AN AFTERNOON AT THE OPERA

From the age of seven, without fail, my Uncle Larry would take me to the opera for Saturday matinee performances at the Metropolitan Opera in Lincoln Center, New York City.

He would always pick me up dressed up in his best Kozinn and Sons bespoke tailored suit, while I would always wear my favourite long sleeved, red lace and tulle dress.  

I didn't even know why he thought I would like the opera initially but my mom (his sister) explained he was lonely after losing my aunt to cancer. I remember Uncle Larry once said life wasn't worth much if you didn't share things with people you love. Back then I didn't really understand what he meant, but now he's no longer with us, I understand it only too well. Every time I go to the opera now I feel like he's still sitting alongside me with his white silk scarf hanging down off his shoulders.

We even had a ritual before the ritual which was going for a spot of lunch at Old John's Luncheonette on 148 West 67th Street where I'd insist on having waffles and a milkshake. This was where we would talk about the "opera of the day" which my Uncle would joke was just like "soup of the day" on the specials menu at Old John's, only with opera.

"What are we seeing today, Uncle Larry?" I would always ask to which he would expound on the title, story and history of the opera we were about to see. And although I could be a distracted little thing back then, he somehow had a way of getting me terribly excited about the production we were heading to watch.

"Okay, kiddo. The one we're seeing today is called 'Tosca'. There's a real nasty piece of work in it called Scarpia you need to watch out for. He's the kind of guy who would steal your lunch money and then force you to watch him eat his lunch. Like I said, a nasty piece of work. Tosca is gonna have a fight on her hands with him, especially as her lover Cavaradossi gets taken prisoner by old Scarpia in Act Two."

Just knowing that there was this evil guy called Scarpia was enough to pique my interest from the outset and although there would be a whole lot I wouldn't understand at the beginning of Act 1, as soon as I saw Scarpia, the chief of the secret police, I was totally immersed in the whole thing.

Actually, I've been in love with Puccini operas ever since that first 'Tosca' he took me to and have subsequently seen dozens of productions of each of the composer's operas since.

Yeah, Uncle Larry turned me into a bonafide opera geek.

Over time, I loved watching my stack of opera programmes by the side of my bed grow like a miniature sky scraper where I would read the titles of all the productions I'd seen previously. 'Tosca' aside, 'Figaro', 'Fidelio', 'La Boheme' and 'Eugene Onegin' were the first operas I ever saw, followed by that classic double bill of 'Cavalleria Rusticana' and 'Pagliacci'. Ever since those seminal experiences where I found my young senses overwhelmed by the drama, colour and visceral immediacy of operas, I have looked at life as generally dull in comparison to those events on stage that I have continued to be obsessed with. There's just something about the drama of opera that is so compelling. It's like it dwarfs reality by being so much bigger than life itself.

Sadly, I've struggled to get my husband or any of my children to join me when I now go to the opera, mostly on my own. Believe me, I've tried everything I could think of to persuade them but the curiosity is just not there for them. There's nothing lonelier than having a passion for something that others just don't relate to, especially those you love. Maybe that's why Uncle Larry took me all those years. Still, it doesn't stop me from indulging in my ritual every Saturday during opera season.

Besides, I owe it to Uncle Larry.

When I think back to my favourite of all my opera attending experiences I reckon it must have been that one christmas when Uncle Larry and I went to watch Humperdinck's 'Hansel and Gretel' on Boxing Day after which we went to the Russian Tea Rooms on 57th Street where we had borsht and I tasted my first ever sips of Champagne from Uncle Larry's fizzing glass. I don't know. There's something extra special about enjoying a production at Christmas time in New York City and revellling in the peacful serenity of the place. It was snowing on that day and I thought in my young mind this must be the height of human experience, just enjoying the purest form of excellence in art and dining. I've held the atmospheric essence of that experience in my heart ever since and have never quite found I've managed to match it to the same degree since then. Maybe that's how it is with memories. You spend your life either trying to recreate them or outdo them somehow.

Today I'm watching that old chestnut 'La Boheme' (by my favourite Puccini) which always reminds me of my dear, sweet, late Uncle.

"Okay, kiddo. Today's one is about a poet Rodolfo who's so poor and cold he has to burn his own writing to keep warm by the fire in his apartment. But even colder is Mimi who is dying slowly like the flickering flame of a candle. He tries to keep her warm for awhile with his love but eventually, I'm sorry to say, she dies."

When he was telling me this sad summary of the famous opera, I notice him wipe away a tear from his eye. I got the impression he saw a parallel with his losing Auntie Sarah.

I remember he would often sing Rodolfo's stirring aria on the way home in the cold, embarrassing me a little but raising many smiles from onlookers.

"Che gelida manina" is the opening phrase which Rodolfo sings to the seamstress Mimi in the wintry gloom of his apartment in Act One of La Boheme which translates as, "Your tiny hand is frozen."

Now when I hear it, I can only ever see Uncle Larry standing before me, smiling and offering his warm hand as we'd leave the opera house together.

I miss him.

Thank God for the art that keeps him forever alive for me.