Not Prague, Part 10: Return to Vienna (or: Our Opera House is Your House)

I attended an opera tonight. Whoever lives closest to my Mom, please knock on her door and make sure she can get back off the floor. As for the rest of you, I'll follow up by telling you what I wore: a blue hooded sweatshirt, jeans and hiking boots.

Such is life when one decides, at the last minute, to attend a show at the Vienna State Opera House, which offers standing-room tickets for every show starting about 80 minutes before the curtain rises. The Opera House runs shows from the fall to the end of spring, and it often produces a new opera every night. That, along with the accessibility of standing-room tickets, makes it a popular destination for tourists (actual opera lovers optional).

I had just completed a walk past some of Vienna's biggest, most audacious buildings when I realized I was standing at the Opera House. With no other plans for the veening, I figured I might as well see if there were tickets available. I met travelers from Seoul and Beijing, and we decided to go in together after we were finally let in out of the cold. We were directed down the hall where we found a very helful person with a handful of what looked like tickets. They were, in fact, programs for 90 Euro cents, and this being our first opera, we told ourselves, geez, these are pretty basic tickets. We eventually found the correct booth and bought standing-area seats, in the back facing the stage, for 4 Euros.

Our area featured a cross-section of sweatshirts, pullovers, suits and sweaters. Many of us had jeans on. (Those who bought reserved tickets were dressed more appropriately.) An usher handed us old white scarves to tie to the rail in front of us to mark our spots. In front of us was a small electronic screen that would show us the words, in English or German, that the performers would be singing. Before the show began, a female usher who had to be in her 20s stood in front of us and called out the etiquette: No whispering, no photos, no cell phones on, no leaving until one of the two 20-minute intermissions. And with a hush, the show began.

We watched Andrea Chenier, the story of a poet condemned to death during the French Revolution and his lover who chose to be executed with him rather than live without him. In other words, it was the second-saddest thing I saw this weekend.