La Bohème

I stood in line today at the Bastille Opera House—for about an hour and a half, which killed my feet because I was wearing my fancy-dancy dress shoes that look like boots, have heels, and are terrible for walking and standing. I was wearing them because it was the opera in Paris and I was dressed up—for the matinee—and happy to be so. I fit in. I looked rather French, if I do say so, and certainly everyone who interacted with me, from the minute I stepped in to line, seemed to assume I spoke more French than I do. (Imagine that)

And while we're on the subject of French, I was pleased by how well I could read the subtitles. I knew the story. I saw La Bohème this summer at the Mendocino Music Festival, so it was fresh in my mind. It was sung in Italian with French subtitles. I did well. I actually understood quite a bit. It was much easier than trying to keep up with Molière. The subtitles were relatively simple and when I added the visual action and my knowledge of the story, a lot of stuff just popped out at me. I was surprised. In fact, at one point I thought to myself, I've crossed the Rubicon here; something has shifted.

I'm still amazed that I stood in line—something I really hate doing—to see an opera—something I've never had any particular fondness for. La Bohème, of course, holds unique interest: it was written about the Bohemians and is set in late 19th century Paris, although this particular production was updated to 1930s costumes and sets.

The whole things was beautiful. I left feeling I'd made another leap of some sort in my understanding of the French, or the Parisians anyway. They loved it, and I'm pretty sure they loved it for the same reason I did. It's such a charming telling of Parisian history. It captures the legend of Paris so poignantly—even set it in the 1930s on the eve of World War II, (which crept in here and there in interesting ways.)

The crowd scenes were huge, with children and a bicycle pulling a cart. The café scene was absolutely sumptuous; there must have been a hundred people on stage. The sets were designed so the streets went back and around a corner. Sometimes we could hear someone singing, but not see them except through the windows. So we watched through the building until the singer rounded the corner. Very cool. It seemed so real that way.

My little epiphany was connected to a drama that unfolded while I was in line. It started when someone asked me if this was the line for tickets to La Bohème. I ended up apologizing for not speaking French that well. The woman in front of me got involved and then asked me to watch after her place for a moment while she stepped out of line. I said I would. (All this happened in French.)

Then another woman showed up and seemed about to crowd. The woman in front of me, who'd come back, objected. Words were exchanged, most of which I didn't understand, but it was definitely an altercation. The woman got in line behind me. Two more women showed up. (This is a long story). They were acquaintances of the woman in front and got in line with her. The other woman freaked out because they were crowding. The tension between these women continued for the rest of the time we were in line.

I was like an object of curiosity because I wasn't getting involved. All four of the women ended up speaking to me at one point or another. Each time I answered by apologizing for not speaking better French, but they seemed to think I knew enough. Well, long story short, I ended up sitting with these women in the theatre—we all got tickets at the same time. By that point, it was almost comical. It was as if we'd all come together or something. They were about my age too, all older woman who had arrived without male escorts for a matinee of La Bohème.

One of the women in particular was bigger than life, sort of fit my stereotype of an older Parisian woman: well-dressed, furs, kind of brassy and bold, talkative, intelligent, no English. She was one of the crowders, and she was friendly to everyone, but always seemed to have an angle. A complex character. In the end, I'm pretty sure she said something to me like, that was worth the wait, wasn't it? It definitely was.

At the curtain call all four women called out "bravo!" over and over. Lots of people were yelling "bravo!" But because I'd spent so much time with these women, I had a sense of the personalities behind the calls. It was enlightening and comical and quite wonderful. My words don't do it justice, but, quite by accident, I seem to have spent my afternoon hanging out with a group of older Parisian women who didn't speak English, but who included me because I was there. I think they found me amusing—the common bond being that we all wanted to see La Bohème enough to stand in line for it. Bottom line, they were just friendly people. It was quite an experience.