Italian Opera Mishaps

Pictures and story from July 10th, 2012:

    

          Italian Operas are crazy.  Well, that’s a bit misleading.  My experience with an Italian Opera led to some pretty crazy occurrences.  On impulse I decided I wanted to be cultured and experience opera…an art form that Florence is famous for.  After I got back from the day’s tours (Piesa, St. Gimingano and Wine Tasting), I asked David if he knew of any opera performances going on around the city.  He did a quick search on his iPad and got some results.  The famed ‘La Boheme’ was playing at 8:30.  In exactly an hour.  I ran upstairs and asked my family if they wanted to go.  No one but my mom seemed interested, and since she knew I wanted some independence she suggested I go it alone.

                I walked down the hall to my hotel room, got my stuff together, and walked out into the fresh Italian air with my bag and a marked map of the city with my route.  I found my way there with fifteen minutes to spare.  Perfect amount of time to buy my ticket.  I got up to the desk and asked for a student ticket.   The lady shook her head.  “So there’s no tickets left?” I asked.  She shook her head again.  “Is there any way I could get a ticket if someone happens to not show up?”  She explained that three large groups had reserved seats, so it was highly unlikely.  Fuck.  If I wanted to wait just be sure though, I certainly could.  Bravissimo.

                At 8:30 I walked up to the desk with my most charming face.  “If you want, I sell you student ticket.  Ten Euro.  Just follow those girls.”  Victory.  The church, slyly designed to be used as a theater, had audience on three sides of the stage.  I was seated in the nonexistent audience space behind the performers.  And I didn’t mind at all.  I began to read the synopsis in the program, and before I knew it the show was on.  And it was phenomenal.  I had no idea what they were saying, but their voices were so expressive that I understood what was going on.  It was moving.

                At intermission I awkwardly stood outside the theater as Italian girls drank the complimentary champagne and took pictures.  I decided against the champagne since my stomach was still recovering from the wine tasting.  And then out walked a woman who was sitting near me that I knew to be American.  Her name was Arika.  We got to talking and I learned that she was a 27 year old semi-professional playwright from Kansas City.  I was awe struck.  I told her I was an aspiring actor and she began to recommend plays to read.  I took copious notes.   The lights flashed for Act II and we went back to our seats.

                After the show we got to talking more about theater.  We both hadn’t had dinner yet, so we decided to walk around and look for a place to eat.  We eventually found a pizzeria and sat down to eat.  We talked about theater, Italy and her impending heroin addiction.  “All writers are addicted to heroin, right?”  She agreed.  After dinner we split the bill, exchanged business cards and attempted to find our way back.  I offered my map for us to use.  “I don’t believe in maps,” she said.  I thought about it for a moment.

                Maps are security.  Maps are comfort.  But then again…I’m in a foreign country and wouldn’t mind getting lost. So fuck it.  Fuck maps.  We walked in the general direction of where we thought we needed to be, and when we realized we were in different directions we parted ways. 

At this point using my map would have been the sensible thing to do.  It was already past midnight, I had to wake up early, and I had a gigantic church as a landmark.  I thought about it for a second….

 Fuck maps.

 I walked down the street in what I thought to be the right direction.  Shops around me looked familiar, and I had a strange sense of comfort walking past the lively night life of Florence.  And then things started to go awry.  Monuments and businesses popped up that I had never seen, and the buildings around me started to look grimier than usual.  And just like that, I was alone and lost in a foreign country.  I looked at my watch.  It was 12:30.  I figured out the street I was on and scanned the map to try and find it.  I couldn’t.

Now at this point, the sensible thing to do would have been to ask someone for directions.  But fearing rejection and humiliation for being an ignorant American, I sucked it up and tried to find my way back.  But it was no use.  I was getting farther and farther away from where I needed to be.  I finally gave up and approached a bouncer at a nearby bar.

“Parle Ingles?  I’m lost and need help getting back.”

He pointed to a girl walking out of the bar.  “She can help you.”

I explained my situation and showed her my map.  “I’m fucked, aren’t I?”  She flipped the map around and told me where I needed to go.  “Grazie!”  I started down the road she pointed me to, but it still didn’t feel right.  I felt utterly lost.  After walking around a bit more, I approached a couple walking around town.

“Parli Ingles?  I’m lost and I need help.”

Her thick Irish accent came through immediately.  “Sorry dear, I’m lost meself.  Just got here an hour ago.  Good luck!”  I thanked her and wished her luck.  I looked at my watch.  It was near 12:50.  I accepted the fact that I would be getting little to no sleep, and finally approached a group of Italian looking teenagers smoking cigarettes on the corner of a monument.

“Parli ingles?  I’m lost.”

“A bit,” one of the girls responded, “Where do you need to go?”  I showed her my map.  She discussed it with her group of friends in Italian.  “So we…” she said as she traced the map with her finger, “…are right here.  Just follow this road up to this plaza, and once you’re there ask someone else for directions.”

We all chuckled at the advice.  It was better than nothing.  I thanked them very much in Italian and went off down the road.  As I got to the plaza, I looked at my map and figured out where I needed to go.  And soon enough, I was on the street of my hotel.   I got back right around 1:00 AM. 

But alas, the hotel doors were closed.  I rang the doorbell and someone behind the counter opened the doors for me.  I thanked him, apologized for the inconvenience, and went back up to my room, exhausted and exhilarated from the days happenings.  And I collapsed on my bed, both amazed and bewildered by the mishaps that followed the Italian Opera.