We were staying in an incredibly upscale hotel, the kind with red carpets, the scent of fresh-cut flowers in the air, and sheets folded so perfectly you almost didn’t want to mess them up. It had stunning views of the Opera House, a rooftop pool, and the kind of international buzz that reminded me of some of my favorite cities—San Francisco, Seattle, Barcelona, and Anchorage. The kind of place where no one belonged, and everyone belonged.
But as nice as it was to indulge in poolside service and eggs Benedict with smoked salmon, there were some things I absolutely refused to pay for.
Like hotel laundry service.
So, despite our luxury surroundings, I grabbed my overflowing basket of dirty clothes, my daughter, Rachel, took hold of the detergent, and we headed out on foot in search of the nearest laundromat.
Sydney in September is just coming into spring, so the weather was perfect. On our walk, we passed by street vendors, musicians playing jazz, a didgeridoo performance, and even mimes and human statues frozen in place, waiting for a coin to bring them to life.
The city had an energy, a rhythm—a port city pulse that reminded me why I loved places like this.
But none of that compared to what I saw next.
Because that’s when I spotted the Harley.
The Moment I Met John Denver
I’m not even big on motorcycles, but this one stopped me in my tracks. It was a Harley Davidson, but not just any Harley—it looked straight out of the 1950s. Teal green and white trim. Big black fringe saddlebags. It had style, like something that belonged to a man who lived by the road.
And standing next to it, wearing well-worn denim and boots that had seen miles, was John. Damn. Denver.
For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating.
Am I dreaming?
Did I just enter some alternate reality where John Denver casually stands next to a Harley in Sydney?
But no. He was real. And once I processed that fact, I did what I do best—I walked right up to him like he was an old friend.
“Hi John, my name is Jane.”
He shook my hand, and he was warm, firm, but soft. Not much bigger than mine, but full of something I couldn’t quite put into words.
I looked up at him, at his gently sunburned face, his still-damp hair, and the faint trace of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth. He looked fresh from a shower, clean and present, but there was something else there, too. Something in his eyes that felt… heavy.
And I told him everything I had ever wanted to say.
“My dad loves your music,” I said. “He used to sing your songs to me while we canoed in Missouri. And when we took a trip to Colorado, it felt like we were even closer to you. Your music is part of my most beautiful memories.”
He smiled gently, listening, absorbing, not rushing me.
I don’t even remember what he said back. It didn’t matter.
Because I had said what I needed to say.
And two weeks later, he was gone. Plane crash. Just like that.
I still grieve that day. But I also hold onto the fact that I told him while I had the chance.
Then, just like that, the moment was over. I took a deep breath, and we continued on to the laundromat.
Fabio and the Winds of Destiny
After finishing our laundry—because, let’s be honest, the excitement fades once it’s time to fold socks—we walked back toward the hotel. And as we got closer, a black Mercedes limousine rolled up.
Now, in the Midwest, limos are usually American-made, but this was a Mercedes limo, a different level of luxury. I pointed it out to Rachel and said, "Someone important is about to step out."
And then, the door swung open.
And out stepped Fabio.
Yes. That Fabio.
The hair. The muscles. The presence of a man who had graced more romance novel covers than anyone in human history.
And, as if nature itself acknowledged his arrival, a gust of wind swept through the street, sending his golden mane into a dramatic, slow-motion swirl.
It was ridiculous.
It was majestic.
It was so Fabio.
The women? Losing their damn minds. Screaming, pushing forward, worshiping at the altar of perfect bone structure.
And me? Unfazed.
Rachel was curious, so I walked right past the mob of women, ignored the security, and just marched up to him like I had every right to be there.
“Hi, Fabio. My name is Jane, and this is my daughter, Rachel. She’d like to meet you.”
The crowd went silent.
Fabio turned his perfect, chiseled face toward Rachel, his deep, accented voice rolling over her like a velvet curtain.
“Oh, Rachel… you’re so beautiful.”
And then—he ran his hand through her hair.
From the top of her head all the way down.
It was peak romance novel energy.
The crowd held their breath. Surely, this young girl was about to swoon.
Instead, Rachel blinked at him, completely unimpressed.
We walked away, laundry in hand, back into the hotel. I turned to her and said, "So, what did you think of Fabio?"
She thought about it for a second, shrugged, and said:
"He has great shoes."
And I completely lost it.
Because she was right.
Fabio’s shiny, black, square-toed, silver-buckled pilgrim shoes were immaculate.
The women in the crowd saw a god descending from Olympus.
Rachel saw a man with excellent footwear.
From Dirty Laundry to Clean Clothes to Two Wildly Different Men
And that was September 1997 in Sydney.
John Denver in the morning.
Fabio in the afternoon.
And a basket of freshly folded laundry tying it all together.
Walking to the laundromat with dirty clothes, meeting one of the most humble, quietly powerful men I’d ever admired.
Walking back with clean clothes, meeting one of the most over-the-top, gloriously ridiculous men to ever exist.
One man lived by the road, his music full of longing and truth.
The other stepped out of a limousine with wind and women at his command.
One left me deeply emotional, reflecting on life, gratitude, and fleeting moments.
The other left me laughing until I cried because my kid only cared about his damn shoes.
And somehow, both of them fit perfectly into the same day.
I don’t know what it all meant. Maybe nothing.
But I do know this:
If you see a moment, you take it.
If you have the chance to tell someone what they mean to you, you don’t hesitate.
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