Near the end of the first act of Madama Butterfly, Cio-Cio-San and Pinkerton, newly married, sing a slow, beautiful love duet. At the Anthony Mingella production we saw at the Metropolitan Opera one Saturday night in April, the couple walks toward stage left, and a shower of red petals floats softly down upon them, catching the light and landing on the stage, making a pathway to their wedding night. It was magnificent.
And so was the singing. Greg wrote a story on the lead, Kristine Opolais, for Arrive (follow link here: Kristine Opolais), and we were invited to see her. It’s the first time I can remember seeing an opera (I think I did when I was a kid once, but I’m not sure). What an experience. What a show.
I can see why tickets to the opera can be so expensive. The costumes, the talent, the sets — though these were spare they were still beautiful — make even Broadway seem hokey. 
Velvet seats. Gorgoeous room.
Once the curtian fell, I could read the subtitles on the back of the chair right in front of me, but I could not see anything by Greg. I thought to myself, ‘He chose not to turn them on? What’s the matter with him! How will he be able to follow along?” And he thought the same for me. Turns out, the little red letters show up only to the person reading them. You can’t see anything on the seat next to you, so you aren’t distracted. Amazing.
Greg during intermisson:
Met opera:
The ceiling:
Wow:
The ornament at the top of the proscenium:
#operaselfie:
What a night.
