To preface, I must admit that I have no education in singing, acting, or instrument-playing. Unfortunately, because of this, I couldn’t appreciate anything the opera offered other than the set. I don’t know what it takes to sing that loudly or play that harmoniously like the orchestra did. I was an outsider. Wait, I take that back. I wasn’t just an outsider; I was an intruder.

The juxtaposition all started on public transportation. Unlike all of the yuppies at the MET, I wasn’t able to drive my expensive, imported car, so I took public transportation. I stuck out like a sore thumb in my tuxedo among the regular folk on the E, B, and 1 trains. Expecting everyone to be elegantly dressed, I tried my best to find in with my great expectations. I was wrong. Most people were casually dressed, as if going on a date to a nice restaurant. Needless to say, I stuck out like a sore thumb, again. These opera-goers saw straight through my façade, even with the guise of my bowtie. If I don’t fit in on the train, and I don’t fit in in the opera, where do I belong?

When exiting the subway station, I bought a philly cheesesteak from a cart (careful not to get anything on my white shirt), while many other audience members ate at restaurants near the MET. Then, after finding Professor Healey with little help from the curt usher, we headed to our seats, or as baseball aficionados would call them, the nose-bleeds. Without the help of my rented binoculars, I wouldn’t have even been able to tell who was singing half the time. With the introduction of new characters, it was hard to keep track of who’s who, since there were hardly any physical attributes that I could see from my seat. The singing seemed okay to me: a talent, undoubtedly, but nothing too fascinating to someone not trained in the study of music. Then came a godsend: intermission.

During intermission, I noticed two older men staring and talking about these opera panopticons: us young students: kids who don’t belong and aren’t accepted in this specific society; we see and hear everything they do, yet we’re so isolated in our existence at the opera. So, after a flash of the PR smile, I started a conversation with them. Jim and James have been season ticket owners since they graduated college themselves, so they’ve seen about six to eight operas a year. Utilizing their knowledge and experience, I asked them what they thought about this specific night of Carmen. Jim has a specific love for Carmen because it was the first opera he ever saw, so he had a lot to say about this performance. Having seen this production before, he felt that tonight’s singing was lacking. I responded by defending the opera, saying that I didn’t hear anything wrong with it, yet almost instinctively, James attacked with “Well you wouldn’t be able to, would you?” Frankly speaking, the opera scene just isn’t for me I guess. The second half goes similarly to the first half: loud voices, loud music, people who look like ants from our point of view.

The overall story of Carmen was a bit too cliché for me: a love triangle and murder. Well, if you want to be technical, it was more of a love pentagon: Carmen, Michaëla, Don José, Escamillo, and Zuniga. Man loves woman, woman loves man, man kills woman: this stuff happens all the time in film and plays. The only thing that really caught my attention was the weird shape of the MET’s ceiling and the amazingly detailed set. During the second half, I got a little bored of the story and started analyzing the bricks of the broken down walls though my binoculars. I tried to see what it was made of, but much to my dismay, I was just too far.

This might have been the best night of Carmen ever, or it might have been the worst. Simply, I wouldn’t know. I personally don’t have the skillset to appreciate anything that opera itself has to offer. Would I attend opera again: of course!!! Well, only if it’s free again. I have more important things to spend hundreds of dollars on than sitting too far to see people singing in a language I don’t speak. If I wanted to read words for hours, I would sit down and read a book or watch a foreign movie with subtitles in my pajamas, not in a tux in an opera house. If opera doesn’t cater to the younger crowd, then opera shouldn’t expect to last much longer. I’m glad I saw an opera in my lifetime, but I know I’ll never have the money or time to see one again. A good movie or book is good enough for me. Plus I don’t have to worry about not fitting in or being ostracized, and I certainly don’t have to worry about people like Jim and James looking down upon me.