This weekend I attended a performance by Houston Grand Opera for the first time, and very much enjoyed their production of Mozart’s Abduction From the Seraglio. The runup to the evening, however, was pretty clunky.

We were running late, then doubled down by deviating from our planned route, but finally arrived at the correct entrance to our pre-paid parking garage. Unfortunately, the attendant did not recognize our pass. Three managers and one irate customer later we were admitted with apologies. Quotes of note:

Customer: I’ll pay the $10 if it makes this car move! 

Third manager, to employee: This is a pass for the Theater District Garage, and we are in the Theater District Garage.

The garage was enormous, serving several venues, and it wasn’t obvious where to park. There were signs for our venue, but all of them were blocked by either cones or persons waving us in a different direction. Finally we just parked and walked.

Inside the venue, we were welcomed warmly and directed to the proper escalator, then abandoned. Neither signs nor non-food employees were in evidence.

We had hoped to pre-purchase food for the first intermission, but we stood in the wrong line for so long we had to go search for our seats. There were no signs indicating which level of the lobby corresponded with which seating level, so we ended up riding an elevator to the upper balcony then walking very steep steps back down to the loge.

Once inside the auditorium, we found a few ushers, about two per level, some of whom tried to help. Two offered to change our seats to the orchestra, two more levels below, which they proposed as a major upgrade. When pressed for details about which seats were better, they weren’t sure. Quotes of note:

Usher 1: It’s really a matter of personal preference.

Usher 2: I’d choose the loge, myself.

We stuck with the loge, whose seats were bar stools with footrests. One of ours detached with a clank when feet were applied, requiring the occupant to kneel and screw it back on. Three-quarters through the overture, another clank rang through the section, and presumably someone else had dangling feet, since by then the house lights were down.

At the end of Act I, I charged for the lobby through the exit recommended by the usher to avoid stairs, clambered down three flights of stairs, raced through a lovely room filled with tables set with wine and food for pre-purchasers, was waved along to another level, and finally managed to secure a place in the salad line in time to avert starvation during the subsequent two acts.

I was sort of angry about these events.

Opera is the apotheosis of either western culture or western decadence, or perhaps both. As an opera-goer, I am accustomed to being handled very gently. Have I really become so thin-skinned that I can’t take a few hiccups with good grace? Was I confused by the cognitive dissonance of opera in Texas? Did I have reduced coping skills due to low blood sugar?

Probably the latter, and I should have heeded the warning. The next day I pierced a Scion with the trailer hitch of a rental truck three hours after I should have eaten lunch.