Why I hate opera
Today at noon in Italian television there is the traditional New Year concert. In the past it was from Vien, with musics by Strauss family, but since some years it’s from La Fenice of Venice, obviously with Verdi’s musics. My wife likes very much this stuff, but for me it’s a great pain, even with stomach cramps, ugly affair during New Year lunch.
I perfectly remember why I hate opera. I was five years when my parents sent me to municipal colony, as we called that institution, the only way in those years for workers families to get children at mountain or sea, together, supervised by staff. In Italy those were the first years of television, and nobody would scroll people from magic box, even with a bulldozer.
That evening, I perfectly remember as now, after the meal in refectory we had on TV an opera, now I think it may be the Cavalleria rusticana, by Mascagni. There was a woman, on her knees, forwarding a little chapel on a side of country street. She was singing, singing and still singing.
I was tired, after a day playing in the big courtyard. I had a great sleep and she was singing, singing and still singing. I was sitting on a bench, with the big table on shoulders. I was envying the buddies on the other side, who could support the head to table, while mine was lolling. I asked the miss, as we named the girl who supervised us, to accompany me.
«You know the way, go to bed.» – she said and none had scrolled her from magic box.
I was five years, remember please. I had fear of the big courtyard, full of shadows in the night, after the day sun, and of long unknown corridors. But the woman was singing, singing, still singing, also there, forward the chapel. At last, not resisting, I dealt the threatening darkness, the mysterious places of big building, all bigger in my eyes of child. I took a door and was in bed.
Next morning, waking up, I saw another miss and other buddies.
Alright, since then, I’m almost in my sixties, I hate opera. Better Tokio Hotel.
