I tell you
this because I saw one Met
transmission last year—it was Giulio Cesare with David
Daniels, and it was fantastic—and I got hooked. So Mr. Fernández and I hit
on the idea taking his mother, the redoubtable Ilia, to the opera.
“We can
take the bus,” said Ilia, when I told her a week ago about the plan.
“We’re
taking a cab,” I told her—and firmly. It’s the only way to be with Ilia.
Well, we
went last week to the opera, and the audience was there, and the theater was
there, but the opera? Not there, since a storm had knocked out the power, and
the generator wasn’t working. So we waited for a bit in the hot and humid dark
movie lobby, until it occurred to us—grab a drink next door.
“A bus just
passed,” Ilia informed us, “Aha, and the bus stop is right over there….”
Ilia either
learned her technique from erosion or nature imitated Ilia. Anyway, it’s the
same—drip, drip, drip!
“You’re 83
years, you have chronic and crippling arthritis, and one bump in the road could
lead to a broken hip. No, Ilia.”
“They seem
to come by very frequently….”
Right, so
we hit on the idea of going to the Museum
of Contemporary Art, which happens to be located in an old school
that Ilia’s husband had attended as a boy. It was when Ilia was busy
communicating this on her cell phone that disaster struck.
It was a
sort of maze comprised of hanging paper panels, and we were drifting around
looking out of the holes that had been punched into it. Ilia, head down, walked
into one of the panels, dislodging one end.
“Well,
there we see why you shouldn’t text and drive,” said Ilia. Having raised six
children, she hasn’t lost the habit of finding the moral of the story.
No great
damage done, we then went down to the gift shop, since Ilia is also a great one
for little gifts—or regalitos.
In fact, Ilia could send the whole family to London for a week with the money
she spends on regalitos, but what fun would that be?
“Another
bus,” Ilia was quick to note, as we left the museum.
“Ilia,
what’s the problem with a cab?”
“Cabs are
no fun. Buses are what kids do. I want to take the bus….”
There’s no
use for it—you might as well give in early in the game because guess what? If
you wait, you’ll give in and be exhausted.
“Now I want
to take the trolley,” said Ilia, as she stepped off the bus.
“Ilia, the
way you’re going, you’re going to want a martini and a cigarette….”
“Oh, no….”
“Wonderful,”
she said, climbing down from the trolley.
Well, the
opera was yesterday, instead—and guess how we got there?
Ilia parted
the crowd with her walker—rather the way trains get cattle off the rails. But
it has to be said, she was by no means the only person in the assisted-walking
department. In fact, Mr. Fernández and I were almost the only people not with
cane / walker / wheelchair.
Oh, except
for Ivelisse, the woman sitting next to us, who happened to be an old student
from Wal-Mart.
“Why don’t
more people come to the opera,” said Ivelisse, as we sat chatting.
And why
indeed? The opera was Eugene Onegin, Tchaikovsky’s
best opera—the singing was glorious, the story is good, and the sets and
costumes were terrific. And for three hours, the rest of the world can spin
around without you.
Others—including
The New York Times—disagreed.
Anthony Tommasini,
the critic for the Times,
called the production drab and muddled, as well as an “also ran.” That’s an
ouch….
But what
did I care? I had heard some beautiful music, I had reconnected with an old
friend, and I had taken an 83-year old lady out of her apartment, where she had
been cooped up all week watching bad television with her ailing husband.
“Maravillosa,” said Ilia, as she stood up after the
end of the opera.
And then we
headed for the damn bus.
