My husband and I have season tickets to the Seattle Opera. It’s something we’ve done for two seasons now and it’s become as much a part of our lives as work, only more fun. I love going to the opera. It evokes a feel of times past, where one dressed up and men wore suits and top hats, and the women wore beautiful gowns, glittering jewels and sweeping long coats.
Last night we had a “parking lot picnic”. Sandwiches sitting in the car in the Mercer street parking garage. While we dine, an SUV whips into the space next to us. “I bet they are some of the people that jump up and practically run from the theater after the show,” I say to my husband. The parking garage starts to fill, and the car that parks on the passenger side is not straight, making getting out an interesting exercise in gymnastics in a long gown and heels. As we head to McCaw Hall across the sky bridge I fish the tickets out of my clutch and hand them to my husband. We don’t even have to talk, it’s a habit by now. Stepping into the upper level of the opera house is for me stepping into another world. People speak quieter, lighting is soft and people cluster together, trying to be seen without being obvious.
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I have a brief conversation with an usher, who’d complimented how I looked, and we ended up talking about what her friend called “thermal incompatibility”. The house is open, so we head into our seats, the same ones we’ve had for the past two seasons. I look at the rows behind us, which haven’t begun to fill up, but I know they will. Interesting how people quickly fall silent as the house lights dim. The orchestra plays the opening notes and I am swept away to a story of friendship, betrayal and love. It’s an interesting opera, as it centers around two men and their