I'll meet you at the Met

Forecasts had all claimed that Bostonians were likely to see their first snowfall of the year this October morning. As I stepped out the door onto the deserted streets of 4:30 AM, I was relieved to see that their predictions, at least so far, had been wrong. It was dark, freezing, and way too early to be conscious, but none of that mattered because today was the day I'd been waiting for. Today I’d make my first trip to New York City to see the tenor of all tenors in Verdi’s masterpiece at none other than the Metropolitan Opera House. 

It was my first time taking Amtrak, so I left the apartment obnoxiously early “just in case”. Trudging down the silent streets, I don’t know what I was thinking. Whether at rush hour or this godforsaken hour of the morning, walking to the station wasn’t going to take more than ten minutes. So there I stood in Back Bay Station, a whole two hours too early. The air in the station was just as frigid as outside, only flatter like all the sound had been sucked out of it. As much as I hated a crowd, this stillness, this absolute loneliness was worse. I slumped onto the icy metal bench and glanced up at the station clock, watching the second hand swoop up to twelve and fall back down again contemplating how to pass the next hour and a half. That hypnotic loop and the blanket of cold that had settled over me had almost lulled me to sleep when footsteps and the sound of voices ripped through the perfect silence like a clap of thunder, reverberating off the station walls. 

A minute ago the thought of humans, just a sign of life, was all I’d wanted but now that they were here I felt awkward, like an intruder. Two people emerged from around the pillar, one androgynous with long hair, clothed in an eclectic array of fabrics and colors, the other a young woman with a long dark ponytail, dressed in black from head to toe. They spoke for a while like old friends. I couldn't make much sense of it but then again I was more preoccupied with camouflaging myself against the bench. The sound of the first T of the morning whisked the androgynous one away and brought the conversation to an abrupt end. 

As soon as she was alone, the woman turned to me and let out a sigh of relief. 

“That has to be the wildest person I've ever met!” 

I was baffled by how horribly I had misjudged their relationship, and yet now the woman approached me, a complete stranger huddled on a bench at this indecent time, and chattered on as if we were the old friends. 

“Apparently he's a transgender homeless student so he just carries his laptop around switching from train to train and sleeps in the stations. Respect,” she continued plopping herself down next to me. “I could never live like that.”

At first, I had very little to contribute and just let her ramble. She didn't mind. We were waiting for the same train and thereby partners in misery. I quickly warmed up to her as we watched the seconds tick by on the station clock and celebrated every five minutes we managed to pass. We even set sub-goals. If we could make it to 6:00 AM at least we could buy coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts to warm our hands. 

“Wait, so you're up at five in the morning to go to New York to see an opera…and then leave?” she asked me in disbelief. “You're not going shopping or meeting a friend or anything?” she added as if that might justify my lunacy just a little. 

“Nope. Just getting there in time for the matinee show and getting back to Boston before the T shuts down for the night.” 

Nothing screamed Nico like a day trip to an unknown city to watch an opera by my lonesome. 

By the time 6:35 AM rolled around, we were already waiting to usher the train in on the platform, jumping and waving like two forlorn children on the dock celebrating the homecoming of a long-awaited ship. The end was in sight. The train pulled to a stop and as we boarded, the blast of warm air that greeted us was like a kiss from heaven. We took our seats, said goodnight, and napped the four-and-a-half-hour ride to our destination.

It was going to be a long day and the sleep did me good. We unloaded from the train, recharged and elated, but New York had its own plans. A broken escalator was the first obstacle. For me, this wasn’t a problem, but my new friend in her platform wedge boots could hardly drag her monster suitcase up one step. The whole train was bottlenecked behind her, so I squeezed back around her and hoisted it up from the bottom. I helped her haul it out front but the bustle of the New York City streets had a strong pull and after a short goodbye, she disappeared into that endless stream of humanity.

I hailed a cab and in the short seven minutes it took to get from Penn Station to Lincoln Center I was absolutely certain of two things: we were going to get into a crash and I was going to throw up. Why the driver had to put the pedal to the metal when the cars ahead were visibly stationary, the traffic lights clearly red, I will never understand. I was just grateful to step out alive. I breathed in the crisp city air and all the ailments and preoccupations of that turbulent cab right cleared my mind. I’d finally made it.

Minutes passed and I still didn't move. I just stood gazing in awe as I accepted the reality that within the hour I’d be witnessing an operatic masterpiece with a world-class cast on one of the world’s great stages. I made my way slowly across the grand plaza, ticket in hand, and took in this moment I’d dreamed of for so long. Once ushered into the main lobby, I drifted across the room on weightless feet, floated up the elegant grand staircase of deep red, and took my seat in the balcony, as if perched atop a cloud. 

The Met’s famous Sputnik chandeliers sent a glowing shimmer across the cavernous auditorium and as they ascended and dimmed, it was like entering a trance. The world around me ceased to exist as the curtain opened on a bleak snowy landscape. Everything was silent. The tenor I’d traveled all this way to hear stood alone on stage against a wintry landscape. The stillness lingered a moment before the downbeat dispersed that ephemeral silence and filled the hall with the luscious tones of Verdi’s rich harmonic idiom.

I’m not usually such a sap. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried at a movie or play but by the end of act one, I was bawling (and there were still three acts to go). To feel the passion and the anguish, resonating in the singers’ voices and with me, to see it written on their faces, feel it in the vibrations that carried through the glassy air– it was devastating. 

For the first time, I felt emotionally drained by an opera, as if I had something personally invested in the outcome. I’d come simply to hear a good singer and yet I’d received so much more. 

As the ovations began to die down, I decided to go down to the stage door, say a word of thanks, or maybe just assure myself these all-too-lifelike characters were indeed real people. 

I regretted the decision as soon as I got there. The utility door nestled in the wall of a subterranean parking structure didn't exactly abound with elegance. Not only that, a cluster of irritable retirees encircled the entranceway poised with their programs at the ready, prepared to pounce. The whole place stank of Sharpie. 

Just back away slowly, I thought. At that moment a woman – less high-strung than the others— approached me. 

“So who are you waiting to see?”

 “Robert,” I replied. I’d have guessed she was in her late fifties or early sixties. Her hair was still vibrantly brown, graying just a little.

“I'll take your picture with him if you take mine. Deal?” 

I chuckled to myself. A picture? That would be one for the ages. 

“I try to make it up any time Robert is singing. Have to head back tomorrow, though. These hotel prices are unreal,” she said, primping her short brown hair. 

“So where are you from?” 

“Bradenton,” she answered. “Twenty minutes outside of Sarasota, Florida.”

“Really? I'm from Tampa! But I’m studying in Boston right now.” 

I shook my head and let a smirk steal across my face. Two nut jobs from western Florida willing to take a day trip to New York to see the same opera singer, what were the chances? As I thought back to the woman on the Amtrak, I mused on what a fluke it was that a recluse like me had opened up to two complete strangers and on the same day. Yet unlike earlier, this time we had everything in common, from home base to musical taste. 

The lead baritone was the first to venture out the stage door and the crowd pounced. The soprano cracked the door open moments later and tried in vain to use the diversion. Wrapped up from head to toe, she’d almost slipped through the crowd undetected, but the bouquet in her arms gave her away. The pack was on to her. 

“It's Maria!” one of the women screamed in an intonation that implied something more to the effect of “Let's get her!” 

Fortunately for me and my new friend, Donna, the soprano’s plight diverted the masses, leaving us front row for Robert’s exit. 

The moment he stepped over the threshold, I knew Donna and I were on the same wavelength in terms of Robert-idolization. Dressed in a white v-neck, jeans, and a tweed blazer, his luscious golden-blond hair peeked out from under a dapper newsboy cap, he was a breath of fresh spring air in that freezing alleyway; disarmingly charming. My star-struck nineteen-year-old self was speechless, but then again so was Donna. She snapped out of it first, but could hardly claim to be forming coherent sentences. At least we could save a little face and blame the trembling and stuttering on the cold weather. 

I can’t really recall how I ended up at his side with his arm around my shoulder, but there I was, wonderstruck and helpless. 

“One, two, three!” I heard Donna say. The blinding flash pulled me back down to reality; the mob was back and they wanted me out of the picture. But I still hadn’t said a word. And how could I? There were no words to express the profundity of that music and how deeply it would remain entrenched in my mind. 

“Thank you so much,” was all I could think of to say, but my face must have said it all. 

Robert grinned a wiley smile. “No, thank you,” he answered in a heavy French accent. He swooped his arm around my shoulder again. “I love the young people at the opera! C'est magnifique!” he said. 

Seconds later I was engulfed in that thrashing moshpit of senior citizens and was ejected out onto Amsterdam Avenue. Donna was still there beside me, cool and composed again. 

“Well, it’s a good thing we got to him before the feeding frenzy started,” she said. 

I laughed and turned to look out towards the main road. 

“Want to share a cab?” Donna asked. 

I didn’t make a habit of sharing cabs with total strangers, but a meeting so uncanny, I had to see it through. It was like meeting my future self. 

“Sure,” I said and a smile connected us. 

Once we got inside the cab we really let loose. 

“I was blubbering like an idiot!” Donna groaned. Our conversation ratcheted up to a contest of who could express the godliness of Robert's voice most eloquently. It had reached a point of such self-mocking silliness that the cab driver, peering back at us in his rearview mirror, had to interject, “Who the heck is this Robert guy!?”

We exchanged emails before she got out in Greenwich Village.

As I watched the sea of lights glitter in the night, I reminisced on the fascinating people I'd met on this one endless day that stretched seconds into minutes and days into years. I paid the driver, walked into JFK airport, and as I approached the JetBlue ticket kiosk, I realized in a flurry of panic that my flight confirmation sheet was gone. Scratching at the bottom of my bag, emptying its contents onto a bench, and sifting through each item one by one, I prayed that it not be so. It was ten minutes before it hit me: Donna had it. I’d given it to her to write her email and in the euphoria of our conversation, she’d forgotten to return it. The check-in line was at least a two-hour wait and I didn't have 2 hours. I stood panicking for a few minutes before I had the presence of mind to call my sister. Nobody knew I was here. I’d been too afraid they’d ridicule me or chide me for wasting money or being unsafe in my travel methods. But I could count on my sister and thankfully she answered. 

Now armed with my confirmation number, I printed my ticket at the kiosk and as soon as I passed through security my phone began to ring. It was my roommate. 

“Hello,” I answered. 

“Where the hell are you? " she demanded. It was 8:30 PM already and she hadn't seen me all day. 

“I'm on my way back from New York. Robert was singing,” I replied as if that logic would just unravel itself to any rational person. 

“You're in New York? Is this the same Nico who wouldn't run to the store downstairs when we ran out of milk yesterday? Or am I talking to a complete stranger?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” I teased. “I'll see you tomorrow.” I hung up and took a seat at a cafe where I ate my first meal of the day before boarding the plane back to Boston. 

A week and a half later I sat at my desk, looking out at the flurry of bronze and scarlett, a whirlwind of New England autumn dancing on the breeze. A ping brought my eyes back to my computer. An email had just come in. Subject line: Sorry for stealing your itinerary. She’d been too mortified to write sooner. But she couldn’t have known how immaterial that was. I wrote back right away. Emails became phone calls and phone calls became reunions. Sometimes in New York for another opera, sometimes in Florida when I visited family. That we’d be friends was obvious from that night at the stage door, but I could never have imagined that in three years time, we’d camp out at JFK after a spectacular evening at the Met, chatting into the twilight of that sleepless night on scrappy benches, waiting out the dead hours until airport security opened at 4 AM; that three years after that we’d smuggle our homemade sandwiches into the performance because opera was a hobby neither of us could afford, yet neither of us could live without; that three years after that we’d be sitting together at a cafe in her hometown and I’d introduce her to my fiance. 

People always tell me it was a happy coincidence, a wink of fate. Coincidence. No. If it had happened any other way it would have been someone else’s life, not mine.