Opera Madness

I went to my last opera of the season last night. Actually, it was two, neither of which had I seen before.

Last night's were Cavalleria Rusticana and Pagliacci. They were really bleak with a lot of lovers getting killed by jealous husbands. But the music was absolutely enthralling. They were sung in Italian with English super titles, which means the words are projected on a screen at the top of the proscenium.

Last week was Mozart's Abduction from the Seraglio, which was not at all bleak, and was kind of funny to hear the harem girls singing in German.

Ann doesn't like opera enough to pay the price for tickets, but I have wonderful seat mates, or at least I had. The seats to my left are not subscribed so I get a variety of people there, although at the last two operas no one sat next to me so I had a little room to spread out. The seats to my right are occupied by two solo women, Linda, whose husband doesn't come to the performances, and Joan on the aisle, who is not married. Joan told me she is not going to subscribe next year. She has some good reasons, and I understand. But I am going to miss chatting with her.

The people who sit behind me, Gary and Marianne, and their friend Judy, are wonderful. We meet for dinner before the opera, and Ann joins us then goes home. Gary and I went to the same high school, but he graduated with my sister. He's a lot younger than I am.

I have had subscriptions to the Lyric Opera for several years off and on. When Ann and I started going to the opera, we got nosebleed seats and watching the production was like looking at the Grand Canyon from an airplane 35,000 feet in the air. We could hear wonderfully because the acoustics are great. We took a hiatus for a while and then ended up in the first balcony for a couple years' subscriptions.

That was a trip because of the people around us. We were on the aisle. The third seat was occupied by the Mentholatum Queen. She arrived for every performance in a haze of Mentholatum, which made my nose run. The more I blew my nose, the more Mentholatum she applied. Ann and I traded seats at the intermissions, and by the time the opera was finished we both had clear sinuses.

The people who sat behind us were intense opera buffs. The Lyric is noted not for its standing ovations, but for its "Walking Ovations" which occur at the end of each act or performance as people try to rush out to be the first in line for the toilets at the intermissions or the taxi cabs at the finish.

Mr. Intense Opera Buff took great delight at yelling Bravo! or Brava! in our ears. And he took great offense at the Walking O and invariably screamed something about staying for the curtain calls. "Have respect for the singers!" he would shout.

We didn't rush out because we drove downtown and had no need to sprint home. Maybe if we had, our hearing would be intact. We parked once with valet parking at a vacant lot, now an opulent office building, across the street from the Lyric. When we returned to our car one evening, all the attendants had left - with keys in each car. We were driving a Saturn at the time, but there were a lot of Beemers and Benzes ripe for the stealing.

These days I take the train. And occasionally I have to rush out to catch the 11:20 at the Metra Station. If I miss it, I have to wait until the 12:50, which gets me home around 2 a. m. And I'm not particularly interested in spending an hour or so in the Metra Station, especially at that time of the morning.

Last night I took my time leaving because I said good bye to my seat mates for the summer. I watched the Walking O in the dark, the patrons tripping and dropping things and returning to pick them up. I waited until the curtain call was over and the house lights came up. I put my opera glasses away and left with the majority of the crowd. Outside I noticed the block-long lines of people waiting for taxis. I crossed the street, lifted an arm, and a cab stopped immediately. The driver sped - literally up to 50 m.p.h. - and slammed on his brakes at stop lights, but he got me to the Metra station in one piece. I arrived about five minutes before boarding.

I feel a little guilty about hailing a taxi out of line. I fear that others will emulate my technique, and I'll eventually be out of luck and have to walk to the Randolph Street Station. I've done it in the past, and it's probably good for me. Guilt is generally a wasted emotion, however, so I shrug it off. I do what I have to do, and I haven't missed a train yet.

I will miss the opera, however. I lose myself in the music and the stories - despite the bleakness of some of them. The opera is a social occasion as well as entertainment for me. But I'll be back next year.

For now, however, La commedia è finita!

As always, feel free to comment below.