This weekend, I was home alone in New Jersey for the first
time in 20 years.
I’ve been away on business without my wife and children, but
this weekend was the first time they’ve all been away on their own without me.
I mentioned this to a co-worker the other day. When she relayed
our conversation to her husband and I relayed it to my wife, the reaction of
both spouses was precisely the same: “How
does that fact even come up in normal conversation?”
Pretty funny, and a fair question too... I had been thinking
out loud about what to do on Saturday. “I mean,” I said to my co-worker,
struggling to think of something besides drinking beer and watching college football,
“I’ve never been to an opera before.”
What a random thing to say; I can’t fathom why it came to
mind. So I took it as a sign: I was destined to spend this anomaly in my space-time
continuum at the opera.
Online I learned that Bizet’s “Carmen” was playing at The Metropolitan Opera, less than 15 miles
away. Until that moment, all I knew about “Carmen” was what I had learned by
watching Katarina Witt skate at the 1988 Olympics – and what I had learned back
then had nothing to do with the opera.
What can I say? I’m just your average José – which is a reference
I can make after reading about “Carmen”
on Wikipedia. I also found a YouTube clip of Elina Garanca singing
“Habanera” and thought, “Maybe this satisfies
destiny, and I should stay home.”
No, I decided, I needed
to buy a ticket to experience this first-hand. At a recent technology exhibit,
I had taken a virtual-reality ride in virtual IndyCar
in the Verizon employee cafeteria. It was fun, but made me regret never having
driven a real racecar.
Here was the dilemma I faced: The available last-minute
tickets were either reasonably priced in the last rows, or ridiculously
overpriced in the front.
I know men who would buy a front-row seat without thinking.
They’re the kind of guys who have already driven a racecar. I admire them. Other
men would buy a ticket in the back, settling for a tinier version of Elina
Garanca rather than splurging at the expense of their family. I’m that guy, I conceded, after an inner
monologue worthy of Hamlet.
I was about to buy a single back-row ticket, when I received
a text message from my wife. The message was ordinary, and I replied that I
missed her.
This virtual conversation gave me pause. Wasn’t there
another option?
Yes. I purchased two good-but-not-extravagant “Carmen” tickets
instead… for a future performance when my wife would be home.
I grabbed a beer and went to the living room to watch the
Notre Dame game with one thought in mind:
Aren’t the best experiences
only worth it, and only real, when someone you love is beside you?
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