Opera in the time of plague

Now if I didn't know better, I'd think that someone had brought their pet Outbreak Monkey to the Metropolitan the other night. Somehow, in the middle of Diana Damrau's absolutely gorgeous "Ach, ich fuehl's" about nineteen people needed to cough. At Carnegie Hall, the ushers are armed with Ricola cough drops for just such occasions. It reminded me of one of my undergrad recitals, at which someone dared to bring a SLURPEE and drink it right in the middle of my Poulenc set. I'm trying to emote here! Cut me some slack!

A lot has happened in the last two months. I passed my qualifying exams and am officially ABD (all but dissertation), started my apprenticeship with Seattle Opera, did a concert at the Kennedy Center, and made the 5K mark on my running progress. It's audition season now, which means that every singer in the continental US is printing out headshots and resumes, ironing their shirts and drycleaning their dresses, saying their chants and praying for good juju and carrying water bottles filled with vitamin-infused beverages, warding off illness and using hand sanitizer like there's no tomorrow. I love New York in the fall. It makes me want to buy school supplies. (name that movie!) But what I don't love is the audition process. Arrive 45 minutes early. Warm up in the elevator or the bathroom while applying makeup and putting on stockings and reviewing translations, wash hands for the 85th time and reapply hand cream - don't want to shake hands with the adjudicators and have dishpan hands - do the last spot check on the dress, coax the hair into place and ask yourself for the fourteenth time if you remembered to bring the right jewelry and are wearing the right color underwear. After all, you did wake up in another state this morning. Check in the with the monitor, yes they're running a few minutes ahead and you will be next, did you bring your headshot and resume and copies of your music for the pianist? Did I bring copies of the music for the pianist? I barely remember my name anymore, but yes I do have my binder. Good afternoon/morning/evening, I'd like to start with the Fire Aria, please just don't slow down in this part I beg of you, thanks very much, we'd like to hear the Handel. Six minutes and who knows how many high and fast notes later, remove the singer dress and the stockings and the earrings and transform self back into Emily the person. I wish I had brought my running shoes. I wonder where the nearest Starbucks is.

I love my job, I do. I love the music I get to sing and for the most part, the people with whom I get to perform. But I miss my husband and our house and our dog. I want to go walk the pup in the park and wash the dog slobber off my hands from playing fetch. I miss our friends and going out with them on Thursdays and having pizza parties and going to the Cape. I miss Boston.
And I know that Boston misses me.