The recent Toronto snow storm put paid to my Friday night flight, so I was on the first Saturday morning hop to La Guardia. My 4:00 a.m. cab driver was just finishing a twelve-hour shift. Hurtling north on the 427 to Lester B. Pearson Airport, he pointed out the spot he’d done several 360s during the November snow storm. Then, he recounted the hour earlier in the day stuck in a snow bank. “Ever thought about going into PR?” I wondered.
In New York, where my wife had arrived two days earlier, we had tickets for the opera: Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Seviglia. I called The Met in the hope of pre-ordering intermission drinks. I was officiously informed that “only members of the Guild” would be served drinks in the “Decidedly Huffy Room” at the intermission. “Enjoy the line-up, sir.” was the main idea. I thanked her for taking the time to patronize me so effectively, and found myself looking forward to more brazen snobbery.
Since I needed an afternoon nap, we were late having dinner, so took a cab from lower Manhattan. Unlike Monaco’s annual event, New York boasts a daily Grand Prix of “F1 and all” taxi drivers. With the lighter traffic of February, this made for an exhilarating dash up to the Lincoln Center.
The jockeying for pole positions does not end at the curbside. Sidewalk blasts of abuse and more refined over-the-shoulder “tuts” are a Manhattan art form. On the sweeping staircase of the Met itself, a haughty opera type attempted to cut me off en route to the water fountains. I opted not to brake and cede passage. Big sniff in my direction.
The lead performers could sing Rome into ruins. Even we, plain unseasoned opera runts as we are, could see that. Despite this stunning artistry, the classic operatic warble of Jose Manuel Zapata was humorous enough to provoke the odd giggle fit from my wife. This meant we both suffered from bouts of shuddering shoulders at inopportune moments. Slightly embarrassing as this was, at least we didn’t break our chairs, unlike the oversized German lady on our left after an intermission snack or three. Luckily, the warble and the lurching clunk failed to coincide.
Elina Garanca, playing Rosina, has a voice crafted by angels. I couldn’t hit a note if it grabbed me by the ears and blew a raspberry in my face, so, to me, voices like hers just defy comprehension.
A night at the opera demands a hearty breakfast to follow. Luckily, New York is one of the great breakfasting cities. We settled on the relaxing atmosphere of French Roast, whose Mexicana omelette was superb: think fresh herbs, salsa, and just the right amount of egg liquidity.
After a stroll around Chinatown, we stumbled into the immaculately scrubbed streets of Little Italy. I wonder what level of coercion is needed to keep up that level of cleanliness. At least, you don’t worry about sullying your dropped cannoli.
Ten degrees of warm spring-like sunshine, a day at the MoMA, and a night at the Met. Still, it’s always good to get home.
wapentake 