Curiosity, Love, and Other Demons

Curiosity is a good trait, one that can pay dividends in unexpected ways. Its especially beneficial to shed that part of ourselves that thinks we know it all, and to be excited about the possibilities of learning something new, of looking at something from a different perspective, of gaining some insight into someone else’s life. It depends on my mood of course; days when I feel open to the world are followed by days when I close in on myself and recharge. Sometimes I am fascinated by people around me, other times I want to be left alone. For the most part, however, the extrovert in me wins out, because I am intrigue by other people’s stories.

I feel especially curious when I travel, since the likelihood of meeting someone with a drastically different life than my own is pretty high. Yet the fact remains that no matter where in the world I am, the people around me are the culmination of their experiences, not mine. Its just a lot easier to assume the people around you are similar when you are five minutes from your childhood home than when you are on the Eastern part of Turkey and women are wearing burkas, for instance.

All that being said, I know that when I am open to the world, the world opens up to me. Once I think I have things figured out, once I think life has settled into the familiar, I meet someone who shakes things up and I berate myself for ever having expectations about someone’s life, their experiences, or assuming I can know anything about them from a glance.

It’s of course not a phenomenon limited to traveling experiences. Assuming you understand people takes you into dangerous territories. I realized that a teammate that seemed quiet and unfriendly in the beginning was balancing two practices a day with twin two year old kids at home. Another teammate who doesn’t talk much is taking care of her mother sick with cancer. Without a doubt, there are some people that are just generally assholes but most people just have their moments when life gets overwhelming and stress boils over and strikes the undeserving. I react to other people, its difficult to control that urge to judge and take things personally but I’m attempting to have respect for other people’s stories, for their struggles, for the pieces of their lives that make up who they are.

One benefit to being curious is meeting random people. This can lead to finding yourself doing something completely unexpected like sitting in the fifth row center in the national Opera house in Vilnius watching your new friend, naked and covered with smeared pig’s blood, on stage singing at the top of her lungs. It’s just not something I do everyday.

As I mentioned before, Marisol was living the opera singers equivalent to a my life: living abroad most of the year, traveling around for performances and making money off her body, talents, and tolerance for long practice sessions. In the proverbial tree of passionate professions, ours were on opposite branches. We found ourselves, a couple of American expats in Vilnius, spending time together in restaurants, meeting on windy corners of the city, latching on to each other for the comfort of the familiar. As a result, she got free tickets to our basketball game; we got free tickets to the opera. (Actually I think all our Lithuanian league games are free. But so not the point.)

My teammates and I rushed back to Vilnius after a road win, arriving at the opera house midway through the first act. My dad was found, not surprisingly, at the bar, talking with random people while he waited for us. (Still a little unsure where I get the propensity for talking with strangers?) With drink in hand, he’d already made friends with the house director, who was running all over the building trying to find our misplaced tickets. We were guests of the lead singer after all. We walked around trying to act like this was a normal occurrence for us.

Intermission began as we sipped wine at the round bar and watched the theatregoers swarm towards the alcohol. One Lithuanian man came up, opened his program to the opera director’s picture and asked my dad for his autograph. I assured the guy that my dad was nobody important and certainly not the man in the picture.

We soon found our seats, which were exactly fifty seats closer than I’ve been for any significant performance, at any opera house in the world. I could smell the orchestra. I actually wish that I was embellishing that fact.

I didn’t know much about the opera, “Love and Other Demons” and soon realized that it’s based on the book by Gabrielle Garcia Marquez, an unbelievable author. The only conversation I’d had with Marisol about this specific opera was a discussion on whether or not she should do a nude scene. Being the prude that I am, I wanted to know if it fit in with the story and would therefore be considered art instead of simply nudity. She assured me that it did. I assured her that I would yell as well as applaud.

Then we moved on to exactly what the nudity entailed. Whether it would be the lower area as well as the upper, what kind of waxing that would necessitate, and how she’s not eating many carbs. The general consensus amongst the group (and by the group I mean me,) was 1. Go for it 2. Find a good waxer and 3. I wouldn’t be eating either if my job consisted of nudity.

The second act started with Marisol lying down in a negligee with men of the cloth singing around her. It was in English but the actual words were unintelligible. Luckily, I’d read the program and knew the basics of each scene. But to be honest, I was just waiting to see her naked.

The opera ended up being a mélange of passionate themes: love, religion, death, blood, tears, and fire. It was spectacular. The last scene consisted of Marisol’s exorcism on the crucifix while a nun cleansed her soul with pig’s blood on her naked breasts while hooded men tainted her with torches and nuns as masked pigs reached out in a futile effort to save her. To say it was dramatic is a tremendous understatement.

We kind of just sat there after the curtain call, too stunned to move too quickly. Soon the theater emptied and we made our way down to the reception area and roamed around, trying to figure out where we might wait for the woman of the hour.

My dad soon found a pimple faced 18-year-old boy to shepard us around. We then got a full tour of the magnificent opera house, hitting all the areas of the building we were most certainly not supposed to be. We went backstage where stagehands were working on lighting and sets, through the hallway in the back of the theatre, and finally down the stairs to the artists entrance. Once again we acted like this was perfectly normal for us. Going into the Knicks locker room after a game would have felt more familiar.

We found Marisol, along with others involved in the show, and took off for a nearby restaurant. All the foreigners in the production were leaving Vilnius the next day so everyone was anxious to party. We went to a small gothic building that looked like a former castle. The inside was mostly red and black, with chandeliers and dripping white candles. It felt like a vampire movie set and quite appropriate after our high-class night at the opera.

We started eating and drinking as cast members started flowing in. The men were on one end of the table, drinking beer and homemade vodka pulled from a backpack. Soon the conductor arrived, ready to celebrate before returning to his home in Buenos Aires the following morning. Then the other lead woman singer made an entrance with other opera friends from other shows. This woman, Jorvita had presence. Even when she spoke, her voice had depth and character that demanded attention in the subtlest way. Soon she found the piano and started playing, singing and organizing others to join in. She sang in Russian and Lithuanian throughout the night, each time I sat mesmerized, completely uninterested in anything else but listening to her sing. She had that aura, that beauty that isn’t necessarily aesthetic but draws you in, willingly and with optimism.

We closed down the first restaurant, far earlier than expected so made our way to old town where we huddled in a booth at a pub with wooden beamed ceilings. After a few drinks this place was closed as well so we moved on, staggering through the freezing cold of century old cobblestone streets to a cavernous French restaurant. We made our way through the main dining area to the back room where linen white couches and antique furniture contrasted with the dim candlelight and cold concrete walls. We sat and ate olives and cheese, while Jorvita organized music and dancing. It was amazing. We all relaxed after a long day, games and opera performances and spoke of life and travels. We invited them to see a game and promised to come to another opera.

Crystal and I walked home in the cold, as I reflected on another magical night and unforgettable experience in Europe. Just another evening at the Opera here in Vilnius.

Off to Moscow this afternoon. Happy Thanksgiving!