One Last Trip to the Opera

June 12th, 2018

There were soaking rains off and on yesterday, and they all seemed to catch us while we were outside.  So Glenn, Annette, and I, with plans to see Don Pasquale at the Opéra Garnier, arrived there with dripping umbrellas and heavy, damp clothing.  Our bus had been late, so dinner was a rushed sandwich at the cafe, and the special surtitle glasses I had ordered for us seemed to be failing to charge properly.  And then we arrived at our seats, on the fourth level, hot and stuffy and humid from the evaporation off of everyone's rain gear.  The seats were small and uncomfortable, with elbows and knees crossing invisible boundaries between seats.  We tried our best to settle in.  

And then the opera started.  

I sighed.  The set and staging were imaginative and evocative.  The orchestra sounded clear and strong and sweet, even up in the far reaches of the fourth level.  All of the singers were great, but the lead soprano's voice was transporting. 

A weight was lightened and lifted.  Whatever flustered, uncomfortable, aggravated feelings I had had ten minutes before were carried away on the dulcet tones of the opera.  Ahhh.