Onegin, Papa was a Rodeo

There were dancing haystacks, petty wounds of honour, duels fought by young men in long black frock coats, sprawling sets of snowy woods with real birch trunks, sumptuous ball-gowns (from magnificent empress dresses of deep red taffeta to large tiered teacups), eerily cheery lanterns of red and yellow painted faces, a grand chandelier whose most beautiful aspect was its elaborate, skewed shadow: what was not to like?

Our seats were quite comfy and almost center. My nose did not bleed though my right ankle did, discreetly--those vertiginous lavender mary janes with the slim bows held up well during the long-strided rush to the opera house past the Green Day stadium and throngs of the fiercely young and pierced, but apparently I was not Cendrillon, but a step-sister. Tchaikovsky's orchestral music always takes me to the broadness of the Russian landscape; his ballets are more dainty, shamelessly romantic; I had never heard his operatic works before. Sometimes it seemed the instrumentation was competing with the aria for elegance and I think the prettier, more defined and character-driven melodies were often given to the strings and woodwinds. There were lovely sung phrases, too, especially by the ill-fated poet, Lensky, and of course, Tatyana, the naive country girl who idealistically falls for the world-weary Onegin after just one stroll on her estate.

We reached the performance only seven minutes late. The lofty ivory halls of the opera house were deserted. Velvet ropes were pulled across the cafe kiosk and the sign for glass-rental was askew. There was no one cranking the elevator. We flopped onto the carpeted landing of the fourth floor breathless and keenly hoping the overture would be long and indulgent. The house lights were dark: they were already well into the first scene where the peasants on Tatyana's estate come to celebrate the harvest with song and dance. An usher allowed us to sit on the side of the highest, least populated row until the next break between acts. My black and white silk paneled dress was too demanding about the bodice and I regretted just a little those Trader Joe's imported chocolate truffles I'd consumed with such abandon all week. The music and spectacle swept those thoughts away, but breathing remained a conscious endeavor for most of the performance.

Intermission was a struggle to get a hellishly-heeled foot into the powder room where the queues were formidable and the competing perfumes (surely eau de parfum all around from petite, dark-coloured stoppered bottles--none of that vaporous eau de toilette stuff) of the virtually uniformly pale, crinkled patronnes raged. There were some ladies under forty, but most had walked in straight from the street and looked miles more comfortable than I did. Still, I enjoyed the drama of S.'s cream-coloured pashmina shawl and the severely sculpted dress I'd chosen. How often does one get to be so utterly un-functional?

J and I walked back to the Powell St. BART station. On the way, we stopped at a late-nite donut shop on a street-corner peppered with aimless looking men. I had half a cup of syrupy chocolate milk; he had black coffee and a little cruller that disappeared very quickly. The green formica tables complemented nicely the apple neon sign blearing above our heads. Other night stragglers blew in occasionally: I had a long wait before the last train back South. The air was different once again when we stepped out of the donut dispensary. The riled-up youthful edge just after Green Day's legions let out had chilled to a slightly menacing, sporadic calm. Despite the prick on my right ankle, I made the trek without much incident and was grateful for once to be engulfed in the underground's timeless flourescent warmth.

The cab I took home from the train station had this license plate: BABAR69.

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Found lyrics for the Magnetic Fields' "Papa was a Rodeo" with chords and have been plucking duly. Also figured out crude chords to "Belle Qui Tient Ma Vie". I love my guitar.