yes virginia, tattooed people do go to the opera
Talked to my mother yesterday, and she mentioned that I need to make sure I catch an opera in August in which a friend's daughter will be singing. Said friend was apparently astounded to hear that I in fact go to the opera; I don't know if the friend was responding to the fact that I'm an (occasional) habitue, or that anyone she knows goes. Maybe she's bought into the fiction that youngsters (read: people under 60) aren't down with opera. Mais oui! Loud music, bright colors, sex, passion, feuding, death: what's not to like? AND you get a handy synopsis of what you're going to see on your way in, so there's none of the uncertainty of the non-opera stage. You don't ever have to lean over to your date and admit that you don't know what's going on: You've got the synopsis, there are subtitles, and the performers are explaining everything very thoroughly.
A couple years ago, Princess and I decided we were going to hike up our cultural quotient, so we bought the cheapest season tickets we could afford. Doing so involved the kind of planning one associates with shuttle launches. Should we take the four-show season with three operas he wanted to see and sell the tickets for the fourth? Should we take the five-show season with four operas I wanted to see and he could bring a guest to the one I didn't care for? Mozart or Verdi? I was drawn to the lighter opera, he to the Czechoslovakian; I wanted to see The Abduction from the Seraglio, he Kat'a Kabanova. And our schedules barely meshed. It's a wonder we pulled it off at all. But we're hip kids, we made it happen; I ate ramen for a couple of weeks and he kept his face averted when he passed shoe stores.
Our first outing was Turandot, and our seats were so far from the stage that the soprano was a bright speck against a great sweep of red scenery. In the second or third or fourth act (I'd lost track by then) a line of people came out bearing these cool lanterns on sticks, and I could see that okay.
One of the best moments, though, was during an intermission. We were standing at one of the bars, sipping sparkling water and stuffing chocolate-covered espresso beans down our maws, when Princess said, don't look now, but you're getting some attention. So of course I looked; isn't that what you're supposed to do? Across the narrow hall, a gaggle of blue-rinse ladies were staring quite openly at my left arm, poking out of what I'd thought was an opera-appropriate black velvet tank top.
Have I mentioned that I have a sizable tattoo of bugs and leaves that covers my left shoulder and extends halfway to the elbow?
Since then, I've understood the special role the gods have sent me to play. I always go sleeveless to the opera. Someday Princess and I are going to be the old people nattering on about whether putting Mephistopheles' evil minions in bondage gear in the scene where he tempts Faust makes sense from a production standpoint. The current crop of old opera biddies are just going to have to get used to the idea.
