Metropolitan Opera: Behind the scenes

Spring Semester of Undergrad, 2015

A crooked iphone photo of the Met Opera

For a lady obsessed with cities and clusters of people, the University of Connecticut felt like a farm. I quickly developed a history of escapades to New York City, some three hours away. My drug of choice: the Metropolitan Opera.

I first joined the Met Opera trip as part of the Leadership Legacy Experience. We were meant to bond as a group, so of course I snuck my boyfriend along. In fact, it was our first ever date. My fabulous and very gay friend from Leadership Legacy accompanied us as we shopped for suits, ate $1 pizza, and slept through an extravagant opera performance. As I sat watching my two boys admire their own slender profiles in suits they couldn't afford early that day, I felt a warmth spread through my chest despite the chill winter air. I might have been a bit of a third wheel on my own date, but I was in love with life.

My next visit to the Met was less of a whirlwind thrill. My Oma (grandmother) was dying in Queens, NY and I had no car, no family willing to help me visit her. UConn students were required to sit through an opera rehearsal in the morning before a stingy allowance of only two and a half hours of free time - after which attendance was mandatory at the evening performance. On the bus ride to NYC I quietly drew the trip coordinator aside and explained my situation, dreading all the while that the words coming out of my mouth sounded like excuses and lies. Please believe me, I begged internally. My Oma is alone.

"Can I visit her in Queens during the rehearsal? I promise I'll make it back for the main opera."

Without breaking stride he responded, "We never had this conversation." For a moment I wondered if I understood him correctly. I fretted. I overthought his every word.

Heart pounding as we got off the bus in front of the Met, I tore away from the group, ears aflame, head down. I walked in the opposite direction towards the 1 train without looking back. My identity changed on the hour and fifteen minute trip to my Orthodox Jewish grandmother. I pulled on a long, shapeless skirt over my short opera dress. A jacket hid my shoulders and a scarf covered my bare skin up to my chin.

All my anxieties came pouring out. My fear of getting lost, of new places, of talking to workers I don't know. "I'm looking for my Oma. Ilse Norton. I'm her grandchild." I blurted out to the receptionist. I was nervous, but there was no cause for concern. I quickly found myself in my Oma's hospice room. Her skin was a myriad of pale yellows and greens, draped over bone like thin paper. But her smile spoke of joy. We discussed operas. I begged her to eat. She complained about her Jamaican caretaker - I always did think it was ironic that a Holocaust survivor could be so unequivocally racist - and she praised the two Orthodox girls who visited her weekly. I tried to tell her about my nonJewish boyfriend, but she was very suddenly deaf. Before I knew it, I had to leave. She turned her head in relief and fell asleep.

"Visit her more often," the caretaker asked. "I have never seen her so happy. And she needs to eat!"

It was the last time I ever saw her.

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But it wasn't the last time I went to the Met Opera. Days before the bus was set to depart, and with a full waiting list at that, the boyfriend and I realized we wanted to go along. I emailed the trip coordinator directly and had an unusual bit of luck: he needed a student to take over UConn's official Instagram for the day. Not only could we come along, but I would be the official photographer and invited backstage for a tour along with the Dean of the School of Fine Arts and members of the Board of Trustees.

Naturally, since this was a trip of refined culture and prestigious administrators, I blogged about dumplings, art supplies, and drawing my friend Fei Fei. Not pictured: the obliging boyfriend taking pictures with my phone.

From left to right: me and Fei Fei, delicious dumpling lunch,
my drawing of Fei Fei, who drew the cooks

The Dumpling Man (@ 100 St. Marks Place) has been my favorite go-to for cheap and delicious dumplings for years. Whenever a friend is relying on me for a recommendation, that's where I go, because everyone leaves satisfied.

Glorious art supplies at New York Central Art Supply

New York Central Art Supply is my favorite art supply haunt. Unlike Utrecht and Dick Blick's, NYCAS has a personalized atmosphere. Crowded, tiny, and packed to the ceiling with supplies, there is something for everyone. I never leave without a new pen and at least one soft pastel stick, cradled dustily in its paper.

And yet - somehow - the backstage tour of the opera house surpassed both dumplings and art supplies. At their core, these were artists. I don't know how I didn't realize it before, but somehow I didn't recognize the performers and hands and directors and peers until I saw the insane mess backstage. It felt like my studio space. It felt like home. "No pictures allowed here," said our tour guide. I grinned back at him with vacuous eyes. Click.

Floating house props framed by tons of clutter

Finally, at last, the main event. A thrilling performance of La Bohème. How do you use words to describe an opera? Have you noticed that I went an entire blog entry about opera without once describing the music?

My hand brushed Antonio's and I felt energy from the tips of my fingernails straight through to my core. The translation screens on the backs of the seats were angled so I could see only my own, and the row going straight ahead, and so my mind carried that glow in sync with the music - the chandeliers - the movement of the set and the dance of the actors. An out of body experience: I was in my seat, reading words, and yet I was on stage. In stage. Only the story existed, the story and Antonio's arm around my shoulders.