Imagine stepping into the grandeur of the newly constructed Sydney Opera House, dressed to the nines, but hindered by a full-length plaster cast and crutches.
On an historic evening in October 1973, as the first chords of Prokofiev's “War and Peace” echoed through the opera hall, I embarked on an unforgettable journey - one that would test my resilience as much as it celebrated the transformative power of art.
Fifty years ago, I had the privilege of attending the first opera performance in the Sydney Opera House, nearly a month before its official opening by Queen Elizabeth II.
The night was an awe-inspiring cinematic spectacle. Wearing a tuxedo and accompanied by my always stunning girlfriend Fiona, we were ready to embrace a magnificent cultural experience. The tickets to this event were like gold. Thankfully, my father, who couldn’t go due to poor health, gave me his two premium tickets.
However, there is an inconvenient twist to this tale - I was nursing a fractured knee from a rugby incident and was clad in a full-length plaster cast, navigating the world on crutches. The outer seam of my trousers had been undone to accommodate the cast,
We arrived early, aware of the challenge that awaited us - the numerous steps leading up to the opera house and the crescent-shaped rows of seats inside the opera theater, with no central aisle.
The journey to our seats was a Herculean task, as maneuvering along the narrow space between tightly packed rows required an orchestrated shuffle, much to the chagrin of fellow opera-goers. Despite my plea for the convenience of changing our seats to those at the end of the row, the ushers firmly declined any changes; the seats were too coveted, and their arrangements too meticulously planned.
“War and Peace” is an epic saga. With thirteen scenes, and over seventy roles, the opera stretches close to four hours. Each intermission and scene change meant that I, along with the entire row, would engage in a painstaking shuffle, disrupting the otherwise poised audience multiple times throughout the night. Not to mention that my cast caused those seated to my left or right, depending on which direction I positioned my cast leg, to watch the performance from an awkward angle.
Despite the physical challenges and the repeated inconvenience caused to others, the night remains etched in my memory as a testament to resilience and the transformative power of art. The Sydney Opera House, since that grand opening, has stood as a beacon of artistic expression. Its iconic silhouette against the Sydney skyline is not just a landmark, but a symbol of cultural prowess and a stage that has hosted countless luminaries.
Looking back on that whirlwind evening, caught between personal hiccups and the spectacle of it all, it hit me. Life is an opera, peppered with odd surprises and bold swerves, and somehow, amidst all the chaos, there's a strange beauty, a kind that sticks, much like the timeless charm of the Sydney Opera House.
So, here's to the messy, magnificent opera of life. And happy 50th birthday to the “Nuns in a Scrum.” Encore, anyone?
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