Aida in Verona

    The enchantment of Aida began long before the performance itself. When Lasse and I arrived in Verona and walked to our hotel (Arena B&B, an excellently hospitable place), we passed the Roman arena where we would see the opera the next night. In the square in front of it, roped off in large clusters, were the sets – enormous pharaohs, queens, and sphinxes, shining gold, the size of buildings, giving promise of unparalleled spectacle.

    The afternoon of the opera I suffered sartorial anxiety. Would my Floral Borealis dress (see previous post) be too hot to wear? Would wet seats after the afternoon thundershower ruin my dress? Would I be overdressed? Underdressed? Then the showers lifted, the streets dried, the heat of the day turned pleasantly warm, and when I put on the dress, it seemed just right. I draped my pashmina over my arm for cooler weather later and walked with Lasse to the arena.

    Here hundreds of people were milling around the arena square, walking through the streets, eating dinner at sidewalk tables, taking pictures, waiting for the arena doors to open. Artists, singers,

dancers, and musicians from the opera were working the crowd for signatures on a petition for more secure work. We were unsure of the details of their complaint, but we support artists, so we signed the petition.
    When the gates opened at 8:00, Lasse and I walked through Gate 8, marked "poltrones" (“armchairs,” not, as I had first thought, a certain class of people) and through the thick stone arches of the 2000-year-old, 30,000-seat arena, so massive and solid I marveled not that it was still standing but that other Roman arenas and amphitheaters had fallen. We had very good seats, in spite of the tall people in front of us. With Egyptian-style neck movements, we could see fine. All around us excited opera-goers were pouring into the arena. According to the clothes of other women, my dress was perfect.

    Just at dusk, before the opening of the show, in a pre-performance tradition in Verona, people in the top tiers of seats lit tiny candles that flickered all around the arena, an enchantment all its own.
    The maestro entered; applause and “Bravo, Maestro!” broke out, and the real enchantment began with the soft opening measures of Verdi's Aida. From that moment to the soft sad ending, with all the triumphal musical brandishment and spectacle in between, Verdi’s music held everything together – as big as the setting and sets, as intimate as Aida and Radames in their tomb together. The pharaohs and sphinxes that had seemed so massive outside the arena now fit comfortably into the space. An enormous pyramid dominated the stage with its point rising outside the stage setting, piercing the sky. That the people were miniaturized didn’t matter – their voices were gigantic.
    Amneris’s silver and blue satin dress shimmered and gleamed; her jewels glittered. Aida, her slave and rival in love, belied her own simple, murky-red dress with the power of her voice. The priest’s thick white robes paralleled the king’s gold-braided robes. Every once in a while a gentle breeze lifted and billowed the lavish layers of clothing and flowing robes in lovely asymmetrical rhythms, reminding me, as the point of the pyramid did, that I was outdoors. There were no animals in the triumphal procession, but no one missed them in the swirl of magnificent dancers, the pageantry of standard-bearers, and the grand Egyptian symmetry that held true in choreography, costumes, and sets.
    Abruptly, at the opening of the final two acts, the spectacle was at an end. Even as the music turned darker to fit the story line, so did the costumes. In a final spell of enchantment, members of the chorus, clad in black, moved in a long winding procession with lit lanterns up the steps of the arena until they were spread out in three lines, the top one high above the arena floor, on the top steps. They extinguished their lanterns and relit them only in the last scene, when, one by one, starting with the person at the end of the top row, the light was passed from lantern to lantern in a long, winding line of glittering lights.
    At curtain call, as I was clapping enthusiastically, Lasse nudged me to look up. Over the shoulder of the pyramid hung a shining half-moon. Under it we walked back to our hotel in a haze of enchanted bliss, my pashmina held tight around my shoulders over my perfect Floral Borealis dress.