A Night at the Opera: A review of Aida at the Verona Arena

Being in Italy, I thought it fitting to go to an opera in the famous Roman Colosseum in Verona. It just so happened that Aida was playing there. I didn’t know much about that show, but I read that it was performed there a long ass time ago and had elephants in it, and before that, I was thinking, it must have also had lions eating Christians, so that sealed the deal for me. I know they don’t do that kind of thing anymore with the lions, but at least I’d see some elephants. It could turn out better than the Ringling Brothers circus, even.

I ponied up for some pretty sweet seats, so the view was great. There were people from all over the world, even some other embarrassing Americans whose idea of an opera was probably a fat lady wearing a horned viking helmet and shattering glasses with her voice. This is also what I assumed for a long time, but now I’m a cultured motherfucker.

It was really hot…like 90 degrees hot…and there were lots of old white people there who apparently weren’t going to let a little deadly heat spoil their three and a half hours of fun. That was admirable, but not too smart. Luckily, the arena hired medics who were very busy, scrambling around and hauling old people out when they keeled over. It reminded me of that time I was at a King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard show and people would pass out and get hauled away, but they weren’t passing out from being too hot. They were passing out from tripping balls on drugs. They should probably have medics on alert at those shows too, then their friends who were also on drugs wouldn’t have to manage them.

There was an older couple next to us from Argentina. The guy asked me in English where I was from and I said America and he said he was from the Pampas region. Then he told me there were 300 people in the cast and I said “Wow!” and then I asked, “How many elephants?” to which he stared quizzically and silently. His English was pretty good but he maybe didn’t know that word, so I thought better of making elephant noises and swinging my arms around like a trunk and just dropped it.

Then a lady on the loudspeaker said not to smoke or use your phone during the performance and the lights went down.

As soon as the show started, it was clear that no one heard what the lady had said, even though she said it in multiple languages. No, people didn’t start lighting up. They started sticking up their phones. I figured that they would get over themselves after a few minutes, and many did. But not the Argentines. No sireee. For the entire first act, the guy and his wife had their phones up, determined to capture every scene at every angle. She was in landscape mode capturing the main stage while his phone was upright in his left hand, his right hand endlessly pinching, panning, stopping, starting, and sweeping as his elbow repeatedly jabbed me. He and his wife also talked a lot, which made many fellow patrons shush them. But that had no effect.

Wondering if I was just the unluckiest bastard in the entire stadium, I looked around and saw that they weren’t the only culprits, though few were as bold as them. I have, against my will, memorized a number of screensavers and family photos from phones around me.

Not wanting a confrontation that I would regret, I tried to shield my left eye from the insanely distracting idiocy going on. I waited patiently for his storage to fill up. Certainly it would soon. At one point he stopped…then pulled up his email and started reviewing his inbox “Promociones” folder. That’s right. He was reviewing spam offers. Clearly this was no aspiring film director.

Finally, I had enough and said loudly “Stop! Just stop already! It is extremely distracting!”

He shrugged at me and went back to filming. At this point my wife got up to go complain to someone, even though there were phones popping up everywhere and no one seemed to care. I remember seeing King Crimson and not one person took out a phone at the band’s request, because people respected one another and when Robert Fripp doesn’t like something, you don’t do it. That’s that. But not here. Not at this arena full of uncultured louts and hillbillies.

I decided to move my ass into the aisle to sit, escaping this prick. Fire codes be damned. They can all burn.

Finally, I started following the show. There was someone named Aida and there was this fat guy who kept moaning about how he loved her and she loved him too but then they didn’t and then they did again all in a matter of minutes and something about Egyptians and Ethiopians fighting each other. Hopefully with elephants, I thought.

After twenty minutes of finally getting to see Aida, I realized that my wife was still not back from complaining about the phone asshole and lots of time had gone by. Eventually, I saw her signaling me from the entrance to the section so I got up and went over there, making everyone around me grumble and whine as I crossed in front of their view right when it was really quiet and the fat guy was talking about being captured or something.

When I got there she said “They won’t let me back until intermission” so I was like “what the fuck?!” Then everyone shushed me and so, seeing as I had not crossed the threshold of no return and taken a step down, I headed back in front of the section again and this time the metallic walkways made a really loud banging sound on the way back. There were a number of startled disapproving gasps after that. I put my hands up in a “sorry!” pose while also hanging my head in shame, which made me look like the guy on stage being marched to his death while people shouted “Traitor! Traitor!” in some other language.

Now the whole section was angry with this boorish American causing a disturbance and meanwhile this dick-faced assclown still had his phone waving around. I sat back down in the aisle pushing back my fury.

Soon enough it was intermission and my wife came back and a French lady behind the Argentine told him how awful his phone behavior was and he was like “No comprende” and I told the French lady “Oh he understands just fine. He just doesn’t give a shit,” and glared at him.

I stormed down to the concession stand and ordered a beer, hoping to actually see and enjoy the second act. I asked for peanuts and a double IPA and the guy serving the drinks didn’t respond so I said “Birra” and he produced a Tuborg. I’ll never understand how the Danes shoved that beer on so many Europeans, but that’s how it is over there, so I took it.

When I got back, my wife said I shouldn’t speak so crudely to people at an opera, referring to my comment to the French lady, but I explained that it makes no difference — they think me crude for being American no matter what I say, even if I say nothing at all, because, well, look at this shit. It was then that I had a mind to grab her and tell her I may be an American but I have nothing at all to do with Donald Trump or Joe Biden or Taylor Swift even, so you’ll have to keep your judgments to yourself.

Anyway, the Argentines were gone, thank fuck. They must have run out of storage on their phones and decided to go back to their hotels and watch the rest on YouTube.

Finally, I was able to watch the rest of the show. It was pretty good. The fat guy who loved Aida did get captured by the Egyptians, who were going to bury the poor sonofabitch alive. I saw through that ruse right away since the stage floor was made of hard reflective plexiglass or something and there’s no way you could put a shovel to that to bury someone. Once the guy was captured, another lady showed up and she was really upset about it all and was wailing real good. I bet her voice really could crack a glass. It was awesome. Those Egyptians are never any good in these stories. You can see that clearly in other parts of the bible.

Eventually, figuring they couldn’t bury him, they sent him to a kind of transparent pyramid prison cell and it floated up into the darkness while lights shone about. Then it ended. I don’t know where Aida went, to be honest.

It was a great show and a great performance. The elephants must have happened in the first act when I was locked in a furious battle with myself, trying not to be like the Egyptians and bury this phone-ass bastard alive. I bet the Egyptians did that to him during the intermission so they could get on with the performance. If, so, they ain’t so bad after all.