4 December 04
A Night at the Opera
Hanane and I went to our first Opera, Carmina Burana on the 25 of November. The tickets were compliments of her job, one of the nice perks outside of all the edibles that she brings home. The tickets were not just for us, of course, there were about 15 or so other people from her job that attended the event as well, and they all had a good gander of the handsome man Hanane had brought with her to the show.
Being the show was free, I can’t really complain, and it was nice to do something with Hanane for a change that didn’t involve anyone else (family is great and all, but…). Nevertheless, the show took place in a large concert arena with bad acoustics and folding chairs. Hanane and I dressed up for the occasion, as most people would do when going to the opera, but it turned out to be overkill. Either the locals don’t care about dressing up for classical theater, or they knew what to expect at this particular venue; I’m hoping it’s the latter. In any case, the mode was anything goes, mainly denim.
The show didn’t sell out, and apparently when a show does not sell out in France (at least for Opera in Strasbourg in the concert arena), then any empty seats in front of yours are fair game, even if they are right up front by the orchestra, and oddly enough that’s where most of the available seats happened to be this night. Upon the beginning of the orchestra’s 20 minute epilogue (or whatever it’s called), hordes of people stormed the seats on the main floor that was closest to the stage. Hanane and I had seats that were about 10 rows up off the main floor, and from our perspective, they seemed to provide a much better view of the stage than the main floor where everyone was trampling to, so we stayed put, as did most of her coworkers.
When we first arrived to the arena and queued-up, I noticed there were a large number of medical staff on hand, at least they looked like medics, I’m still getting used to the strange uniforms, which are so different than the uniforms that civil servants wear in the U.S. At first I didn’t give it much thought other than it was just protocol in France to have your exhorbatant taxes working for you in strange ways. Just before the show, about the same time as the hordes were rushing the seats on the main floor, I noticed the medics again, in their white jump suits with blue stripes. There were about 10 or so lined up on both sides of the main stage, not completely obvious, but not exactly hidden either. Once again I figured it normal and didn’t give it much more thought. Then the show began, and the pyrotechnics commenced, and then it all became clear; they were there because this show involved a lot of FIRE! Literally every scene involved elaborate sparklers and flames, right up to the torch-holding standing ovations. Every time there was an explosion of sparks and flames, I noticed the medics would all get a little antsy, paying close attention to all the “hot-spots” on stage. Thankfully no disasters happened, but I have to say, all the pyrotechnics were a bit cheesy. At times I felt like I was at a bad 80s rock concert.
The opera singers were not part of the action on stage, as I was expecting, they stood off to the side, two men and one woman, taking turns at a microphone when their respective parts required them to. Maybe it’s just me, not having been to an opera before, but I had the impressions of a large woman wearing viking horns on her head singing center stage, or a big-bellied man in a black tuxedo and beard doing the same. That wasn’t the case here. Instead, it was basically performance people (I would say dancers and actors, but that would be too good) jumping and cavorting around the stage, with flames and sparklers, while the singers basically provided the voice of the main characters.
During the intermission, Hanane and I made a run for the toilets, and so did everyone else in the arena. By the time we got there, the ladies’ line was a mile long (excuse me, kilometer). Hanane took one look and said forget it, so she went back to the seats to wait it out. The men’s line was very short and seemed to be moving like car lanes at McDonalds, so I went for it. As I entered the head, I noticed a few shameless (or drunk) women were coming in and out of the men’s room, using the stalls. Neither they nor all the men gave much thought of it. As I left the room, the area outside of the toilets, which was basically a very expansive entryway to the arena, was filled with people smoking, and I had to literally hold my breath for about 20 paces to keep from choking on the fog. I haven’t really commented on that yet, but everyone here smokes.
When I got back to my seat, Hanane decided to make her turn. As she was gone, I chatted a bit with one of her big bosses, who happened to be sitting next to me with his wife. I mentioned to him that the concert arena was not the venue I really expected for opera in France. He assured me that this was not the regular opera hall, that in fact there was a very old, luxurious, and beautiful Opera house in Strasbourg, and that Hanane and I should go if we are ever inclined. Well, being that I love old, luxurious, and beautiful architecture and decor, I think we probably will, if nothing else than to just see the Opera house itself. Perhaps that is where all the nicely dressed people go. While we chatted, I noticed the smell of cigarettes, and as I looked for Hanane to return, I could see a thick blanket of cigarette smoke rolling over the entire arena from the main entryway where the toilets were. At first I thought it was stage smog for the show, or that the medics would finally earn their pay, but the smell was a dead give-away. Without sounding to rightous, I made a comment to Hanane’s boss about a lot of people smoking, and that the wall of smoke I saw coming at us was unbelievable (the best word I could think of without glorifying or damning it). Hanane’s boss and his wife made a funny smirk, and he said “yeah, a lot of people smoke in France.”
At the end of the show, it was apparent that two kinds of people had come, those who actually liked opera (or at least live theater) and knew the ediquette for applause, encore, etc. , and those who thought of it as another Saturday night at the local cinema. The latter crowd, which was easily about one-third of everyone there, quickly got up and rushed to the exits before the performers even took their first bow. Hey, I’m an American, but I’m not that fucking rude. I even felt a little bad for the performers, and I didn’t even think the show was top-notch. But then the theater-going crowd stepped up, or rather, stomped-down, literally. There began this thunderous, ground-shaking stomping; it was the rest of the crowd showing their approval for the show, then for an encore, then for more of…whatever it was they wanted, it seemed to go on and on. Hanane and I waited, neither clapping nor stomping, and just watched/listened to the odd debacle taking place around us. We actually waited until the final bow, and then took our leave. This was also when her boss left as well, so it seemed doubly suitable.
As Hanane and I made our way to the car, we talked about the show and decided we still had no idea what the story of Carmina Burana is all about. We certainly couldn’t tell from the depiction we saw, except there was a pair of lovers, some religious connotations, and a black-winged devil of some sort. (Maybe it was about us.) Oh, and there was a lot of sparks and flames. As we walked, we spied her boss and his wife in the crowd, both smoking with anticipated satisfaction.
