FRIDAY, JUNE 28
HEAT WAVE
The heat wave continues in Europe. Temperatures in parts of France reached all time highs, the mid 40s, and here in Italy, temperatures are surpassing the mid 30s. In Verona, the temperature reached 36 but it felt like 39 with the heat factors accounted for.
We were melting. Our energy completely drained from the persistence of the crushing heat and no escape from it.
EARLY TO RISE
I booked early morning train tickets so we could see Verona when we arrived.
I was up at 4:30, dripping in sweat in the Pisa apartment, and looking forward to relief and air conditioning in Verona. The alarm woke Chloe at 6:00. By 7:20 we were standing on the street, heat already vibrating off the road, waiting for the bus. We were running late and reached the station with only eight minutes until the trains departure. We made a mad, sweaty dash with our huge bags.
People on the train were pushy and grumpy, everyone suffering from the heat and covered in sweat.
ARRIVING IN VERONA
By 10:00 we had arrived in Verona. Again we waited for a bus in the brutal heat. We were trashed when we reached the hotel, dragged our luggage up three flights of stairs, and learned there was no air conditioning. I think we could have cried if we weren’t so dehydrated.
Feeling agitated, we headed to a restaurant around the corner for some relief, and a nice lunch, then dragged ourselves back to the hotel, and climbed the stairs. I showered. We laid down on the worn, orange and rust flowered covers on our single beds, looking up at faded prints of Verona, framed in fake wood and hanging askew on the walls. The fan buzzed. Hot air circulated through the room as we tried to sleep.
OFF TO THE ARENA
We roused our sorry selves around 5:00pm in preparation for the opera. We would need to be there by 7:00pm to get seats for the 9:00pm curtain. The heat had fallen by just one degree when we started our walk to the Arena. Verona is an outstandingly beautiful city — the fast moving Arno River, the ancient buildings, the narrow cobbled streets. We passed through the entrance gate to the town, built in the 1st C.. It is delicate in detail, like a white memory. A pigeon perched in a window, the view of the deep cobalt sky behind her.
On some steps outside one of the oldest arenas in Europe, finished by the Romans in 30AD, we watched the crowds wait to go through metal detectors. The arena holds 15,000 people, but with the stage uses one section. We guessed there were about 8,000 in attendance. It’s easy to image the arena 2,000 years ago, the crowds not unlike us. The ordinary folk up in the high seats, the fancy people (and wow were they dressed well) below on the floor. The excitement and anticipation, the sway and swell of emotions shared by the 1,000s exactly the same as 2,000 years ago but they wouldn’t have come to hear Puccini.
THE OPERA
As I remembered from my first experience in this arena, we would become familiar with our neighbors. On one side were a group of loud and antsy Germans, who talked and wiggled through the entire first Act and then left at the first intermission. I moved over to claim part of their spot so we could lean back, and a Dutch couple moved right in front of me, trying to push me out of the space.
I asked them if they were saving the seats for the four who had just departed, if they were friends. The woman very abruptly said, they aren’t our friends, making the most horrible squished face. And then went on to describe how much she disliked them for their agitated behaviour. I managed to claim half of the space for us so we could lean back, but they were determined and would for the next Acts continuously turn and smirk at us.
Behind us sat an older couple from St. Andrews in Scotland. They were lovely, the woman particularly chatty and friendly. She wanted to tell us all about Scotland and their trips to Italy. They were calm in the face of the heat, and sat perfectly still through the entire opera. Most everyone else was fidgeting – we fidgetted, to the great irritation of the surly Dutch couple.
The opera lasted until midnight. The woman singing Violetta had the voice of a passionate angel. She hit high notes that could have shattered glass. The staging was spectacular: the staging two stories high. The costumes were as stylish as stylish can be: my favourite the Matadors who wore traditional bullfighter attire but with bright pink socks.
Sitting on hot stone was sheer body torture, and Chloe really suffered. But the music, the performances and the magic of the arena helped us and 8,000 others. The heat never broke, no breeze…but it never escaped our attention that we were in Verona hearing La Traviata.
Walking slowly back to our hotel, we passed through streets busy with life, people eating and drinking at outside cafes and restaurants. For many, the night was still young.
