An afternoon at the opera

When I went to bed Saturday night, the results of the BC elections were being called as: NDP 46, Conservatives 45 and Greens 2. As your mental arithmetic will tell you, to get a majority of one, a party needs 47 seats. Well, okay, if the NDP and the Greens got together (for as long as that lasts), as they have in the past, that would keep the Conservatives out of power. When I woke up yesterday morning, it turned out that a lot of ridings had been too close to call, that there were going to be multiple recounts and the final tally wouldn’t be known for a few days. Nail biting, but I could worry about it another day, because yesterday I had something else to do.

I was getting off the island for the first time in I can’t remember how long and heading down to Victoria. What prompted this? Tickets to

Only Mozart opera I’ve never seen.

I’m glad my friend was driving, as it was absolutely bucketing down and I’m not all that keen on driving on highways in the pouring rain. Said friend knows Victoria better than I do and got us to a parking spot not far from the venue. Plenty of time for the plan to have brunch somewhere first. (Brunch! How long has that been?) And it conveniently turned out there was a place that did Eggs Benny close to where we parked.

Although the Hollandaise wasn’t as good as mine (needed a bit more kick), the yolks were still runny and brunch hit the spot. There was still a while before the 2:30pm start time when we’d finished eating, so we wandered past the venue to have a look at some statues in a fountain.

The mosaic one was particularly beautiful, although it took a seagull landing on top of it to prompt me to pull out my phone and take a picture.

When we turned back to walk to the theatre, one of a group of men who were hanging around at the side of the building, approached and asked us if we’d like him to take a photo of both of us in front of the statues. We declined. He went on to tell us that at some point in the coming week both statues were going to be removed (to disappear, no doubt, into storage somewhere, never to be seen again), along with the fountain, in order to clear the way for a new bike path. His disdain for this proposal was clear and, much as I approve of cities making an effort to increase bike riding, I have to say I was inclined to agree with him.

Time to get inside the theatre, not least because the second cappuccino had worked its way through my system fairly quickly and I needed to have time to pee before the opera started. Get to the entrance, look inside and register that the foyer is completely empty. Very odd. Pull the door. It’s locked. Look at one another, mystified. Walk to the corner and peer up the other side of the building, in case there is another entrance. There isn’t. Look at one another again. “We have got the right date, haven’t we?” my friend asks. “Yes, of course we have,” I reply. “Sunday, October 20th.” It was the only matinee performance, which is why we chose it, so we could get there and back in a day. He looks at his phone to check the tickets. “Fuck,” he says, “It’s at the Royal.” We were at the McPherson. He’s not entirely sure how to get from here to there. Neither of our bloody mobiles will open up Goggle maps to figure it out. I ask a couple who are walking by. The Royal is about eight blocks away and we now have ten minutes before curtain. It’s obvious that going back to the parked car, driving to the Royal and trying to find somewhere to park will take longer than walking. (Okay, at that point bicycles would have been handy.) We set off, if not jogging, certainly at a brisk pace. First set of traffic lights we come to the light is green, but the hand is flashing with a warning that the light will change in eight seconds. “We can do it,” I say. We run across the road. A couple of traffic lights later, six seconds. We leg it. Next light, four seconds. We leg it. Time’s pretty much up and I am resigning myself to the fact that we will have to stand at the back of the auditorium for the first act.

But no. The lights have been dimmed, the orchestra has started playing, but they manage to get us to our seats. “I’m so sorry,” I keep saying to the people who have to stand up to let us through to our centre seats – particularly one elderly gentleman who really had to struggle to get on his feet.

Mike and I used to go to the opera a lot in Vancouver. On a really good day, Vancouver boasts a second rate opera company. On most days, it’s more third rate – seldom were they able to attract both a stellar soprano and a stellar tenor. It was almost always one or the other. (Worst production of Carmen was there with a singer in the title role who had as much va va voom as a slug. I almost felt bad for her during the bows when the woman singing Micaëla deservedly got far louder applause and many more bravas.) On one rare occasion they managed both. It was a production of, I think, Don Giovanni  – or it might have been Faust (my friend Jane would probably remember). If I can’t recall it’s because the mirrored tile set they came up with was so bloody distracting it was difficult to concentrate on anything else.

So, here’s something interesting. I’ve never been to an opera in Victoria before. I made an assumption that, if Vancouver was at best second rate, more often third, that Victoria would probably be at best third rate, more likely fourth. I could not have been more wrong. Every one of the singers was fantastic. By the end of the first act, I was sold. There would definitely be more Victoria operas in my future.

The intermission came and I girded myself for the challenge. Remember I had wanted to pee before taking my seat? Obviously there had been no chance of that. Now I was bursting. Told my friend to go to the bar, get a gin and tonic, save a bit for me, and took off as best I could without actually knocking anyone over. At the foyer doors I asked an attendant where I might find the ladies room. Far end, either side, she told me. Navigated my way to one. As I could have predicted, the queue was a mile long. Dodged my way around the other punters. Long queue at the other end, although not quite as long as the first one. Waited and waited and waited, beginning to genuinely wonder if I was going to make it. I was still some distance from getting into the actual ladies room and anywhere near a cubicle when the door to one of the disabled toilets opened. Quick look around. No sign of any women who clearly needed one. Grabbed my chance. When I came out there were still women waiting inside the ladies to get to a cubicle. Started to make my way to the bar. Bell rang. Found friend, had a gulp of gin and tonic, ran outside, lit fag, had four drags, put fag out, ran back to my friend, downed the remaining G&T, returned to seat. “That’s crazy,” he said. No shit, Sherlock.

There is not a single large theatre or opera company anywhere in the world (well, at least none I’ve ever encountered) that has any where nearly enough toilet facilities for female attendees. Especially when it comes to Sunday matinees, which attract a large number of elderly ladies who can take a bit longer than some of us. I remember back in the nineties telling Mike I wanted to start a “potty parity” campaign to somehow force venues to address this annoying bloody problem.

Okay, back to the performance. It was GREAT. As I said, definitely more Victoria opera in my future. But never another Sunday matinee.

Come out of the Royal. Oh, look – after the downpour, the sun is actually out. A drier, more leisurely walk back to the car, past the wrong theatre, where we notice a big poster on the side of the building.

Well, that could be fun. But not a matinee.