If you have ever seen the film Under the Tuscan Sun, then think of the most beautiful scenes from the movie that come to mind. Hold those images, hold them so that you can truly seen them, the paintbrush trees, the stereotypical sun drenched hillside, carefully drawn vineyards, and every other beautiful thing you think of when you think Tuscany. Then imagine waking up from a nap (because bus rides always make you sleepy) and instead of seeing the tightly packed city of Florence you have become so accustomed to, you see this and you know it’s not just in a movie. And then you remember how lucky you really are.
Our study abroad program offered a free trip to have a “Chianti experience” and though we were sure it would be nice, we were hardly prepared for what a gift they were giving us. An hour by bus outside of Florence we arrive at the Castello Verrazzano for a “food and wine experience.” We toured the wine cellars and were in a room that is one thousand years old, making Castello Verrazzano the oldest wine cellar in Chianti region on record. One of the barrels we saw holds so much wine that you could have one bottle every day for 30 years before it was empty. Smaller barrels are saved for the reserve wine which can only be made in smaller batches. Our wine education had only begun.
We learned not all wine is for saving. A table wine is intended to be enjoyed every day and even the best table wine reaches its peak after about two years. The Verrazzano Rosso is a classic table wine we tasted that uses both red and white grapes and is a traditional recipe. Apparently 2006 was an excellent year for wine. After the tour of the cellars we entered the spacious dining room with impeccably set tables and huge picture windows looking out at the rolling Tuscan hillside, vineyards, and the first sunny day since four days ago. We indulged in pasta, garlic bread with olive oil produced on the grounds, wild boar sausage, sheep’s cheese, and tastings of Chianti Classico 2006, Chianti Classico Riserva 2005, Vin Santo (holy wine) and biscotti. We learned that the proper way to hold a wine glass is the stem so you don’t alter the temperature of the wine. That if you tilt your wine against a white napkin and there is an orange glow (on red wine) around the edge then you know that the wine has reached it’s peak.
D.O.C. (denominazione di origine controllata) applies to “agricultural and food products whose properties are essentially or exclusively derived from their geographical environment, inclusive of natural and human factors, and whose production, transformation and processing are effected in the place of origin.” This means that for Castello Verrazzano to get the pink D.O.C. seal on their Chianti then not only do all steps of the wine making process need to take place in the designated Chianti region, but they can also only use specific grapes, process, etc. A inspector must come to the grounds and make sure that everything meet the standards, the wine must go though a taste testing, and then it can be given a seal. This is somewhat similar to what a product in the U.S. need to go though to get a U.S.D. organic seal on it.
The man who took care of our group for the afternoon was passionate about his love of not only wine, the area, and food but also sharing his passion for these things with others. Before we started on our tour he said that we were going to have a true food and wine experience. “Without food there is no wine and without wine there is no food.” He said that even a child can get drunk. He challenged us to not get drunk but to “get happy.” To "get happy and stop there and enjoy that feeling as long as possible." He wanted us to achieve happiness, a balance of food and wine and the joy that comes being in a beautiful place. Later that afternoon when we all climbed back on the bus to go back to Florence, we all agreed we were happy.
If you are interested in trying wine or other products such as their Vin Santo, Grappa, and olive oil, they export to many major suppliers in the U.S..
Monday, November 10, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Election day from far away
Being abroad during such an important political moment in American history had me worried. First, would my absentee ballot get to me? When I sent it back would it ever arrive? My first time voting in a presidential election and I was going to miss everything.I had been almost grateful to escape the last couple of months of campaigning, but now with no internet at my apartment, no television, no radio and with a time difference that would mean a night of no sleep if I wanted to follow election results, I was for the first time annoyed that I was so far away from America.
Even though Florence is the most Anglo-Saxon of all the Italian cities, it is easy to forgot that we are not so alone. Plus, I was quickly learning that Italians were following the American elections of 2008 as intently as Americans. This was truly a world election. Fortunately many of my friends shared my election night anxieties and we decided we could sacrifice one night in the name of democracy in action.
We caught a taxi to the Saschall Convention Center here in Florence where they were hosting a live satellite viewing of the election results on the jumbo screen. Organized by the Tuscan American Association, there was live music, balloons and American flags, free food, and Americans and Italian alike. It was one big election party, everyone dancing to good old American country music and oldies, many friends and fellow students were there amongst the group. The convention center was more exciting than any club or bar in Florence on Tuesday night. We arrived at about 10:00 and stuck it out until 4:00 a.m. We eventually had to go before we could see the results but a call from home around 5:30 told me the verdict.
And not only was I happy last night to be informed, but I was also reminded what a global community is and why it is so important, no matter how you voted, to see that we all can come together with a common interest and concern. No matter how far from home, we are rarely alone.
Go to www.toscanausa.org for more information
Monday, November 3, 2008
Rain, wine, and nuns in Orvieto
Orvieto is a small hill town in the Umbrian region of Italy and was the relaxing end to a week long train tour around Italy. The hills around Orvieto are covered in olives groves and vineyards so wine and olive oil are must tries. At this time of year it gets so dark so early. By six it is already dark and November is also the start of the rainy season in Italy.
From the Orvieto train station one goes to the Funicular (a bus type box that scales the mountain at a vertical angle) and then a bus takes you into town. Tired from several long hours on a train from Almalfi, a town on the southern coast, we arrived windblown and wet at the door of the Insituto S.S. Salvatore. A little nun came to the door wearing a blue checkered apron and let us in. We followed her into an office that had pictures of Jesus and the Pope on the wall, a statue of Mother Mary in the corner, and a Mac Apple computer on the desk. Oh, the 21st century. She spoke about three words of English so we put our combined vocabulary to work. Our Italian professors would be so proud. Somehow we managed to secure a room for two nights and were so happy just to be warm. The room was perfect and reminded me of my grandmother’s house. We came in from dinner and the same little nun let us and told us “buona notte” and when a nun tell you good night, it’s like a sedative. At 10:00 we were under the fluffy pink comforters in our beds. A 10:30 curfew is to be respected unless you want to sleep outside. Actually, it was nice to have an excuse to go to sleep early for a change.
Orvieto itself has several “enotece” or wine libraries. These wine bars offer huge selections of wines for very reasonable prices and pair the wine with the complementary bruschette, brioche, cheeses, and fruits. Other than eating which is wonderful way to pass time, we saw the cathedral which is both a beautiful and a ridiculous site. Half way though construction they changed from Romanesque to Gothic style and what is left is the clashing of two radically different styles. Even so, it is an incredible artistic feat. Umbria is a beautiful region and only about 3 hours by train from Florence and defiantly worth the trip.
From the Orvieto train station one goes to the Funicular (a bus type box that scales the mountain at a vertical angle) and then a bus takes you into town. Tired from several long hours on a train from Almalfi, a town on the southern coast, we arrived windblown and wet at the door of the Insituto S.S. Salvatore. A little nun came to the door wearing a blue checkered apron and let us in. We followed her into an office that had pictures of Jesus and the Pope on the wall, a statue of Mother Mary in the corner, and a Mac Apple computer on the desk. Oh, the 21st century. She spoke about three words of English so we put our combined vocabulary to work. Our Italian professors would be so proud. Somehow we managed to secure a room for two nights and were so happy just to be warm. The room was perfect and reminded me of my grandmother’s house. We came in from dinner and the same little nun let us and told us “buona notte” and when a nun tell you good night, it’s like a sedative. At 10:00 we were under the fluffy pink comforters in our beds. A 10:30 curfew is to be respected unless you want to sleep outside. Actually, it was nice to have an excuse to go to sleep early for a change.
Orvieto itself has several “enotece” or wine libraries. These wine bars offer huge selections of wines for very reasonable prices and pair the wine with the complementary bruschette, brioche, cheeses, and fruits. Other than eating which is wonderful way to pass time, we saw the cathedral which is both a beautiful and a ridiculous site. Half way though construction they changed from Romanesque to Gothic style and what is left is the clashing of two radically different styles. Even so, it is an incredible artistic feat. Umbria is a beautiful region and only about 3 hours by train from Florence and defiantly worth the trip.
Northern Itlay by Train
Trento in the northern region of Alto Adige is only a side note in many tour books, but a place I would highly recommend. Trento is a university town and also the capital city of the region. Up in the mountains, the train ride is a treat and the town is a nice place to take a break from constant site seeing. The cobblestone is cruel to new boots, but the city is fairly easy to navigate. Only 5 minutes from the train station is a very clean and modern hostel and for 14 euros you have everything you need. We only stayed in Trento for a night, but hear the region is great for hiking and other outdoorsy activities. Just walking around we saw 2 castles, 2 incredible churches, 3 parks, many stores, and a beautiful main piazza with a massive fountain. Mountains rise up all around the city and in the morning we saw just how green the terrain was. From there we took the train to Venice, but first the train shot up so north we were nearly at the Austrian border. It was easy to forget where we were. Here Italian isn’t the main language and many of the people on the train looked Austrian or German. They also kept asking if I could speak German even when I assured them in my minimal Italian that English was really my only language. Me, speak German? Ha! Nine!
The train ride at this point of the trip took us through one of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever seen. We passed lakes and rivers, wound past mountains, vast fields, forests, and green farms dotted with sheep. When we were eating breakfast that morning I heard an Australian woman who looked about 25 telling another how excited she was to be meeting up with a friend of hers in Milan that coming afternoon. She said she had been traveling for over a month alone and had seen many wonderful things, but nothing beats sharing beautiful experiences with a friend. I remembered this as our train wormed though the landscape of northern Italy and realized not only how lucky I am to be here, but to be here on this adventure with a friend who is looking out the window and seeing this beautiful place too.
The train ride at this point of the trip took us through one of the most beautiful landscapes I have ever seen. We passed lakes and rivers, wound past mountains, vast fields, forests, and green farms dotted with sheep. When we were eating breakfast that morning I heard an Australian woman who looked about 25 telling another how excited she was to be meeting up with a friend of hers in Milan that coming afternoon. She said she had been traveling for over a month alone and had seen many wonderful things, but nothing beats sharing beautiful experiences with a friend. I remembered this as our train wormed though the landscape of northern Italy and realized not only how lucky I am to be here, but to be here on this adventure with a friend who is looking out the window and seeing this beautiful place too.
A Defense of Milan
I have heard multiple times since coming to Italy that the Milanese, like their city, are cold, impersonal, and unwelcoming. I expected a city of grey steel and people in black business suits walking in straight lines and never making eye contact. I expected to hate Milan. Even the guidebook warned that Milan is a destination strictly for city lovers and even then not to expect much. I am not a city lover, but my travel companion is and I agreed to the Milan on the pretense that we would only stay for a day. Naturally I was surprised that Milan was everything the books had said it was not. Milan is now on my list of favorite cities and mind you, the list is short. For such a big city, we kept asking, “Where are all the people?” In Florence we become so used to fighting our way through the crowd, it was incredible to walk with a four foot radius of personal space. The subway system is fairly easy to navigate (just don’t get on the suburban line like we did or you will end up in a filed). The cathedral in Milan is a visual feast and is a massive and impressive example of Gothic architecture. We did manage to get lost for a short time, but never felt the sense of urgency or uneasiness that I normally experience in cities. We were always on guard, but there was never a time when we felt unsafe. Even though finding a cheap/ clean hotel in Milan is a trick that we didn’t accomplish very well, it was still worth it to stay two nights so we could see everything without being rushed.
Also, I feel the need to dispel the notion that Milan is an ugly, steely city. The streets were clean, sites such as the castle and cathedral were beautiful, a huge park of trees, large spaces of green, and walking trails punctuates the city center, and various fountains, sculptures, and historical architecture give a sense of uniqueness to the modern and fashion forward city of Milano. If nothing else, Milan is the people watchers paradise. Even 70 year old women are sporting the newest fashions and making up their own. It was beautiful. In the castle there are about six museums and as students we had access to all exhibits for only 1.50 euros. Like any city food can be a bit more expensive near the sites, but unlike Florence, the sites are free. Still, I understand that Milan isn’t for everyone, but I think it has a reputation that it doesn’t deserve among Americans. So if you find yourself needing a change of pace, Milan is the place to go.
Also, I feel the need to dispel the notion that Milan is an ugly, steely city. The streets were clean, sites such as the castle and cathedral were beautiful, a huge park of trees, large spaces of green, and walking trails punctuates the city center, and various fountains, sculptures, and historical architecture give a sense of uniqueness to the modern and fashion forward city of Milano. If nothing else, Milan is the people watchers paradise. Even 70 year old women are sporting the newest fashions and making up their own. It was beautiful. In the castle there are about six museums and as students we had access to all exhibits for only 1.50 euros. Like any city food can be a bit more expensive near the sites, but unlike Florence, the sites are free. Still, I understand that Milan isn’t for everyone, but I think it has a reputation that it doesn’t deserve among Americans. So if you find yourself needing a change of pace, Milan is the place to go.
Treasure Hunting
Note: This story from my first trip to Florence last spring is an exaggerated version for a creative writing assignment
“We should go there,” she said. My friend pointed to a restaurant on the screen of her computer as I quickly scanned my packing list one more time. Never one to pass up the opportunity for good Italian food, I wrote the name down on my note pad. Number six on my Florence to do list: “Find delicious and authentic Italian food.” The website, some woman’s personal travel log, gave a general sense of where the trattoria could be found, but mostly consisted of a detailed description of the fresh pasta.
Not being aware of Florence’s maze of streets, we ignorantly assumed that the name of our goal would be enough. Two nights after our arrival we followed the “directions” and found ourselves in some unrecognizable part of the city. Once I realized we were truly lost, I struggled to keep a light conversation going. It wasn’t working. Flustered, pulling my too thin, but very fashionable green shawl around my shoulders, and looking anxiously around every corner. My encouraging words of, “I’m sure it’ll just be up here,” fell flat as the twisting allies only led us to more unknown streets and dead ends. The sliver of a moon was hiding behind ominous looking rain clouds and the darkness only made our search more urgent. Maybe the next street, or the next, or the next…
Hungry, chilled by a March breeze, and upset at some nameless person, we were wondering if this place even existed. The map in my hand was useless; we had no idea where we were going. A group of friends who were traveling with us had tagged along because they too wanted this fantastic meal I had promised to find. Discontent joined the icy and unfamiliar darkness as our quest was proving fruitless. And then, of course, it started to rain. One by one, our group was thinning. My composure also was thinning, but no way had I just wandered around for over an hour in Florence, Italy to settle for a slice of old pizza for six euros.
I had come to Italy to find something and was certain this elusive trattoria would be the answer. I would not be defeated by the city and succumb to the English menus and smiling waiters. My success was rooted in something deeper than simply finding a meal. I could do that at any of the many pizzerias we had passed along the way. I needed proof Florence, the one with “real” Italian food and charm, the Florence that existed in my mind was real. It was more than a hunger. I needed to find this place.
My friends had all given up on me and my faith the trattoria would ever be found. I stood alone on the wet cobblestone and watched them crowd into a small sandwich shop. I knew I was being childish and I knew I couldn’t continue my search alone, but I couldn’t make myself go in. I had set out to find my perfect Italian meal and I would not give up. I couldn’t go in. I almost cried, standing there, shivering and only imagining how ridiculous and stubborn I looked. My friend, the one who had originally set out on this quest with me, came out, put her gloved hand in mine and said, “Let’s go.” I promised, 10 more minutes. 10 minutes and then I would give up. In 10 minutes I would happily eat the sandwich and not complain a bit. I promised. Only 10 minutes.
We started walking and less than thirty yards away was an ally and down the ally was the sign we had been looking for all night. Right there, waiting for us. We ran back to tell everyone we had found it. Everyone, those who were left, all agreed that after a night of searching it would be silly not to at least eat something there.
Wind blown, wet, and exhausted; we piled in to find a table set exactly for six, like they knew we were coming all along. We shed our coats and shawls, finally comfortable for the first time since we had set out from the hotel. The tension and chill that had held us finally began to loosen as tantalizing, savory scents confirmed that we had in fact found it. Fat, cream colored candles on the tables cast a warm luminescence and everyone began to soften in the gentle light. Like treasure hunters who had discovered a rumored map, we saw that simple one page menus marked the spot. Soon our precious treasure was laid before us. Our jewels: each bite of bread, thick hot soup, delicately flavored gnocchi and fresh tortellini, every new course that confirmed that yes, we had found “the meal.” Everyone sharing and passing, the “yours and mine” concept left on the cobblestone with the bikes outside. Eventually, three hours later, after plenty of laughing, wine, and everything else that the palate desires when in Italy, we were ready to face the streets of Florence again.
Florence offered me a lesson in patience. Too often my expedient, to go, American brain, wants it now and it wants it as simple as a drive through window or a highway sign saying turn here for the best potpie in Missouri. I have learned that sometimes you must wait and around the last ally, you will see that dimly glowing sign that lets you know that “it”, whatever “it” means to travelers everywhere, still exists. And when you are hungry and tired and ready to go home, what you need most is there.
Sitting around the table, everyone warm, full, happy and forgiving me for dragging them around endlessly on my seemingly futile search agreed that it was well worth it. I hadn’t failed them and the city I would soon return to hadn’t failed me. My faith boiled down to something deeper than just wanting a good meal. My desire to believe that the Florence in my books and that the city I dreamt about was more than merely an illusion or artificial scene constructed for a post card drove me forward. Was Florence what I expected? No. But the trattoria was a simple confirmation that somewhere in the twisting, misunderstood, and confusing city, what I searched for was somewhere. I just had to look.
I’ve come back and still the trattoria eludes me. I remember the general area, but the light of day and masses of tourists disorient me. I have lost it again, but I have hope knowing that it is somewhere. Just when I have given up on Florence, it will remind me why I came back. Why people continue to come back, when there are so many other places in the world. Florence is old; you must be patient and gentle with her and not give up too quickly. She might surprise you.
As travelers, we leave home looking for something we only dream about, whether it be seeking the perfect meal, someone, a dream, a desire, or perhaps ourselves. Travel isn’t always about finding something on a map and following the directions of those who have gone before. The wanderer is privy to many of the world’s secrets that aren’t typed up on a well organized itinerary and if we only slow down, we will remember why as a traveler we have gone so far from home and maybe, just maybe we will find what we were looking for.
“We should go there,” she said. My friend pointed to a restaurant on the screen of her computer as I quickly scanned my packing list one more time. Never one to pass up the opportunity for good Italian food, I wrote the name down on my note pad. Number six on my Florence to do list: “Find delicious and authentic Italian food.” The website, some woman’s personal travel log, gave a general sense of where the trattoria could be found, but mostly consisted of a detailed description of the fresh pasta.
Not being aware of Florence’s maze of streets, we ignorantly assumed that the name of our goal would be enough. Two nights after our arrival we followed the “directions” and found ourselves in some unrecognizable part of the city. Once I realized we were truly lost, I struggled to keep a light conversation going. It wasn’t working. Flustered, pulling my too thin, but very fashionable green shawl around my shoulders, and looking anxiously around every corner. My encouraging words of, “I’m sure it’ll just be up here,” fell flat as the twisting allies only led us to more unknown streets and dead ends. The sliver of a moon was hiding behind ominous looking rain clouds and the darkness only made our search more urgent. Maybe the next street, or the next, or the next…
Hungry, chilled by a March breeze, and upset at some nameless person, we were wondering if this place even existed. The map in my hand was useless; we had no idea where we were going. A group of friends who were traveling with us had tagged along because they too wanted this fantastic meal I had promised to find. Discontent joined the icy and unfamiliar darkness as our quest was proving fruitless. And then, of course, it started to rain. One by one, our group was thinning. My composure also was thinning, but no way had I just wandered around for over an hour in Florence, Italy to settle for a slice of old pizza for six euros.
I had come to Italy to find something and was certain this elusive trattoria would be the answer. I would not be defeated by the city and succumb to the English menus and smiling waiters. My success was rooted in something deeper than simply finding a meal. I could do that at any of the many pizzerias we had passed along the way. I needed proof Florence, the one with “real” Italian food and charm, the Florence that existed in my mind was real. It was more than a hunger. I needed to find this place.
My friends had all given up on me and my faith the trattoria would ever be found. I stood alone on the wet cobblestone and watched them crowd into a small sandwich shop. I knew I was being childish and I knew I couldn’t continue my search alone, but I couldn’t make myself go in. I had set out to find my perfect Italian meal and I would not give up. I couldn’t go in. I almost cried, standing there, shivering and only imagining how ridiculous and stubborn I looked. My friend, the one who had originally set out on this quest with me, came out, put her gloved hand in mine and said, “Let’s go.” I promised, 10 more minutes. 10 minutes and then I would give up. In 10 minutes I would happily eat the sandwich and not complain a bit. I promised. Only 10 minutes.
We started walking and less than thirty yards away was an ally and down the ally was the sign we had been looking for all night. Right there, waiting for us. We ran back to tell everyone we had found it. Everyone, those who were left, all agreed that after a night of searching it would be silly not to at least eat something there.
Wind blown, wet, and exhausted; we piled in to find a table set exactly for six, like they knew we were coming all along. We shed our coats and shawls, finally comfortable for the first time since we had set out from the hotel. The tension and chill that had held us finally began to loosen as tantalizing, savory scents confirmed that we had in fact found it. Fat, cream colored candles on the tables cast a warm luminescence and everyone began to soften in the gentle light. Like treasure hunters who had discovered a rumored map, we saw that simple one page menus marked the spot. Soon our precious treasure was laid before us. Our jewels: each bite of bread, thick hot soup, delicately flavored gnocchi and fresh tortellini, every new course that confirmed that yes, we had found “the meal.” Everyone sharing and passing, the “yours and mine” concept left on the cobblestone with the bikes outside. Eventually, three hours later, after plenty of laughing, wine, and everything else that the palate desires when in Italy, we were ready to face the streets of Florence again.
Florence offered me a lesson in patience. Too often my expedient, to go, American brain, wants it now and it wants it as simple as a drive through window or a highway sign saying turn here for the best potpie in Missouri. I have learned that sometimes you must wait and around the last ally, you will see that dimly glowing sign that lets you know that “it”, whatever “it” means to travelers everywhere, still exists. And when you are hungry and tired and ready to go home, what you need most is there.
Sitting around the table, everyone warm, full, happy and forgiving me for dragging them around endlessly on my seemingly futile search agreed that it was well worth it. I hadn’t failed them and the city I would soon return to hadn’t failed me. My faith boiled down to something deeper than just wanting a good meal. My desire to believe that the Florence in my books and that the city I dreamt about was more than merely an illusion or artificial scene constructed for a post card drove me forward. Was Florence what I expected? No. But the trattoria was a simple confirmation that somewhere in the twisting, misunderstood, and confusing city, what I searched for was somewhere. I just had to look.
I’ve come back and still the trattoria eludes me. I remember the general area, but the light of day and masses of tourists disorient me. I have lost it again, but I have hope knowing that it is somewhere. Just when I have given up on Florence, it will remind me why I came back. Why people continue to come back, when there are so many other places in the world. Florence is old; you must be patient and gentle with her and not give up too quickly. She might surprise you.
As travelers, we leave home looking for something we only dream about, whether it be seeking the perfect meal, someone, a dream, a desire, or perhaps ourselves. Travel isn’t always about finding something on a map and following the directions of those who have gone before. The wanderer is privy to many of the world’s secrets that aren’t typed up on a well organized itinerary and if we only slow down, we will remember why as a traveler we have gone so far from home and maybe, just maybe we will find what we were looking for.
Monday, October 6, 2008
A night at the opera in Reggio Emilia
The women were dressed in their best with jewels, furs, and all the elegance that the opera requires. The men who accompanied them were just as sharp in their suits as they escorted their beautiful wives to their private opera box. The conductor was debuting his new interpretation of the classic opera Nabucco by Giuseppe Verdi. Buckets of champagne were chilling so they would be ready at the conclusion and everyone patiently filed in, ready for a night at the opera. The opera house was gilded in gold, red velvet seats in the private boxes, and the air was filled with the sounds of anticipation. Silence fell as the string instruments tuned in the pit below the stage. Everyone clapped when the conductor emerged. The introduction was the most magnificent thing I have ever heard. Mesmerized by the succinct and precise movements of the violins, the trombones stepped in, bassoon and harp coming in so perfectly that it all become on sound, one song led by the passion of the conductor who held them all with his baton and his exact hands, I knew this was what music is suppose to be like. The set was impressive, but simple and the costumes helped me keep characters straight since I couldn’t follow the words. The evening progressively got better. The plot was complicated and sung in Italian, but even still, the emotion conveyed was undeniable. Every time I thought the best song was over, another would begin. The soprano was flawless and she never faltered. It was really too bad she had to die in the end. The singer who played Ismaele also was a stand out. The chorus was also glorious. I obviously loved it all and can’t say enough positive things about the entire experience. It was all very refined and elegant. Three hours of the most incredible performance I have ever experienced. Where better to see an opera than the country where it was born? The Italians can sing opera. It’s that simple. The curtain call was almost ridiculously long, but who can blame them. They knew that had done well and it was a performance worthy of many bows. Eventually the curtain fell, the lights came up, and we all knew we had truly experienced the opera.
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