Turandot Festival

Turandot — Festival

I am seven or six and I’m sitting in a theater lobby.

I am waiting outside with my mother and she’s sitting at a desk near the front door. She’s responsible for selling tickets if someone should show up late or didn’t have one.

This is her opera teacher’s “festival.” Her students are all allowed to sing in front of an opera expert and be told why they suck firsthand. It’s a stressful environment. Almost nobody is here to hear. They are here to sing and be critically assessed. So, “festival” is a perfect name?

I hear someone in the bathroom having an existential crisis. “ME ME ME ME ME ME” he’s singing as if he was going up and over a hill. It’s egotistical, but hey, who am I to judge. “NO NO NO NO NO NO” comes next. Oh, he’s judging himself. Maybe his singing isn’t good and he’s unhappy? “ME ME ME ME ME ME” and “NO NO NO NO NO NO” back and forth many times. Nobody seems to be rushing to his aid, so I assume he’s fine.

I am struggling with a moral dilemma however. I am hungry and the lobby is full of food for everyone in the “festival.” This seems to be the best part, but there’s this tray full of small green cubes sitting on a plate. These cubes are called small four and I’m allowed one. It is simply the most delicious thing a six or seven year old has tasted. Pure sugar and no excuses. It’s very hard to be in the same room with them, and I listen to the judgment the opera expert is giving to a student. “You need to widen your nose.”

That was interesting. No medical equipment was brought out. The person sang again. It sounded exactly the same. “Much better.”

Somehow the singer succeeds? I want to try as he didn’t seem to do anything special. I will widen my nose as a distraction from the cubes.

I know where my nose is and that the student used no hands either. So, it’s me and my nose is there. I’m trying to move it. Trying so hard but nothing is happening. I guess I can’t be an opera singer, but I didn’t think I wanted to be.