato. Constantly. The summer heat demanded it.
Evenings were magic, music sessions with my hosts, impromptu gatherings with their friends, drinks that stretched late into the warm nights.
Then came an unexpected gift. One of my hosts worked security at concerts and invited me to join her at a major stadium show. The headliner? Tiziano Ferro. “He’s Italy’s Michael Jackson,” she explained. “Our biggest pop star.” I recognized the name from his Dutch radio hit that summer.
My ticket in was simple: help manage the wheelchair section near the stage. What followed was pure joy, thousands of voices singing in unison, the energy of Italian pop at its peak, and me learning lyrics in real-time.
After the show, I found myself in the stadium’s underground areas, waiting for my host to finish her duties. That’s when everything shifted.
A text message. Then another. Suddenly everyone had their phones out, faces changing from post-concert euphoria to shock.
In 2009, we couldn’t instantly check BBC online, news traveled through calls and text messages.
People stood in disbelief.
Some began to cry.
The night that had started with Tiziano Ferro, “Italy’s Michael Jackson”, ended with the news that the real Michael Jackson was gone.
We returned to that suburban apartment and did what people do when the world tilts: we played music, shared stories, drank wine, and stared out windows into a night that suddenly felt different.
Sometimes the most ordinary days become extraordinary, not for the reasons you expect, but for the moments when personal joy collides with collective loss, when a perfect day in Rome becomes inseparable from the day the King of Pop died.
