La Scala

February 1, 2008
Every week, we walk past La Scala, the world famous Opera house. To look at it from the outside, it seems actually less than grand. In fact, I remember the first time I stood in its piazza next to the statue of DaVinci, I actually said out loud, “Is this it?” Some nights, Amy and I walk at night through the Galleria, under its dome ceilings and I would ponder out loud what it would be like to be all dressed up, heading to La Scala. I would state emphatically that someday my future boyfriend would come over and say, “Rebecca, my love (for of course he will call me his love), we are going to La Scala on Friday night, wear something beautiful!” Ahhh that will be the day, I thought.

Opera. I remember the first time I was exposed to Opera. My sister and I were staying over night at my Grandmother’s and I was probably Cooper’s age, roughly four. Staying at my Grandmothers was such a treat. Even though getting me there, was, I am sure a chore. I was a shy child, and leaving my parents or my house was not something I ever liked to do. But my Grandmother spoiled us, like good Grandmothers do. She was the type of grandmother who wished she could consume you, she loved you so much. In fact, I can literally remember her kissing my big toe, long after my big toe was close to anything that was attractive.



Saturday night sleep overs, meant she would lend us her robes and slippers that were far too big for us. We would make jiffy pop popcorn on the stove and she would dish us heaping bowls of Heavenly Hash and Maple Walnut ice cream. We would sit watching the latest episode of Hee Haw, all the while playing a heated game of tiddly winks or old maid, which of course my sister would always win at. Her house was something close to heaven.

My introduction to opera happened at my Grandmothers house watching an awards show. I can remember a rather large woman in a even larger gown coming out on the stage and in a huge operatic voice sang, up and down the scale. To me, the four year old, it just seemed like she took her average sentences and put them in high pitched trilling notes. The audience broke into applause and the commentator raved at her talent and I sat there thinking, “Really!? I can totally do that!” So for the rest of the weekend, I decided I would try my hand at Opera. When asking for a glass of water, yup you guessed it, “ Aaaaaaa Glaaassss offfffff wwwwwaaaattter plllllllllease!” Shaking my voice and projecting as much as I could. Oh my Grandmorther, was such a sport! I am sure she thought it was cute at first. Probably thought my childlike attention span would put a stop to such shenanigans in minutes. But it must have been a day, a full day at Grams before she finally politely asked me to stop and I think I can still remember my sisters relieved sigh, when I actually did.



So at age four, my opera appreciation had stalled and I must say even in my young adult and adult life, I still wasn’t’ crazy about it. Yet, living in Milan, so near one of the world’s most famous opera houses, I couldn’t help but long to go.

So when, the week of my birthday, a school email came saying that there were tickets to Cyrano de Bergerac, I thought it was a sign that the universe was granting my wish. I quickly responded and got an even quicker response that the tickets were already sold out. Oh well, another time, I thought.

The week of my birthday, comes at a time when the world feels at its darkest. It is cold and winter has usually lost its luster and often times, I feel a little sad. I love light and in the absence of it, I tend to get what I would affectionately call a little melancholy.




So when Amy im’d me that she had a surprise for me on Friday, if I didn’t have plans, and that I should dress up, I instantly got excited. I knew, in that moment I knew, that in three days I would be seeing Placido Domingo, one of the three tenors be Cyrano. Amy had gotten tickets, and this would be my birthday present! No, it wasn’t a boyfriend calling me, “my love”. But it was a treasured friend and that is sometimes better.

I wish I could describe what it felt like to go. Wish I could explain the shear joy I felt that I had finally arrived at the future I had so desperately longed for, but didn’t believe I could have. To look at La Scala, at dusk, glowing with an air of elegance, as taxis and cars pulled up to let decorated people out of their doors. I could say it felt like heaven, but I have said that before. I could say I wanted to cry out in gratitude, again, nothing new. Instead, I think I will just simply say it was easy to stand and say Bravo, when the final curtain fell.