This weekend I went to watch not one, but two operas, at the SF War Memorial Opera House. Why? Because I'm going to be working on my first opera next month, and I have seen a total of ONE opera in my whole life. At least by the end of this weekend, I will be able to say I've seen three - a slightly more respectable number. And it takes up my opera count by 200%.
If you haven't been to an opera before, it's a whole ordeal. The opera itself is three+ hours long, with one, if not two intermissions. In an effort to accommodate to modern times, they've shortened the total running length to less than three hours, plus the 25 minute intermission.
I ended up calling the box office for tickets was because online ticket sales ended two hours before showtime. Being Pride weekend in SF, I was forewarned by the gentleman on the phone that I should allow for plenty of time for parking, as the Civic Center garages were closed, as were many of the roads in the area. I was reminded of the value of a human connection: none of that information was given to me on the website.
And so, I allowed myself one hour and forty five minutes to drive into SF, and find parking in the most impacted area of the city. It's amazing how when you set your mind with a certain expectation, how much it lowers your stress. I expected it to take 1 hour and 45 mins, and when it only took 1 hour and 30 minutes, I felt like I had gotten lucky. I acquiesced to parking in a flat $60 parking garage, aptly named Opera Plaza Garage. "Any chance you can charge my car?" I asked, pointing to the Tesla charger sign to the valet. "Not today miss, we're totally full." I nodded, and headed out on my short two block walk to the opera house.
The Opera House is located in perhaps the most nostalgic area of San Francisco. The magnificent building stands just yards away from the glorious City Hall building, which looks like something you would see in Washington D.C., in terms of its stature. I always call it "Rashtrapati Bhavan," and my mom corrects me how calling it that (the President's house) makes no sense.
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| The lobby at the SF War Memorial Opera House |
I have been to the Opera House before. Once, to watch the first opera I had ever seen (Carmen), and another time when I performed there with my dance company as a part of the San Francisco Ethnic Dance Festival. As I approached the building, showing them my vaccination records, getting stamped, showing my e-ticket, I looked around the grand lobby, and moved around with a certain comfort in that space that surprised me. I headed down to the basement where the bathrooms were located. The basement is also the only place with a full bar and restaurant, and where you get stuck if you show up late to the show. Then you must watch the whole first half of the opera from a television screen downstairs. I know this because when I came to see Carmen, I arrived 15 minutes late and had to watch my first opera on a simulcast TV screen. So I guess I'd really only seen half an opera before this weekend ....
I noticed a sign on the bar that said "Reserve your food/drink for intermission now." How brilliant - why did other events not do the same thing? I headed back to the bar at the orchestra level, and bought myself a glass of wine, and reserved myself a vegetarian sandwich for intermission. I was so proud of my forward thinking and planning.
This particular opera was an ancient Chinese classic tale, recreated in English, featuring an all Asian cast. The thing about opera is - and this is from my limited experience of three - there isn't a very complicated plot line. You can often summarize the whole story in a couple of sentences. But you aren't there for complex, surprise-twist plot lines - there is so much more, in the whole experience.
I didn't like the music in this particular opera. I wondered if it was maybe because I don't like opera? But at intermission, when I overheard a man saying, "Every third note keeps going to that operatic high," I thought that perhaps I wasn't wrong in my feeling. When I watched the second half, I observed that not only where those high, shrill notes constantly coming up in the music ... but that I could not understand the melody of a single line of music! I mean, I get it ... I'm not versed in classical operatic music ... at all ... but I can hear the patterns of a song or a melody. But not in this opera. Not a single moment did the singing connect, or leaven an impact on me (besides irritation). But the opera was redeemed by the beautiful staging, lighting, costumes, a few orchestral overtures, and overall production value. My take-away was that I can differentiate between good and bad. Hurrah for me!
On my way home, I was pleasantly surprised when the valet told me he had fully charged my Tesla. I got home at 11:30, having left my home at 5:30pm. Basically, the opera is the only thing you are going to do in that day.
Opera #2 - matinee show of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's "Don Giovanni."
I was really looking forward to this, after the warm-up of the previous evening. Not only because Mozart is a legend, but because the opera I'm working on is also a Mozart classic, "Le Nozze de Figaro," or "The Wedding of Figaro."
Perhaps arrogantly riding high from yesterday's success of all things going smoothly, I only left 1 hour and 15 minutes for the journey up to SF. I knew where to park this time around, that should shave off 20 minutes easily? I didn't take into account that this afternoon was the actual PRIDE parade. And so, I watched the Tesla GPS tell me my arrival times, 1:38, 1:45, 1:50, 1:48, 1:57 ... my mental calculator constantly assessing if I would be able to run into the theater by 2pm, or if I would be doomed to the basement TV screen. I even called the Opera House, and asked the lady if there was any chance they would start 5 minutes late, seeing as how the whole city is so crazy with Pride. "They started on time yesterday, so I don't think so." Yeah, I know they started on time yesterday, I thought to myself - I was there. I was crazy impressed when the otherwise tuning, haphazard sounds of numerous instruments, suddenly aligned in a magnanimous "sa" (or a 'C'?) on the dot of 7:30pm. That was just one of the many magical moments of opera.
I used my breathing app on my watch to calm myself down, reiterating positive rhetoric for myself - "Stressing out isn't going to change the outcome, so stop counting the minutes, hoping against hope." When the GPS showed 2:05 as my arrival time, I resigned to watching the opera from the tv screen downstairs. I parked in the same flat fee $60 garage, and walked through the crowds of LGBQT+, admiring the flamboyant apparel, and choosing to put on my mask in an outdoor space, to avert the strong smell of weed (and Covid, of course).
I have good parking karma. I always find great parking. And I hold on to that belief, because I think it's self-propagating. It might not make sense, but I believe in the power of positive thinking. And today, my good karma manifested itself in the opera staff allowing us to sit in the absolute last row to watch the first half - after intermission I could move to my actual seat. I was delighted. I felt like I had won the lottery. Had I never experienced the basement TV version, I would have never been so grateful to be in the nosebleeds - an expression I never understood, until today, when I experienced what a high altitude I was seated at. The faces were nothing but a blur, but no matter, I was getting to watch it.
I thoroughly enjoyed this opera. To the point where I think I may have started falling in love with the opera experience. And I say experience, because it is so much more than just the show itself. First and foremost, it is a rich man's pastime. Between my $124 ticket, $12 service charge, $60 parking, $27 sandwich and wine ... we were looking at $223, without gas (add another $30 RT for gas if you're not driving electric). And then setting aside 6 hours in your schedule - I mean, who does that anymore for anything besides airline travel? The whole thing is one big indulgence - in time, money, effort. You can dress as ostentatiously or as casually as you want. You can see the difference in class of those who have their tables "reserved" in the restaurant; a physical barrier separating them from the rest of us, who scope out small coffee tables on a first-come-first-serve basis. But for this matinee, I packed my own sandwich, and decided to eat it outside. I took the steps down, not realizing how high up I was until I found myself going down flight after flight after flight. The way back up, I took the elevator. They even have an elevator operator running the thing for you. "We're heading up to two ... now we've passed three ... we'll be stopping at four -- that's for balcony and balcony circle."
My seats were much better - though the faces were still mostly blurred, but that might be my vision. I contemplated buying a pair of opera glasses for my next opera.
Don Giovanni is a story of a "rake," or a womanizer to the max, whose egocentric choices finally catch up to him. Why any of those characters put up with such an obviously cheating, lying, throw-you-under-the-bus kind of scoundrel is far beyond me, but hey- suspension of disbelief. The melodies were beautiful, and while I didn't think I would be able to identify any of them, there was a moment in the story when one character says, "Oh we know this tune..." and I realized that yes, I could identify this tune from this opera.
I left the theater, feeling enchanted by the last three hours. I walked downstairs, and discovered a small gift shop, just above the lobby. I perused through the eclectic items, and contemplated something to buy, as a reminder of this time I spent at the opera. A pair of burgundy wool gloves caught my eye - they matched a burgundy hat I had bought at the Christmas fair in Portland last year. They even had opera glasses! The store worker tried to convince me that the actual binoculars were better, and I'm sure he was right, but you should have seen how gorgeous those opera glasses were. I had just put them away, deciding against the frivolous purchase, when my eyes fell upon the most beautiful hat I have seen.
Now, you must know this about me. I LOVE hats. And I look good in all hats. You read that correctly - I look good in ALL OF THEM. I wear my heart on my sleeve when it comes to hats. But this one - it was screaming my name. No, not my name, it was a physical manifestation of the depths of my flamboyant self. It brought to life a dance, a song, a dress, a desire, an aura ... I know you are probably thinking I am exaggerating, but this hat saved my life.
I sauntered down to the lobby, full of joy and reverie, celebrating my passion and new overpriced purchase (50% of the price went to the Opera as a donation, so it was actually half the price if you think about it...). As I approached the main exits, I heard the security guards from across the great lobby shout "Move away from the windows!" They gesticulated in exaggeration. I was confused. Had I taken so long that the main exits were closed? I found an elderly security guard closer to me and asked politely which way I could exit. "There is no exiting at this time."
Now I was even more confused. Why would we not be allowed to leave the building? I looked around at the scattered crowd around me. Somewhere I heard someone say, "There's been a shooting."
The elderly gentleman came back, huffing and puffing through his mask, "This is for your safety. We're not doing this to make your life difficult." "Of course, thank you." I was not trying to be an asshole. I just happened to be one anyway.
I sat down on the same steps I had just sauntered down from ... taking in those words. I saw some young folks on their phones - the first time I had seen anyone on their phones in the 6 hours I had spent in the Opera House (seriously, I didn't see a single selfie taken in this amazing architectural space). I chose not to go down the rabbit hole of looking for information on what had happened on my phone, and chose to just sit and wait.
"When you hear gun shots, you just run. You don't think about anything girl, you just run." I overheard the young girl's voice behind me. I didn't have to look at her to know she was Black American. You can hear it in the voice, a twang if you will. I looked to see a young teen telling the other girl with her, who looked like she was no more than 12, the reality of what one does when you encounter gun shots. The little girls' eyes were welling up with tears. With her mask on, all I could see was the fear in her eyes. I thought about how the lessons of running away from gun shots was more of a reality in her life than my own. "See? I told you sneakers was the right shoes to wear today." I wondered why three young black teenagers had come to watch the opera. I still hadn't caught on.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have an update. SFPD is going to be getting back to us in ten minutes to let us know what the situation is." I texted my family to let them know I was locked in the building, but safe. So incredibly lucky to be safe.
The young black girls left - I'm not entirely sure where they went, maybe to the basement. I noticed two other young women sitting near me. I asked them when this happened. "Not even ten minutes ago. We were in the parade, we heard shouting, fighting, then the shots ... we thought it was fireworks, and then everyone was screaming and running ... so we ran in here..."
"I was watching the opera." I told them. I was actually buying a hat. Had I not bought the hat, I would have been out there with them.
"Oh, this is the Opera House!" she grabbed her friend's phone and informed them they were in the opera house.
And so, this iconic landmark of San Francisco's War Memorial became the temporary safe haven for those seeking asylum from the panic, fear, pandemonium outside in what was meant to be .
Within a few minutes, we got another update, that the "situation has been contained," and we were free to go. I cautiously stepped out, and chose to take the the parallel street of Franklin, instead of the main Van Ness, where I had admiringly strolled three hours earlier, my biggest issue having been the smell of weed.
I made it to my parking garage, and waited in a long line with other PRIDE paraders for my vehicle. As I inched forward, the young man standing slightly in front of me, but to the side of the line, asked, "Were you standing in line?" "Yes," I responded.
I need to paint a better picture for you here. When I say the young "man," who was standing there, I am most likely offending his non-binary sensibility of gender. And I don't say that facetiously. But, until someone tells me that they are not a "he," but prefer to be identified as "they/them"- to my old-school-binary thinking, he is a guy who chooses to wear eye makeup and a cape. The others in "his" group were a person wearing a "they/them" button, who I would have just described as a "girl," had it not been for the clarity they provided in their pronoun. There was another woman that I can only best describe as butch. She was big, queer, wearing rainbow eyeliner with a shaved head, and oh-so-angry at the world.
"I've been standing in line way before any of them got here," she asserted, spewing venom at me, as she moved in ahead of me. "Sure, no problem," I responded. She seemed almost more upset that I didn't take the bait - that I didn't get mad at her, or show attitude. In Hindi we have a saying - "Aa bail mujhe maar," which translates to "Come bull, attack me." She was ready for a fight, and I was as calm as a Buddhist monk. "None of this is going to matter if we can't find the parking ticket," she turned to her caped crusader, who was fervently rummaging through a knapsack. "Dump it all out," she commanded, and he was on his knees in an instant, contents spilled at our feet.
There was a murmuring din around me. I wondered how many of them knew about the shooting. I saw the woman behind me hugging another friend, sobbing. The butch woman says in my direction, to no one in particular "So there might have been a shooting." I nod. Her eyes finally released some of her anger. "There was?" she asked me quietly. I told her what had happened, and how the situation had been contained by SFPD. I was wearing my mask, and I wonder how much I was feeling was communicated through only my eyes. Thinking back, I wish I had taken off my mask when I shared with her at that moment. She turned and flamboyantly proclaimed to the rest of her group about how it all had gone down, and that they caught the assailant (an assumption she made, as I never thought about what a situation being "contained" really meant). The others in the group chimed in, eyes glued to their phones, "Oh my gosh, I think it was that guy who was part of the security who was being such a dick," and they all jumped on the bandwagon of "fuck the police." For the remainder of their time in the line, the butch woman's eyes met me repeatedly with a feeling of shame and sadness.
I went to see my mother in her SF apartment before coming home. She gave me a big hug, as she had furiously worried about me in the interim between my initial text and my "on my way" text. I showed her "The Hat That Saved My Life." Ok, maybe not my life, but "The Hat That Saved Me From a Traumatic Experience" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Epilogue: I have since looked up online to see what happened, and it seems there was no shooting, but someone macing another person, the cops running in, and everyone panicking and running, causing a near stampede.
