The first Friday in September means
opening night of the San Francisco Opera, and as usual, I was there. The difference this time was that as a
retired lady, I had time for a quick pamper before the opera. I headed down to my local nail place – the
lovely Lavande on Carl Street – for a mani-pedi. But for the first time ever, instead of just
“natural” polish on the mani, I went for matching reds on fingers and toes,
choosing a hue called “Manicurist in Seville”, because tonight’s opera was
Mephistopheles by Boito, and I was feeling a little devilish myself. I was actually supposed to be in the opera as
a heavenly host, a supernumerary, but there were simply too many conflicts with
the Tosca rehearsals. It’s OK. In fact, as someone pointed out to me, I’ve
been singing on opening night in the
opera house for more than 30 years – the National Anthem – but hey, it’s a
start.
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