Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Le Maire

"I cannot believe, after all these years, that this thing, this community, is still going!"

My friend spoke with more than a hint of amazement in his voice. He studies people, their motivations, emotions, foibles, vulnerabilities, their needs, coping mechanisms, their defenses, their fallacies. And he has always been fascinated by this thing I often speak of, an island of peace called Boeville.

It's been four-plus years, he said. You all came together because of Alfie, but you're still together and he really is tangential to the many deep, self-sustaining friendships that grew outward from a that initial common interest, he observed.

Is that unique, this tie that knows no seasons, I wondered?

Yes, my friend assured me, it is.

I've always felt that in my heart, about this disparate, diverse family. Yes, this tiny global community  was first drawn together by the incredible talent of a classically trained tenor, but then, we were inexorably pulled to each other by something else, something just as beautiful.

Tonight, as I lay sleepless in Cardiff, two days' removed from seeing the final two dates on Alfie's Winter Tour, I try to understand what that something is. And who we campy, crazy caring "Boe'd" ones are!

We broke every rule along the way, committing infractions of the sort that would have earned our children timeouts from the Internet and lost privileges of surfing social Facebook and Twitter in the privacy of their own peer groups and personal domains. We, the parents, teachers, guardians, were certainly old enough to know better than to make friends on The Internet! But we were suddenly "free" enough not to care. We willingly, joyfully followed a golden voice, a Pied Piper without peer, to another world,  one that offered more than music, but also warmth, comfort, companionship, laughter and loving sisters and brothers.

And we followed each other blithely,  without shame, smiling as if it were not only our less than well-kept secret, but our wonderful inside joke.

Now, if when any two of us gather, in London, Wales, Los Angeles, New York, we are invariably asked how we met. And very many times, we are at a loss for words.

"Well," we often stammer, "It's a long story. ..."There's this singer." ... "We're followers of Alfie Boe.  ... We met online because we love his music." ... "We love him like a son a brother, a friend."  ... "No, we laugh, we are not a cult. ..." "Let's try this, again. ..."

Alfie Boe. Englishman. Classically trained tenor. Discovered by most when this relative unknown turned Britain's musical theater world -- and America's vast PBS network - on their ears with his star turn in the Live 25th Anniversary Concert of "Les Miserables."

Most everyone in Boeville remembers the moment, seeing the performance love at the O2 Arena in London in 2010, or televised throughout The States the following year. The  once-in-a-generation voice upended what was a production where top billing originally belonged to the veteran musical theater stars in the cast (greats Norm Lewis and Lea Salonga) and even a rock star (Nick Jonas). The four-minute standing ovation Alfie received after his shatteringly beautiful rendition of the iconic "Bring Him Home" said it all. So did the tears streaming down his face.

His life had changed forever. So, too, had many who heard him for the first time.

So many were immediately drawn in, Googling "Alfie Boe" before the credits rolled, culling YouTube for every available video, leaping wholeheartedly into his then-modest following on Twitter
and Facebook. And when we did dive into social media, who was there to meet us but

Alfie Boe --Jean Valjean, Monsieur Le Maire -- himself? Kibitzing, cracking corny jokes, asking questions, putting a sweet, unpretentious human face on his new celebrity.

And he kept on doing so, even as gold and platinum albums followed and arenas filled.  What hadn't changed him did change those in the eclectic neighborhood that grew around him, though.

How often we say to each other "he made my life better" not just because he sang his way into it, but because  this incredible army that followed. By the tens, 20s, hundreds. Mothers, fathers, professionals, laborers, housewives, police officers, retirees, teens.

We've seen our youngest in Boeville grow up and go off to their first proms, their freshmen years in
college. We've held hands in our virtual reality as death has visited, comforting as mothers, fathers, husbands, children and grandchildren are taken from our beloved friends' arms.

Loneliness has ebbed from so many here. There's always a friend awake, somewhere
in the world. There's always understanding, empathy, a shoulder, a loving embrace.

If a voice goes missing, if one from Japan, Germany, Canada, the fifty states is not heard from for a
disconcerting amount of time, the search is on.

Oh, okay, our friend in a far-off navy is fine; she's simply at sea. ... He or she is a little down - send loving thoughts, prayers or just a hello. ...  Internet is spotty in The Rockies where this lovely is vacationing. ... Didn't you know, he's sailing, entertaining on a cruise ship to the South Pole -- no cell phone towers there!

This series of carefully and lovingly crafted bridges has helped roll back many shadows
and fill many voids in lives that are, by some reckonings, more vibrant and alive than ever. Alfie is not only the cause, but an ever-constant catalyst. He's huge in England. Invasion USA will jump off this summer when he stars in another 25th anniversary celebration, this of the Who's rock opera, "Quadrophenia."

Still, Alfie is Alfie. He sees the now-familiar faces from the five-year journey at album signings, stage doors, photo ops and he effortlessly puts names in place almost instantly, peering intently at you, not by you. Then comes the barrel-chested laugh, the hug, the crinkly nosed smile. He is in the moment, enveloping it as if presiding over the latest current meeting of his global town hall!

This is why people flit around the continents and cross ponds to see Alfie and to "convene." My diary entries about trips to places I never imagined going, are as much about memories of "reunions" with never-before-met-in-the-flesh friends as they are about concerts.

 Family members, work peers have learned to check their alarm. No longer do the wonder out loud if this is a cult. Instead you get wry witticisms.  "You stalking that singer, again?" ... "You're going to London, again? Oh, yeah, of course..."

Of course, indeed.

Meet-ups, greet-ups, tweet-ups, we don't even need the excuse of a Boe Tour to gather anymore. We gather because we can, we want. We unashamedly wear our friendships like badges, sharing our growth, our shared coming-out-of-shells experiences. So many who felt without a voice followed his voice to such a fulfilling pastime and place that maybe only the "Boe'd" can really ever understand.

So this is why, in my estimation, there is always music in the air, even if The Mayor is only warbling in our imaginations, hearts and souls. He always thanks us, for accompanying him on his explorations of the world of music. But how can he thank us when it is we who owe him so very much?

Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Le Maire. You've made this small corner of the world allow itself
to be a better, gentler, sweeter place. If you chose to never sing another note, your gift will give as long as at least one of these friendships keeps making a difference.