Everyone seems to have had a go at Leanora, first Beethoven, then Giuseppe Verdi. I was making this little joke on the brink of Il Trovatore, having brunch with my opera composer friend Stephen. And the other little joke, not that it was intended as funny, more a light observation, involved seating. Normally I roll my wheelchair into a space in row S. But not this time. Suggest we get to the Opera House early, I told Stephen. I explained about the transfer from wheelchair to the conventional seat. Just need a little more time. Actually, we had done this before. For Cavalleria and Pagliacci. Jane does not like Il Trovatore, particularly the throwing the baby in the bonfire schtick. A hard point to argue. But I don’t mind. The whole plot is so preposterous as to warrant eye rolling as soon as the curtain rises. So, I rise to the occasion.

Rising from my seat was another matter. Actually, somehow I thought it was going to be easier this time. Note, Gentle Reader, that the San Francisco Opera House took advantage of COVID-19 to transform its seating. Gone are the orthopedically ill-conceived plush monsters. They are replaced with something that could be termed as, well, seats. A bit higher. Firmer. Back support. And there have always been a few seats with removable armrests for easy transfer, like from my wheelchair. Which I had secured. The wheelchair spaces being sold out for Sunday’s matinee. And the entire Opera House being packed in a way I haven’t seen for years. Anyway, Leonora in the person of Angel Blue, Los Angeles soprano extraordinaire, had succumbed to her fourth act poisoning, rapidly overcoming the toxicology to take several curtain calls…and the house lights were up. But I wasn’t. 

No, I was down, in the seat. And waiting for help. Stephen couldn’t haul me out himself. Yes, we had done this once before. But those neuromuscular days were over. For both of us. And the usher? Not allowed, it turned out. There is a specialist, an EMT, on hand at opera performances. For situations just like this. And, of course, this was all revealed in stages. While on the actual stage, the conductor was preparing to give a post-performance lecture to those assembled. Which was going to be filmed. And wasn’t going to be filmed with a cripple still sitting in his seat on the aisle center orchestra. 

So there was great pressure to get me the hell out of there. And I wasn’t arguing. But I was being careful. Because there is that other thing. Which involves my knees. Yes, I have two of them, but maybe not. Their orthopedic sum is probably considerably less. Maybe like 1.1 knees. I don’t know. Anyway, I have to be very careful of them. No odd twists and turns as I maneuver out of the seat.

And wasn’t it just 40 years ago that I was schlepping around Europe with one of my English/German/Jewish relations? We had stopped in Venice. And I had finally shaken off Wilhelm long enough to see the place on my own. I headed for the Ghetto. The original one. Where there are some very disturbing statues of the Venetian holocaust victims. And more to the point, I got there via crutch. Twisting and turning and lurching. It was exhausting. Proved to be a bit more than I realized. But it didn’t matter. I did it and doubtless slept well that night. And looking back, as old people do, at least I got there. The vaporetti didn’t go there. And it was on the opposite side of the city. Sort of the industrial part where the tourist gondolas tied up overnight. Slightly disillusioning. And real. And that was then and this, whatever it is, is now.