Another hot day in Buenos Aires. I stare the buildings, the Parisian architecture standing proudly, and I marvel at the creamy columns of marble and stone and wonder how they don't melt in the heat.
The humidity has puffed my hair into something that resembles a rat's nest, despite all my efforts to tame it. Fed up, I tie it in a pile on top of my head to keep my neck cool.
I enter El Teatro Colón, one of the oldest theaters in Buenos Aires. Stained glass ceilings, Grecian statues, old costumes displayed on mannequins, this place is gorgeous.
The guide is not any older than 24, thin as a rail, flat, blond hair that hangs limply just past her shoulders and glasses that make her eyes look enormous. I can tell by the way her big eyes shine when she talks about the statue of Aphrodite and Cupid, and the way she floats up the marble steps on her tiptoes, that she loves her job. I like that.
"Are you ready to be transported to another dimension?" the guide asks in Spanish, a mysterious little smile on her face, like she's about to tell us a secret.
We enter the theatre. I see a sea of empty seats, a stage so wide I wondered how it was possible that a curtain could cover it. I look up. The ceiling is so high that Goliath would feel like a dwarf, and I realize I'm not breathing.
The guide asks us to sit down. Dazed, I find my way to a velvet seat in the back of the crowd and I let my eyes wander back to the ceiling. A circular mural with different scenes painted upon it twinkles at me. I close my eyes fill my lungs with air, I can almost smell the sawdust, hear the chorus of angels singing, the orchestra rehearsing one hundred years ago. Through my daydream, I hear the guide explaining the purpose of the vents under the seats.
"Not only does it serve as a form air circulation, before we had air conditioners of course. Does anyone know what else the vents do?" Dramatic pause. "Well, the space beneath you is hollow, like a guitar, which naturally amplifies the sound, along with the oval shape of the theatre."
Brightly lit ballerinas are are dancing across my mind to a sonorous, invisible orchestra, with angels and snow and nymphs and-
"SO! Whoooo is going to try out the acoustics of this magnificent theatre?" asked our little sprite of a guide, stretching out an elegant, thin arm, as if to display the theatre's magnificence.
Ohmygod, me. Me.
Everyone turns their head and looks at... me? I realize then that my hand is flailing childishly in the air and I'm practically shouting "ME. Me! I want to sing! Me!"
Everyone looks at me expectantly. I decide to stand before fear has time to rope me to the seat, and I sprint to the stage. I spin around and say in perfect Spanish: "I will sing you a song in English."
Silence. The first song that comes to mind is "I Heard Love is Blind" by Amy Winehouse, I know the words like the back of my hand, so I begin.
I have everyone's attention. That's really awesome. I feel the adrenalin in my fingers and toes, and there's blood pulsing through all of me, I'm alive. As long as I keep singing, fear can't catch me, not today. I feel bold. I'm in a beautiful theatre and I'm singing a song I love. I like being bold, I should be bold more often. If Amy's watching from that painted mural, I bet she's proud of my boldness.
I finish the song. Silence. People start clapping and about 10 out of the 30 people on the tour stand up from their seats, and I think "Damn, the sound really is amazing in here! I hear clapping in the balconies!" and when I look up there's 20 people in the balcony to my right on a separate tour, and they're applauding me! I'm gassed, I feel like a hot air balloon, I'm smiling and my cheeks are hot and I jump down from the stage and bow awkwardly.
The tour ends. The lovers that asked me to take their picture in front of Aphrodite come and shake my hand. This smile is beginning to make my face hurt.
I begin to exit on my cloud of happiness. The guide stops me at the door.
"Keep singing," she says earnestly, and I just want to smother her cute nerdy little face in kisses.
Instead, I say: "I will. Thank you for the magnificent tour."
The humidity has puffed my hair into something that resembles a rat's nest, despite all my efforts to tame it. Fed up, I tie it in a pile on top of my head to keep my neck cool.
I enter El Teatro Colón, one of the oldest theaters in Buenos Aires. Stained glass ceilings, Grecian statues, old costumes displayed on mannequins, this place is gorgeous.
The guide is not any older than 24, thin as a rail, flat, blond hair that hangs limply just past her shoulders and glasses that make her eyes look enormous. I can tell by the way her big eyes shine when she talks about the statue of Aphrodite and Cupid, and the way she floats up the marble steps on her tiptoes, that she loves her job. I like that.
"Are you ready to be transported to another dimension?" the guide asks in Spanish, a mysterious little smile on her face, like she's about to tell us a secret.
We enter the theatre. I see a sea of empty seats, a stage so wide I wondered how it was possible that a curtain could cover it. I look up. The ceiling is so high that Goliath would feel like a dwarf, and I realize I'm not breathing.
The guide asks us to sit down. Dazed, I find my way to a velvet seat in the back of the crowd and I let my eyes wander back to the ceiling. A circular mural with different scenes painted upon it twinkles at me. I close my eyes fill my lungs with air, I can almost smell the sawdust, hear the chorus of angels singing, the orchestra rehearsing one hundred years ago. Through my daydream, I hear the guide explaining the purpose of the vents under the seats.
"Not only does it serve as a form air circulation, before we had air conditioners of course. Does anyone know what else the vents do?" Dramatic pause. "Well, the space beneath you is hollow, like a guitar, which naturally amplifies the sound, along with the oval shape of the theatre."
Brightly lit ballerinas are are dancing across my mind to a sonorous, invisible orchestra, with angels and snow and nymphs and-
"SO! Whoooo is going to try out the acoustics of this magnificent theatre?" asked our little sprite of a guide, stretching out an elegant, thin arm, as if to display the theatre's magnificence.
Ohmygod, me. Me.
Everyone turns their head and looks at... me? I realize then that my hand is flailing childishly in the air and I'm practically shouting "ME. Me! I want to sing! Me!"
Everyone looks at me expectantly. I decide to stand before fear has time to rope me to the seat, and I sprint to the stage. I spin around and say in perfect Spanish: "I will sing you a song in English."
Silence. The first song that comes to mind is "I Heard Love is Blind" by Amy Winehouse, I know the words like the back of my hand, so I begin.
I have everyone's attention. That's really awesome. I feel the adrenalin in my fingers and toes, and there's blood pulsing through all of me, I'm alive. As long as I keep singing, fear can't catch me, not today. I feel bold. I'm in a beautiful theatre and I'm singing a song I love. I like being bold, I should be bold more often. If Amy's watching from that painted mural, I bet she's proud of my boldness.
I finish the song. Silence. People start clapping and about 10 out of the 30 people on the tour stand up from their seats, and I think "Damn, the sound really is amazing in here! I hear clapping in the balconies!" and when I look up there's 20 people in the balcony to my right on a separate tour, and they're applauding me! I'm gassed, I feel like a hot air balloon, I'm smiling and my cheeks are hot and I jump down from the stage and bow awkwardly.
The tour ends. The lovers that asked me to take their picture in front of Aphrodite come and shake my hand. This smile is beginning to make my face hurt.
I begin to exit on my cloud of happiness. The guide stops me at the door.
"Keep singing," she says earnestly, and I just want to smother her cute nerdy little face in kisses.
Instead, I say: "I will. Thank you for the magnificent tour."
