Pitfalls of Reputation

Guidebooks are notoriously inaccurate. That’s one of many things I’ve learned throughout my travels. They incorrectly state the opening hours of main attractions. They give many sights an undeserved build-up.  They unjustly decry others as not worth visiting. Guidebooks also make or break reputations.  

Countries have reputations as well. As I researched my long weekend in Ireland, one travel guide conceded that Ireland is one country which evokes high expectations. The travel manual was correct in this supposition. After five months in Wroclaw I was ready for a change. My vision of the Emerald Isle certainly qualified.

A friend and I decided to spend a few days in the country. The shock began shortly after arrival in Dublin. The reception at our hotel was a pub’s bar. This was convenient. However, it was also the beginning of sticker shock.  I enjoyed a couple of ales as I waited for my friend’s arrival. Each was almost 5 Euros.  

 You don’t get more for your money either. One is expected to pay through the nose for services of medieval quality. On buses you’re expected to have exact change. The fare depends on your destination. Bus drivers are far from patient. Attractions and food are also far from cheep.

Ireland has a reputation for friendly locals. We had a mixed experience. On the street, many will offer to give you directions.  The natives can be downright abrasive when acting in a professional capacity. We got lost on our way to Kirkham Jail. Some off-shift construction workers offered to help us find our way. We tried again to board public transport. Company employees yelled at us when we failed unwittingly to join an unnecessarily single-file line.

Our guidebook highly recommended the Guinness ‘Storehouse’ as a top attraction. It was one of the stupidest sights I’d ever seen. I’ve visited actual breweries before. This exhibit displayed computer generated models of the beer’s elaboration. The company attempted to sell you something at every step of the process.  

That evening I returned to the hotel’s reception-bar. Some Brits asked if they could join me as they polished off a bottle of wine. We discussed pubs and culture in Ireland and UK. Prices have generally skyrocketed in Ireland since it joined the Eurozone.  My British acquaintances informed me that UK is now less expensive in many cases.  I also asked them why so many pubs are going out of business. They pointed to a generational divide.  My parent’s generation went to the local pub to see friends. ‘You have your Ipads’ one of them told me. They mentioned the economic situation as well. The era of easy credit is over. Going to a pub is an unimportant luxury.

We headed for Cork after two days. The guidebook asserted that the city was of interest.  It turned out to be a boring version of Pasadena. After ringing the bells at the ‘Four Faced Liar’ clock tower  there was nothing left to do. The guidebook negatively described Ireland’s famous Blarney Castle.We decided to go anyway for lack of a better idea.

It turned out to be the best sight we saw on the entire trip. For some reason, the day was light on tour groups.  It isn’t just a castle with a famous stone.  We enjoyed walking its extensive grounds. I’ve read that there are more impressive sights in Ireland’s country side.

Maybe the guide books were partially correct.  Perhaps we saw the wrong parts of Ireland.  Its reputation may be defined by the countryside. But, that is not the Ireland I saw.

My flight back to Poland was full. Mostly with emigrants returning to visit their families. A middle-aged Polish lady joined me as I looked up the night bus schedule near the airport.  She explained that she could barely speak English as she bought her ticket from an automat. She’d worked in an Irish factory for 8 years.  We spoke Polish as the communist-era ‘Jelcz’ bus lumbered through early morning Wroclaw. It was so normal. Almost relaxing. I didn’t need a guidebook.  I was home.  

The Living Death

There’s a club which is somewhat famous among international students in Wroclaw. Many of my classmates habitually go there during the week. I’ve never been; I have no regrets.

Where I have been is the opera house. Possibly more often than most people on my program go to their aforementioned evening venue.  I’ve attended 16 operas since September. Some I’ve seen before. Yet, I still go. The art form often transports one to another world. Sometimes I’m convinced that it acts on the mind as a drug.

I first took in an opera 8 years ago. It was during my first trip to Poland.  A sojourn which defined my future interests, and aspirations. My captivation by the art awoke in the world’s smallest opera house.

 What began as a casual interest in the old-world novelty of opera transformed over the years. Most opera companies rely on popular classical operas to fill seats. They’re often popular for a reason; you find yourself attending titles you’ve seen before. Instead of novelty, you relish hearing your favorite operatic moments preformed live. Few new works are written or preformed.

Opera is far from popular in the larger sense. In LA, I went to the opera relatively rarely. I attended most-all operas in Romania, Hungary and Poland by myself. Who else would want to go every other week?  After a while it became like a quasi-religious ritual. The experience became internalized. I only began attending shows with someone who shared my passion for high culture during the second half of my time in Wroclaw. At first, it felt odd discussing with another person between acts.  I found that a night at the opera can be a shared experience.

 Wroclaw also maintains some mystique of times gone by. I started going to the opera while traveling. In LA, company directors pride themselves on importing performers from far corners of the world. In Wroclaw, I came to understand the concept of yesteryear’s opera star. Wroclaw is Poland’s opera Mecca. This may sound banal. But, the city stages more productions than any city in Italy. The company does so with a tight cast of talented performers. You come to know the singers after a time. You develop your favorites.  

Yesterday I saw Rigoletto for the third time. I found Opera Wroclawska’s modern staging a compelling metaphor for the sympathetically tragic intransigence of the title character. I used to decry modern scenery. Now the staging has become almost as important as the singing.  

My friend had trouble understanding the story. There’s no tradition of opera in her country. She’d never seen Rigoletto before. The staging confused her.  I was surprised at first. Then I remembered similar frustrations. I wouldn’t have understood the staging had I not seen two traditional interpretations before.  I explained the plot to her. It dawned on me how much I’d changed.

The world’s changed too. Though commissioned by kings, dukes and aristocrats opera had a wide appeal. Now it holds a cult following. La Scala recently reduced its upcoming season from 13 operas to 10.

I recently read an article in which a prominent soprano calls opera a ‘dying art form’. She maintains that we largely re-stage works of the past and eschew modern alternatives.  Indeed, I can’t name any regularly preformed modern opera aside from Nixon in China (one of my favorites).  

 A group of young people attended Wroclawska’s Rigoleto. They applauded the Count’s famous solo with wordless shouts of approval.  Some claim we’ve made opera into something it isn’t.  That it’s become un-egalitarian. No longer a place to let your proverbial hair down.  The opera of times gone by isn’t the opera I know. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The most tragic character in opera isn’t the one who dies.  It’s the person that must go on living. Many opera’s lay bare the living tragedies of individuals. It’s somehow fitting that this should reflect the art itself. If opera must die. Let it live on nobly in death.