I think I fell into a stupor with open eyes. Or rather, I think I have fallen into a doze state like a cat in laying under a sun beam on a cold winter day. The body relaxed, the spirit lazy. A rare moment of nihilism in a noisy city. I lowered the bar of my expectations for today. I am fulfilled with what I have. No hunger or thirst, not even a lust for a cigarette. A rare moment of tranquility. I let my hand lay over the basil leaves. I shake the oregano for a second. Greek scents in the middle of the high summer. I dive into the intricate flower of bougainvillea ( what a mundane word for such a poetic plant). A sun that shines golden. A refresing mistral coming from north west. My senses are sharpened today. A scarce moment of care-free, almost euphorish well-being. It must be the healing echo of yesterday’s visit to the opera.
A body and soul delight that rose from the dark red robes of the Assyrian royalties. Black and white, a dark red, some gold here and there. A combination not of my favorites that took me pleasantly by surprise.
Giuseppe Verdi’s Nabucco by the Greek National Opera at the Odeon of Herodes Atticus in Athens. The open air antique theater was full to burting.
At the feet of the Acropolis. A masterpiece. Majestic. Arias accompanied by cicadas. And a bird that thought the soprano’s high timbres were exclusively for him. A bird that took Abigaille’s love for Ismaele as an invite for him. A bird that though her love call should not remained unanswered.
Almost three hours captivated by Verdi. Hostage of music and colours. Prisoner of a stunning performance, of a magic spell:
Va Pensiero (from another performance)
Va, pensiero, sull’ali dorate;
va, ti posa sui clivi, sui colli,
ove olezzano tepide e molli
l’aure dolci del suolo natal
No wonder the Chorus part has been sympolic to many patrios in occupied lands
Fly, thought, on wings of gold;
go settle upon the slopes and the hills,
where, soft and mild, the sweet airs
of our native land smell fragrant!
I can’t let anything spoil this magic moment – an exceptionally easy Saturday afternoon in Athens.
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Is opera just for a few?
Nina, from Georgia, is the woman taking care of my parents. I told her I was at the opera last night.
Nina: Oh, there where they scream?
Me: They sing, Nina, they don’t scream. I thought you had an opera, music, culture in Georgia.
Nina: Opera was for those who smile.
Me: eh?
Nina: We had to work.
Me: ehm…
Nina: My mother became widow at 40, we were 5 children. My mother had her opera at my father’s grave. Every day.
My own prejudices beaten by Nina…
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from the rehearsals
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