My mother and sister and I have a yearly ritual: we see an opera at the L.A. Music Center's Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Today we met there to see and hear Placido Domingo, whose voice my mother loves, play the title role in Wagner's Parsifal. Now don't get me wrong. We're not opera buffs. It's really just an excuse to get together and laugh over a drink and a meal before the show.
Today, in my sister's case, the drink and the meal were one and the same, although she did actually order some hoity toity sounding thing with portobello mushrooms, prawns, and parsnip cream - whatever that is. But I'd venture to guess the martini was far more nourishing, since she was the only one of us who wasn't struggling to stay awake.
If I said the story - a Wagnerian opera called Parsifal - moved at a snail's pace I'd be lying. It was much slower than that. Evidently "light hearted," "humorous," and "quick witted" would not be used to describe his style. If I wrote a review, I'd use words more like "sloooooow" and "zzzzzz." To add injury to insult, Domingo didn't even perform. He bowed out due to a cold.
As the curtain fell on Act I my sister leaned forward with raised eyebrows and said, "Well...?"
"Oh my God - I can't!" My mother shot back, her face gaunt and ashen, as if she had really witnessed some horrible tragedy. "Not another second! I will die before it's over!"
So we went back to the bar and had another drink. My mother's going to send a letter to Placido - with our ticket stubs - and tell him that at her age she can't wait to see him sing. I'll keep you posted.
