My attention was more taken with the theatre itself. The lush colours of red and gold, the brocade and velvet, the gilt mirrors and ornate chandeliers. The balcony box we sat in, how high it was, how we could look down on the finely dressed opera attendees in the curved rows of fold down chairs. How in our box, there was just a two seater, antique craved legged sofa. Like something out of a Renaissance movie. Across the way from us was an identical box, an elderly couple already engrossed in the first few chords the orchestra played. I studied the scenery, the stage itself. The performers' costumes, the orchestra playing in the pit beneath. The lighting, the imagery, the ambience. The Civic Theatre was a grand old lady, her charm won me over before the music did. But then, as Drew whispered a translation of the story unfolding beneath our eyes, in our ears, I began to get swept away. Just a little, enough to draw my wandering gaze back to the singers.
