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.    

The Promised Land. An Undiscovered Country. And A-List Problems.

I thought my life would be better when my parents moved back to California. I’d spent my childhood there. We lived five years in Florida.  I thought things would go back to the way they were. They didn’t. Family members I’d known as nurturing accused me of being a spoiled traitor for enjoying travels to Poland, Russia and other foreign countries. During those past five years Walnut, CA had become a promised land. It didn’t measure up. I felt betrayed.

After that I never stopped traveling. My first home abroad was a dorm room in Beijing’s no.4 High School. I only had a roommate for a few days. He dropped out of our program. I was able to experience life abroad. The cafeteria’s bad food set me on a hunger strike after a couple of weeks. For the first time, I had my own friends; my own space.

Come to think of it, I’ve never had a roommate for an extended period of time.  I shared an apartment with family and acquaintances in Maldives. I took the multiple balconies and maid service for granted at the time. The interpersonal drama drove me up the walls. It also motivated me to journalistic success.

 I lived by myself in Bucharest too.  The apartment had an ionic view of the Palace of Parliament. I often reveled in it while cooking meals of my creation, or enjoying Moldovan wine. I dutifully cleaned the floors, and sprayed for cockroaches at midnight.  It took a visit from my mother to remind me that the place was a shit hole. No hot water. The balcony filled with standing water. Broken window panes.  Still, it was mine.  

During the latter half of that summer I lived in another dorm.  The impossible happened. My roommates were my best friends on the program.  We had some minor disagreements. But, our Polish courses finished after 6 weeks. As one of them put it: “it’s after two months that the drama starts to happen.” I’ve had the experience. I’m done with it.

At USC, I was forced to share an apartment for a year and a half. I had my own room. Yet, the situation was insufferable. Returning South Hills became a boon. My high school friends grew closer. I eventually moved back.  College became a necessary evil.

I’ve lived in other locales since then. There is something new you learn to appreciate in each city. Some more desirable than others.  In Budapest, I reveled in my flat’s grand piano, chandlers and short walk to the opera. In Bangkok, I lived on my balcony. I was forced to cook pizza with a hot plate.

Right now, I’m living in Poland. In a one bedroom apartment for what couldn’t buy a studio in the West.  I’ve never seen a roach. Everything works according to its Ikea design. I don’t need my mother to tell me that it’s not a shit hole. I dutifully vacuum my own floors.  I keep from my balcony for fear of unwanted solicitors.

Next year I’ll study in Vienna.  The best I can hope for is one room with no balcony. But, I know I'll live alone. Pursuing an uncompromising future. The rent will be more than for my Polish flat. The standard of accommodation will be less. I’ll learn to live with it. Yet, I now  realize what I’m embarking on.

I recently saw Verdi’s La Traviata.  In it, the protagonist’s father attempts to remind him of the pleasures his family’s home offers.          

 Our house is near Walnut. We call it The Village. I miss its multiple verandas. The effluent privacy;. its effortless cleanliness. Its manicured yards.  I hope its balconies shall always exist. That the friends I’ve made since Florida will be eternal.  I can’t help but long for the respite my summer return will bring. But what awaits beyond its premises?  

Once I leave my family’s home, my future can only be global.   

I must move ahead. Despite the difficulty. To improve my accommodations . To create The Village again in a new land. On my own terms.

Even if it’s impossible.          

More on the Financial Crisis

Protests resumed in front of the Palace of Parliament Yesterday. While the opposition television station tried to make it look as if they were breaking down the gate to the palace’s grounds, demonstrators remained non-violent. The protest took place as the parliament voted on a motion of ‘no confidence in government’ brought on by the proposed austerity measures needed to obtain a loan from the IMF. The vote was defeated by a narrow majority, but was met by shouts of protest from public spectators in the parliament’s viewing chambers. The results mean that Prime Minister Emil Boc has a mandate to legislate harsh salary, pension, and across the board budget cuts. While the current government remains in power, statistics show that less than 1/3 of the population supports Boc’s government. The coalition stands to lose when elections are next held. In my opinion, they deserve to. Their handling of the budget crisis has been first rate, considering the circumstances. However, it is important to remember that the government's over-spending and mismanagement caused the current crisis. The decision to cut the salaries and pension will only have great impact on one segment of the population. This minimizes the negative effect on the economy as a whole, when compared with other options such as raising taxes to pay down the debt. The government has chosen the lesser of two necessary evils, but neither would be required if they had spent within the country's means.