Night At the Opera

A chill hung in the air as I stepped out of the taxi and onto the curb at Lincoln Center. After a forty-five minute cab ride from my cousin’s apartment on Wall Street to Uptown Manhattan, I was glad for the air. Normally, I would have preferred to walk, but due to the cold and my open-toed stilettos, I decided a cab would be a more comfortable choice. Nevertheless, the ride felt as if it would go on forever.

I loathe the stop-and-go traffic which is normal for a city like New York. Tonight the generally spasmodic traffic was worsened tenfold because it was New Year’s Eve.
That meant that people were everywhere and getting through Midtown was a nigh impossible nightmare. I’m glad I left the apartment with plenty of time. The opera did not start for another half an hour, so I had time to get situated.

I quickly crossed Lincoln Center checking my clutch to make sure I had my ticket. The line was short, thank God. Stepping into the warm lobby of the Met, I was surrounded by the rich opulence which most grand opera houses are known for around the world. After showing my ticket to the usher, I spied the Opera Shop.

I had time so I thought that I should invest in a pair of opera glasses. I knew that they would probably cost a fortune, but I believe that, to a point, I can splurge. Thank you, Grandma, for the Christmas money. Entering the shop, I was distracted by the various items from scarves to posters to DVDs. Eventually, I managed to make my way over to the glasses. There were a few different types. The really pretty ones were behind glass. There was one for sixty dollars. To buy or not to buy? I bet Hamlet never had this difficult a decision. I threw caution to the winds and bought them, knowing that if I didn’t I would regret it later.

Leaving the Opera Shop, I checked my ticket once again to see where my seat was. I went up one level to my appropriate tier and found my box. I was pretty excited when I booked one of the boxes, very Phantom of the Opera, no? The price was reduced compared to the other box seats thanks to my Guild membership.

I settled into my seat looking up at the famed crystal chandelier shaped like snowflakes. My eyes wandered around the theater, taking in the splendor and people. I noticed that I was basically the youngest person there. Perhaps there were a few yuppies and international types in their late twenties or early thirties, but no one was in his or her early twenties like me. Correction: there was a little boy squirming in his seat. He obviously did not want to be there and was most likely forced to sit through the opera by the austere, artsy-looking academic, Middle-aged woman sitting next to him. The only thing that would probably entertain him was the Star Wars action figure that I spied with my new opera glasses.

Yes, I am a bit odd for a twenty-one year old. Here I am on New Year’s Eve by myself at the opera. No, I don’t have a boyfriend, nor did my family want to come with me. It’s not that they don’t love me, opera, or the city. It’s just that they did not want to spend the beginning of 2011 this way. My brother would rather go to a bar, club, or party with friends, and my parents do not like the crowded chaos of the city during New Year’s Eve. In fact, they did not want me to go either, but I said I was going and I had to do this for me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that is how I rebel: I go to the opera.

Thankfully, my cousin who lives in the city was bringing in the New Year in Long Beach and said I could crash at his place. I took a bus into Port Authority yesterday, spent the day buzzing around the city, and stayed at my cousin’s apartment. I could get used to this life. All I have to do now is get a job in mergers and acquisitions next year that pays well enough to support my newly experienced yuppie lifestyle.

I sighed, filling my lungs with air and an exhilarating feeling. Electricity was in the air as members of the orchestra began to warm-up their instruments. I was so excited; this was my first opera at the Met. Sure, I had seen a ballet or two, but this was my first live opera here. La Traviata. I had not heard this Verdi work in its entirety, but tonight I would. I settled back into my chair and tore my eyes away from my people watching and directed them toward my program.

As I perused the Rolex ads and plot synopsis of the opera, I sensed movement out of the corner of my right eye. I figured it must be my fellow box mates taking their seats, so I did not pay the movement any further attention. But then I heard a deep, rich, rough tone of a Scottish brogue which caused my ears to perk up and pulse to quicken. I have had a particular attraction to Scottish accents since I developed a celebrity crush on Gerard Butler during my freshmen year of high school. Sadly pathetic, but undeniably true. My mind was suddenly active, wondering if this extremely masculine voice had the visage to match. Therefore, I casually let my head rise from my program and pretended to nonchalantly gaze about the room as though I was taking in the general splendor: a commonly used ploy utilized my many women when trying to sneak an unassuming peek at an object.

When my gaze fell upon the Brogue next to me, my heart almost stopped. I hate to sound like a boy crazed teeny bopper, but he was gorgeous. The right amount of Adonis and Russell Crowe in Gladiator. I nearly laughed out loud at myself. I was starting to become ridiculous with my romance novel-esque description and thoughts of our future marriage. There I went again, classifying men into Yes, Maybe, and No categories as future mates. This one looked, and sounded, like a “Yes.” Calm down and pull yourself together, I told myself. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath which helped a bit. I was getting carried away with my imagination and I knew I was being silly.

The orchestra was warmed up by now and I could tell the opera would begin shortly. Nevertheless, in the minutes that preceded the prelude, I scouted out both ring fingers to see if he was married. I checked both because Europeans have the funny habit of wearing their wedding bands on their right hand. But this guy was clean. Next, I convinced myself that he probably had a girlfriend, or more likely the case, multiple girlfriends. However, it appeared as though none of them had accompanied him tonight… Enough, I thought. I was not going to dwell him anymore and ruin my opera viewing experience. I was being ridiculous.

The overture began after the snowflake chandeliers ascended to the ceiling and the house lights dimmed. During the opera, I let myself forget about the outside world and its distractions. My soul rose and fell with the crescendos and decrescendos.

I was awoken from the surreal spell one falls into during live theater productions as the curtain closed for intermission and the house lights came on again. I blinked, slowly coming back to the real world, smiling like an idiot. But what can I say, I was truly happy to be there and completely at ease; that was until I remembered that my incredibly dashing box partner was sitting next to me. That’s right, he probably saw my artless smile, naïve and blissful. Drat! I did not want to be perceived as some sort of bumpkin by this fine specimen of a man which can only be described as a living, breathing Michelangelan statue.

Attempting to recover, I tried to fix my posture and expression to be one of a much older, sophisticated, femme fatale-like creature that I had seen in movies; or in the words of my favorite author, Jane Austin, I tried to exude the mien of a poised, well-bred, young lady of discerning tastes. As I sat, I felt the need to stretch my legs, because I had been sitting for over an hour. So, I got up, stretched---discretely--- and looked around. The elderly couple, also sitting in the box went out to get champagne. That sounded like a positively brilliant suggestion, wine at the opera. I was about to leave as the elderly couple returned and addressed me.
The normal conversation unfolded in the style where the cute elderly couple spots a “youngster” at the theater feels compelled to remark about the presence of the latter. I do not mind these conversations. I enjoy forging commonalities between complete strangers. Besides I find such occasions wonderful for both demonstrating my understanding and passion for the art and to add information and memoirs to my repertoire.

I became so involved in the conversation that the ten minutes lights flashed. That indicated that it was probably too late to get my champagne. Disappointment clouded my spirits a bit. It would have been really posh to be sipping wine while watching an opera. Sighing, I told myself that there would be more opportunities in the future and not to make a big deal out of nothing.

Returning to my seat, I took up my program to see what the second half of the opera had in store. I was so deeply entrenched in my reading that I nearly jumped out of my seat and onto the chandelier when I was addressed by the man sitting next to me. Staring like a deer in headlights, I stuttered for him to please repeat what he had just said. I was taken off guard, partially because I was in deep concentration when reading the program and did not expect the following conversation, and because of the full view of his handsome face and dark, emerald green eyes.