A Day in the Life

By Melanie O'Neill

Forecasts had all claimed that today Bostonians were likely to see their first snowfall of the winter. It was 5 A.M. and, already, I was stepping out the door onto the deserted streets relieved that their prediction, as of right now, had been wrong. It was early, dark, and freezing, but I didn't care because today the day I'd been waiting for. Today was the day I would travel to New York City to see the tenor of all tenors in the title role of Verdi's masterpiece, Don Carlo, at none other than The Metropolitan Opera House.

I'd never taken an Amtrak train before and had decided to leave early "just in case." I entered Back Bay Station. The air was stagnant and frigid and not a soul was within sight or earshot. "4 October, 2010 – 6:45 A.M.- Back Bay Station," I read on my ticket before glancing up at the station clock which read 5:30 A.M. I sat down, contemplating how to pass the next hour as the metal seats chilled me all the more, when I heard footsteps and the Earth-shattering sound of voices as they reverberated off the station walls, destroying the cold silence like a clap of thunder.

Any sign of life one minute earlier was all I wanted, but now that they were here I felt awkward. Two people emerged from around the pillar, one very androgynous and peculiar-looking; the other a young woman about 26 with long dark hair and dressed from head to toe in black. They spoke for a while, like old friends. I couldn't really make any sense of it, but then again, I was slouched in my chair with the primary goal of not being noticed. The sound of the first T of the morning brought their conversation to a rapid end, as the androgynous one ran to catch it.

As soon as he was out of sight, she turned to me with a look of relief and said "That is the weirdest person I have ever met!" Not only was I surprised by how horribly I had misjudged their relationship, but also by the ease with which she approached me, a complete stranger, and babbled endlessly. "Apparently he's a transgender homeless student. So he just carries his laptop around and switches from train to train and sleeps in the stations. God, I could never live like that. You know, I'm not actually sure if he is a he or a she." At first I had very little to contribute, and just let her ramble, which she didn't mind, but very quickly I warmed up to her. We watched the seconds crawl by on the station clock and celebrated every five minutes we managed to pass. We even set sub-goals. If we could make it to 6 A.M., at least Dunkin' Donuts would be open and we could buy coffee to warm our hands.

"Wait, so you're up at 5 in the morning to go to New York to see an opera…and then leave?" she asked me in disbelief. "You're not going shopping or meeting a friend or anything?" she asked in an attempt to justify my lunacy. "Nope, just getting there in time for the show and getting back to Boston before the T shuts down." Nothing screams "Melanie" like a day trip to a city I know virtually nothing about to watch an opera alone. Basically, there was nothing about the two of us conducive to friendship, yet here we were like two old friends making the best of our mutual suffering.

By the time it had reached 6:35 we were running to the platform, ecstatic. The end was in sight and all we could do was cheer with our arms around each other's shoulders when the train came into view. We were the first on the train and the blast of warm air that greeted us as we stepped on was like a kiss from Heaven. The worst was over. We contently took our seats and slept the four and a half hour ride to our destination.

The sleep did me good, as it was going to be a long day. We unloaded off the train only to be greeted by a broken escalator. For me this was no problem, but my new found friend, on the other hand, in her platform wedge boots could hardly drag her monstrous suitcase up one step. With a whole train of people waiting for her, the two of us hauled it up with surprising speed. Once outside Penn Station, we were thrown into the bustle of New York City. We wished each other luck and went our separate ways.

I have been to New York City many times before, but never had I been as terrified for my life in a cab as on this ride from Penn Station to Lincoln Center. Within the short seven minutes I sat in this cab I was absolutely certain of two things: We were going to get into a crash and I was going to throw up. Fortunately I arrived in one piece and the moment I stepped out of the cab all ailments and preoccupations left my mind. I had finally made it.

A few minutes passed and I still hadn't moved. I just stood gazing in complete awe, as I tried to accept the reality of what was going to take place within the hour and the fact that I was going to be witnessing it. Before entering I made a pit stop for a bouquet; now I was ready. Ticket in hand, I was ushered into the main lobby. I walked weightlessly across the room to the grand staircase carpeted elegantly in a deep red.

I took my seat in the center mezzanine. The MET's famous Sputnik chandeliers glimmered as they ascended and dimmed. The Maestro took the podium. The curtain opened to bleak scene and everything was silent for a moment. Roberto Alagna, the tenor I'd travelled all this way to see, stood alone onstage in a wintery forest. This moment of stillness lingered only a moment before the downbeat dispersed this eerie silence and filled the hall with the animated opening of Verdi's masterpiece, Don Carlo. Never had I been so moved by a work of fiction. I, notoriously unmoved by the fictitious tragedy of movies and plays, was bawling through every act of the lengthy five act opera. The fact that I could feel in the vibrations, the passion and the anguish, resonating in the voices of the singers, as well as see it written on their faces was enough to wring from my heart the very emotions the characters felt. It's as if I were living vicariously through the dynamic combination of Verdi's perfectly constructed harmonies and the conviction of the singers in their roles.

For the first time I felt emotionally drained, as if I had something personally invested in the outcome of this opera. In coming simply to see a good singer, I had received much more than I'd bargained for; I had realized the complexity of the art form. From then on I knew I had to be a part of it.

Things weren't quite over yet, though. As the ovations began to die down, I grabbed my bouquet and made my way down to the stage door. Gathered around was a cluster of elderly. The air stank of Sharpie as they were all positioned at the door, programs at the ready, prepared to pounce. One lady, not quite as eccentric as the others, approached me casually asking, "So, who are you waiting to see?"

"Roberto Alagna," I replied. She looked in her late fifties or early sixties. Her hair was still vibrantly brown, graying only a little.

"I'll take a picture of you with Roberto if you take a picture of me and Roberto, deal?" she answered. I consented, relieved that I wouldn't have to bother someone else and risk missing this great photo op.

"So where are you from?" she continued while primping her short brown hair.

"I study at Boston University, but I'm from Tampa," I answered.

"Really? I'm from Bradenton! Twenty minutes from Sarasota," she answered. The chances that there are two nut jobs from Southern Florida willing to take a day trip to New York to see the same opera singer was too much of a coincidence for me to handle. It wasn't until later that I realized how strange it was for me to have so willingly opened up to two complete strangers, never mind in the same day, but, unlike earlier, this time we had everything in common, from home town to musical taste.

As soon as baritone Simon Keenlyside stepped outside he was bombarded. Marina Poplavskaya, lead soprano in the opera, tried in vain to take advantage of this. Wrapped up from head to toe, she tried to slip through the crowd unrecognized. Unfortunately, seconds before she was in the clear, the pack was onto her. The bouquet in her arms gave away her otherwise impenetrable disguise. "It's Marina!" one of the women screamed in an intonation that implied something more to the effect of "LET'S GET HER." Fortunately for me, she both physically and mentally diverted the masses, leaving me and my new friend, Dede, front row for Roberto's exit.

When he finally stepped out I knew Dede and I were on the exact same wavelength in term of Roberto-admiration. Dressed in his white V-neck, jeans, and black blazer, he was disarmingly charming; I was speechless. Dede snapped out of it first, but still was not forming coherent sentences. At least we could blame some of the trembling and stuttering on the cold weather and spare ourselves a little embarrassment.

I'm not sure how I ended up next to him with his arm around my shoulder, but there I was. "One, two, three!" I heard Dede say. I don't know if the blinding flash brought me back to reality or threw me further into confusion; all I know is that the mob was back and they wanted me out of the picture. It was then that I realized that I was still holding a bouquet of roses. There were no words with which I could even try to express the sheer magnificence of the performance or my gratitude to each singer for pouring their hearts into it, so I just handed the flowers to him. My face must have said it all, though.

"For me?" Alagna asked in his unmistakably French accent. I nodded, still at a loss for words. He put his arm around me again and said "Thank you! I love the young people at the opera! C'est magnifique!" after which he kissed my forehead and, as you can imagine, how I got to Amsterdam Avenue is a blur; perhaps the crazy old women had pushed me out of the way or perhaps Dede had led me to the street side, after all, she was still walking next to me. We looked back and what we saw looked more like a feeding frenzy out of Shark Week than opera fans "greeting" the cast.

"Want to share a cab?" Dede asked.

Once we got inside the cab we really let loose.

"I was blubbering like an idiot!" Dede groaned. Our conversation became a competition of who could find the most eloquent way to express the godliness of Roberto's voice. It got to the point where the cab driver had to interject, "WHO IS THIS ROBERTO GUY?!"

Before she got out, we exchanged emails. The rest of ride to JFK Airport I reminisced about all the fascinating people I'd seen and met in only one day. I felt like I'd lived a lifetime that day. I paid the driver and walked into JFK. I approached the Jetblue ticket kiosk when I realized my flight confirmation sheet was not in my bag. I searched frantically for it for ten minutes before it hit me; Dede had it. I had given it to her to write her email and, flustered, she had not returned it. The check in line was at least a 2 hour wait and I didn't have two hours. I stood panicking for a few minutes, then decided to call my sister. Thankfully she answered. I directed her to the confirmation email that had all my flight information and was able to get my ticket. As soon as I'd passed through security my phone began to ring. It was my roommate.

"Hello," I answered.

"Where the hell are you?" she demanded. It was 7:30 P.M. already and she hadn't seen me all day.

"I'm on my way back from New York. Roberto was singing," I answered nonchalantly.

"You're in New York? Is this the same Melanie who wouldn't go next door to buy milk yesterday when she ran out? Or am I talking to a complete stranger?" she asked sarcastically.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "I'll see you tomorrow." I hung up and took a seat at a café where I ate my first meal of the day before boarding the plane back to Boston.