OTAS, you found it

It's been a while since I've posted. I can't begin to tell you how busy things have been with me at work. So there's a lot to talk about (but let's start with something fun.)


If you recall, I was getting excited over a gala performance honoring John Volpe, the outgoing general manager of the Metropolitan Opera, because I managed to get tickets. Excited because all (most) of today’s leading singers would be singing that night, from Domingo, to Freni, to Flemming. My only concern was that my high expectations would be let down.

Alas, the gala was incredible.

Having started as a carpenter there before making his way to the performing arts’ top pose, Volpe wanted to show a scene change with the curtain up. So the first set, the Italian Girl from Algiers, was moved to the back of the massive staging area and as the stagehands began to put some props in place near the front of the stage. Then, amazingly, the ornate set from the first act of Traviata (Violetta’s ballroom) rose from the floor of the stage and into place. Amazing.

Then Natalie Dessay walked on stage to sing an aria from La Sonnambola. I can only describe it as thrilling. And this was the first of many memorable performances that night which went on for about five and a half hours. (If you want to check out the performance, it will be broadcast on PBS this Thursday.) After the gala we went out to eat at Café des Artistes, a swank restaurant near Lincoln Center. So it was a first class evening, for someone like me, it was an opportunity of a lifetime.

It capped off another opera gorge with my mother. Tuesday we saw Tosca and then the Elixir of Love. The last night of opera before the gala was the operatic epic Parsifal. Though it seems like a redundant phrase, “operatic epic” is perhaps the only way I can describe it: The opera began at 6:30 and we didn’t get out until midnight.

It didn’t feel that long, though. It was as if Wagner slowed down the entire world. For example, there was scene where the ailing king was trying to give communion, but due to wounds was virtually unable to do so. This scene lasted for about 40 minutes. It was amazing. The chorus and orchestrations set beautifully surreal atmosphere as we watched this man struggle with every move. I was transfixed – I didn’t want it to end.

And the fans of Parsifal are among the most hard core. You could hear a pin drop in the place. At the end of the opera the curtain close and the audience, as if in shock, sat silent. When they finally snapped out of it the house nearly came down with applause, standing ovations, and screaming from the audience. It was really something.

I then had a party on Sunday with a bunch of my bridge-and-tunnel friends. You gotta have balance, you know!

My grandfather is slowing up. That’s actually a gross understatement. He’s been in and out of the hospital this year for various reasons ranging from a mild heart attack to a sprained ankle. My grandmother, who is no spring chicken herself, has been left with the mammoth task of taking care of this, well, rather cantankerous old man.

To put this into context, let’s start out with the fact that my grandfather doesn’t want anyone cutting his hair. He, therefore, cuts it himself, and in his current state he’s become too lazy to do it. As a result the nurses at the hospital called him “Mrs. Sato”. Grooming aside (which does not end with the hair, but continues on with toe nails) he is hard of hearing and gets upset when he doesn’t understand you.

Needless to say, it was time to go to Chicago for a visit, if for nothing else than to offer Grandma a reprieve from her duties as a caregiver. So a couple of weeks ago I flew in to spend some time with them.

The last time I was back in Chicago was over Christmas, and grandpa hadn’t gone through all this health turmoil yet. This time when I arrived in the apartment he was sleeping. . . Grandma went into the back room to change. Grandpa, waking up, began pacing around the apartment repeating my grandmother’s name. It was eerie.

My grandmother admits they are living some sort of sub-universe. They don’t have people over anymore (not that they were ever very social) and have a strange dependency relationship. My grandmother finally came around to getting a mail to come in every couple of weeks.

After being awake for a few hours, my grandfather got up and went to sleep again. “He sleeps almost all hours of the day.” My grandmother said. “How long can someone live like this?”

How do you respond to that?