The Opera

"You're a special girl," the man with the treetrunk legs, vaguely Christmas-themed tie, heavy but foul-smelling breathing, and visible pretension said to me, at the end of tonight's opera. "Don't sell yourself short," he advised, as I successfully bolted from my seat in as unalarming of a way as possible and with a curt goodbye. I have a quality, that helpfully Steve--1976 Yale graduate, former opera singer, friend of the Senators, friend of the conductor (he yelled "Giovanni mio" when the conductor bowed), friend of the Kiwis to his right, friend to the mother-daughter duo to my left [so a prolific hand-shaker], friend to another Yale '76er sitting somewhere behind him--pointed out to me: I am a patient listener.

Damn straight I am a patient listener. I clearly don't know any better. "What book are you reading?" he asked, during the intermission, while I tried to avert conversation by feigning intense interest in my book. I closed it, showing the cover. No response. It apparently was unworthy of commentary. "I'm reading this," as he proudly displayed some book about Dutch settlers. (I think he may have even read me the riveting title). He proceeded to tell me why it was of interest to him, and presumably why I should care. What I stewed about until about scene 3, act II, however, was his inquiry into my career.

When I initially sat down, he inquired whether I was an actress or musician. I had a "sparkle," he said, after telling me I was a long way from Oklahoma upon seeing my hoodie. When I laughed a bit too derisively, perhaps, he tried again at intermission. "What exactly do you do at your job," he asked, after I mumbled something about government service. Before I even had a chance to ponder a response, his follow-up question was "Secretarial?" The theater started to turn black and white, I envisioned him in his pipe and loafers in his arm chair watching Leave it to Beaver, and I completely ignored the sexist and geographically-ignorant nature of his question and said yes. I capitulated, but I could have said I designed shuttle engines and he wouldn't have heard. "I know people," he crooned. "I know people at the State Department. I had lunch with John Kerry. We all need a little help," he offered. Have I mentioned this town is a great place to meet men?

If I had known that was my fate for meeting men tonight, I would have asked for extra onions on each dish tonight. Thankfully I didn't, though, and enjoyed a really stellar meal at the Kennedy Center's Roof Terrace restaurant. They offer a prix fixe menu with really, too much nonsense, so I ordered a la carte. The restaurant's arrangement is a bit strange; I was sat at a table opposite the large middle cluster of tables so there was something a bit adversarial about my table and the rest, which, being special, I quickly overcame. The chairs are also those terrible ones that remind me of chairs featured in 1980s office dramas or used in failed mortgage and loan lobbies: they're boxy and feel/look like they're upholstered in burlap. If I sat in the middle of the chair, I couldn't reach my food. If I rested on the outer edge, balancing precariously, I could reach my dinner but towered over it. There was something very Foucauldian about it. That's right, I said it. Even the copies/coffee-retrieval girl knows a little something about power structures.

I had a delicious salad with a glass of sauvingnon blanc. They arrived at the same time, about 1.5 minutes after I had ordered them (better than a Mexican restaurant, the point of reference for a provincial toner-replacer like myself). Bibb lettuce, watercress and endive were arrayed on the plate, with strips of Asian Pear, a small block of Gorgonzola, hazelnuts, and lightly (refreshingly) drizzled with pomegranate vinaigrette.

Dinner elicited a bit of cynicism (but I calibrated, showing I am not hard hearted). I ordered risotto, which came out looking like rice with gravy. It could have been a disaster, but may have been some of the best risotto I've ever had. And I only got it because I liked how I heard an old man pronounce it a table away (rolling his r's, rrrrrreeee-SO-tow).

It was called forest mushroom risotto, and the menu advertised its featuring white truffle oil and aged pecorino. I often recall, upon thinking of truffle oil, my nearly open hostility to a blind date who admitted to buying a $30 bottle of truffle oil because he liked the taste. Where's that guy now?

The view was beautiful though. Light mist, pretty blue sky. I was one of perhaps three diners who didn't qualify for AARP membership.

AKA:

The outside terrace was beautiful and gasp-eliciting as well. It was one of the best self-dates I've ever had. I really outdid myself this time.

The view south (Lincoln memorial in the center distance)

The view southwest

The view east (Washington monument in the center)

The show, Porgy and Bess, was great. My favorite songs didn't send chills down my spine. Maybe that was because in the second half I was physically recoiling from Steve's presence, breath, and space-invading thighs. It may also have been because it wasn't a super stellar performance, which I think is more likely. But the theater is beautiful. When one rolls their eyes repeatedly in frustration (even if only figuratively), the view above is quite nice.