That’s probably worth its own blog entry, but this post is actually about why I subjected myself to tiny suede stilts and imminent shin splints: I went to the Kungliga Opera, and you just don’t do that sort of bourgie thing looking like an American schlub in UGG boots.
For some, the destination sounds way more punishing than the shoes, but I actually love the opera – and this was a particular treat because it was my favorite one, Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro. Or in Swedish, Figaros Bröllop. I took my seat on the left balcony, stealthily slipped off my ankle boots to give my throbbing toes a break (whatever, no one saw, except for maybe the people next to me, and possibly that lady in the next row who scowled at me, and the old man in front of me who turned around) and I waited for the familiar overture.
The Swedish title on my ticket stub really should have been my first clue, but it wasn’t until Susanna and Figaro sang their first few bars that I realized, stupidly, this little Italian opera would be captioned in Swedish. For all four acts. For three hours.
So, that made for a long evening. But I still had such a blast that I stopped by the box office again this morning and bought tickets to see Rigoletto and the Rites of Spring next week. And now I have renewed purpose for this weekend, because what kind of uncivilized westerner would repeat the same footwear at back-to-back shows? I have standards. And a credit card, unfortunately.