Amanda: "Wait. You're an opera singer, but you've never been to the Paris Opera House?!"
Me: "Um... no..."
Amanda: "We have to fix this. Pick a weekend. We're going to Paris to see an opera."
And that's how I found myself on a plane to Paris on a freezing cold December weekend with my brilliant friend. We greeted Paris with wool socks, ball gowns, and box seat tickets to Smetana's The Bartered Bride. Paris greeted us with rain, sleet, Christmas lights, and champagne. I couldn't feel my feet for the cold the entire weekend, but, well, that's what the champagne was for.
We ran late to the opera. We burst into the house in a flurry of pouf and pearls. My jaw dropped immediately upon entering. This was one of the most beautiful, ornate places I'd ever seen. Even better, I wasn't there as a tourist - I was there to see a dadgum opera!
The opera itself was amazing, and time flew. I never could wrap my head around the fact that I was seeing an opera in the Paris Opera House. We sat on red velvet chairs in a box with red velvet walls. There was gold everywhere. There was the gargantuan chandelier of The Phantom of the Opera fame.
Amanda and I wanted to keep this fairy tale evening going, which meant that champagne was in order. We took a cab to a restaurant with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Our waiter was Italian. And by the laws of physics, all Italian waiters must flirt with anyone with boobs. He gave us menus and a wink. We ordered our champagne and perused the dessert menu, because we had been subsisting off of nothing but champagne, chocolate, and macaroons thus far, and we saw no need to change this delicious pattern.
Amanda and I saw it at the same time. We looked at each other and grinned.
"Do you want to split it?" Amanda asked.
"You bet," I replied.
We called our new Italian friend over. "We'll have the damnation, please."
That was one delicious damnation. If this is hell, I'll take it.
Me: "Um... no..."
Amanda: "We have to fix this. Pick a weekend. We're going to Paris to see an opera."
And that's how I found myself on a plane to Paris on a freezing cold December weekend with my brilliant friend. We greeted Paris with wool socks, ball gowns, and box seat tickets to Smetana's The Bartered Bride. Paris greeted us with rain, sleet, Christmas lights, and champagne. I couldn't feel my feet for the cold the entire weekend, but, well, that's what the champagne was for.
We ran late to the opera. We burst into the house in a flurry of pouf and pearls. My jaw dropped immediately upon entering. This was one of the most beautiful, ornate places I'd ever seen. Even better, I wasn't there as a tourist - I was there to see a dadgum opera!
The opera itself was amazing, and time flew. I never could wrap my head around the fact that I was seeing an opera in the Paris Opera House. We sat on red velvet chairs in a box with red velvet walls. There was gold everywhere. There was the gargantuan chandelier of The Phantom of the Opera fame.
Amanda and I wanted to keep this fairy tale evening going, which meant that champagne was in order. We took a cab to a restaurant with a view of the Eiffel Tower. Our waiter was Italian. And by the laws of physics, all Italian waiters must flirt with anyone with boobs. He gave us menus and a wink. We ordered our champagne and perused the dessert menu, because we had been subsisting off of nothing but champagne, chocolate, and macaroons thus far, and we saw no need to change this delicious pattern.
Amanda and I saw it at the same time. We looked at each other and grinned.
"Do you want to split it?" Amanda asked.
"You bet," I replied.
We called our new Italian friend over. "We'll have the damnation, please."
That was one delicious damnation. If this is hell, I'll take it.
