Halloween Festivities

I tried to convince myself that it would be best to dig into the archives of my closet to find a frock for the Opera on Halloween evening, but knew when I awoke on Saturday morning that that simply would not do. Having previously admitted that I have notions about myself which are obviously not based in reality, it should be no surprise that I subscribe to the school of thought that one should never be seen out and about in the same outfit twice.

The first Opera of the season landed on Halloween evening, and while dressing up in a costume did not seem appropriate, I thought it might be fun to channel a flapper sort of vibe for the occasion. With that vision in place, I scurried to my car for an impromptu shopping trip at Pacific Place on Saturday afternoon.

I had envisioned finding the perfect drop-waist dress immediately upon entering the mall, which of course was not to be the case. After taking brief laps through the usual suspects (Ann Taylor, Barney’s, Club Monaco), I was rapidly becoming discouraged and fearful that I may be forced to go spelunking in my own closet. However, J. Crew, always and forever my wardrobe savior, had the closest thing to perfection: a black chiffon tiered camisole with three black rhinestone buttons on the left shoulder strap. The top was at once elegant and chic and its silhouette harkened early 20th century glamour. Having procured the top and a pair of rose gold hoop earrings, it was now my mission to find the perfect pairing to bring my ensemble together. Brett and I have been season ticket holders to the Opera for the past three years, and we historically treat the entire day as an event in and of itself. With the top portion of my outfit determined, I made a pit-stop at Whole Foods to pick up some canapés and wine to enjoy pre-Opera.

I arrived to our gloriously clean condo (having spent the better portion of the morning on my hands and knees thoroughly scrubbing every nook and cranny) shortly after 4:30pm and set about preparing our hors d’oeuvres—promptly pouring myself a glass of wine as well. Brett was busy decompressing with his PS3, so I turned on my beloved 40’s music as I cut up some Patisse de Beaujeolais (blue goat’s cheese), three-year aged Gouda, apricot Wensleydale and some Grand Pont L’eveque (a ridiculously awful smelling but wonderfully delicious cow’s milk cheese from the Normandy region of France.) To pair with the cheeses I sliced a Sour Ficelle baguette and put the slices in a bowl with sesame tarragon crackers. The mood was set perfectly for Halloween since a blue fog covered the sun as it began to set and our abode was delicately illuminated with a potpourri of candles. We sat for a moment and enjoyed “A Clockwork Orange” before beginning to prepare for the events of the evening.

As is standard, I dilly dallied while coiffing my hair and daintily applying my eyeliner with Geisha-like precision. With my visage complete, all that was left to determine was the lower half of my ensemble. I was gripped with fear as the first four skirts I had considered while at J. Crew did not pair well with my top at all. Finally, I decided upon a brilliant fuchsia wool skirt that landed just above the knee and finished the look with opera length pearls, rose gold hoops, embroidered Wolford tights and five inch rose gold heels. Brett opted for a casual chic look which included a dashing pair of dark denim jeans, a newly procured lavender Ted Baker oxford, and his trusty black pinstripe suit jacket.

McCaw Hall

All gussied up, we made haste to arrive at McCaw Hall early enough to enjoy some pre-performance libations. Aside from milling about with cocktails at theatre level (God forbid we be seen in the First Tier where our seats actually are), my favorite part of the evening is critiquing Opera-goers’ ensembles. As I suspected, there were indeed people who opted to dress up for the event. The most common theme seemed to be men wearing horns, which could potentially have been an endeavor in subtlety, but due to the high volume of people wearing them it only seemed trite. Masquerade masks were popular as well—and I also had the good fortune of spotting a gentleman dressed in a red velour smoking jacket, a mermaid donning a blue paillette dress (which was actually very striking) and, of course, a phantom of the opera.

Since tonight’s performance was Verdi’s La Traviata, the bar was serving appropriately themed cocktails. Brett had a Tanquerey-based libation entitled the Parisian, and I chose a Citron Vodka concoction called the Courtesan, which was served in a champagne flute.

We traipsed through the hall and slinked up the grand stairs toward our seats. With moments to spare, we sipped on our cocktails right outside the entrance until the last bells rang before slipping inside the theatre. Our seats were in an empty row, which I attributed to the fact that it was Halloween, but Brett seemed to think the less than full house was a result of the recession.

A hush washed over the audience as the conductor assumed his position in the orchestra pit and we were soon enveloped in a glorious symphony. Brett’s main gripe about the Opera is what I love the most: that a five minute story is drawn out over the course of three hours. La Traviata is centered on an ailing Parisian Courtesan named Violetta who has never felt true love until she is introduced to a gentleman named Alfredo at her dinner party. The two fall hopelessly and desperately in love and the first scene concludes with the two of them held in a tender embrace on her terrace.

In the second act, Violetta’s health is much improved and the happy couple now live together in the French countryside. Unbeknownst to Alfredo, Violetta is selling off all of her possessions in Paris in order to accommodate their lifestyle in the country. Alfredo is appalled when he makes this discovery by way of Violetta’s servant Annina and decides he must go to Paris and fix the situation. Whilst he is away, Alfredo’s father comes to visit and begs Violetta to leave his son. He claims that her reputation is jeopardizing his younger daughter’s promising engagement to a royal family. After much arguing, Violetta finally acquiesces but insists that Giorgio (Alfredo’s father) tell his daughter of this sacrifice.

Violetta leaves a note for Alfredo and heads off, disconsolate, to a friend’s party in Paris. Alfredo is convinced that his father was behind her departure and intends to confront Violetta at the gathering. The two meet, fight, and Alfredo flees the fete after he is reprimanded by his father for his brute display of challenging Violetta’s date and throwing money at Violetta’s feet.

The last act is laden with sadness as Violetta lies dying in her bed of the consumption. She is horrifically pale and woebegone until Alfredo finally arrives to her bedside. The two reconcile and embrace while her doctor and Annina look on. In the final moments, Giorgio arrives to bless their union but alas, Violetta has died in her lover’s arms.

As per usual, I was a basketcase throughout the performance. I found it to be touching and evocative. But let’s face it; I’m also just a sap. The set design was impeccable and the costumes were flawless (I was thrilled that my skirt matched the burgundies, purples, reds and pinks of other courtesan’s attire.) Our two intermissions were spent in the Bravo Lounge partaking of gratis red wine. I enjoyed that we had our own private room in which to pass the time and delighted to see the Space Needle looming over us just outside the windows. I received a message from my friend DeAnn letting me know that our presence was requested on Capital Hill and at that moment it was decided that Brett and I would not head home post-Opera for a quiet evening wind-down but rather we would face the insanity of Capital Hill on Halloween with the full moon on our tails.

Typically, I am one of those people that stands and applauds the cast until every single person has taken their bow, but since Brett and I had newly laid plans to paint the town red, I grabbed my binoculars and made a mad dash in my five inchers to our parked car. I was overcome with a fit of giggles as I noticed many others were making that same mad dash and what ensued was akin to something you might see in a video game. We barreled down the parking garage, swerving to avoid cars squealing out of their spaces and braking to avoid disoriented senior pedestrians. Finally, we escaped and were able to turn left right before a traffic guard closed the street down to siphon post-Opera traffic.

***
I had no idea what we were about to get ourselves into as we approached the Pike and Pine interchange on Capital Hill. Traffic was at a standstill as drunken hoards of costumed young adults wandered hither and thither. I pulled up along a blinged out Escalade and was greeted by a gentleman who called himself Luscious Lucifer. On that night, for all I knew, he very well could have been who he claimed. Discouraged that we likely wouldn’t find parking within a reasonable radius of Barca Lounge, I headed west down Madison when I happened upon a perfect spot that was within five blocks of our destination.

I felt horribly incongruous mingling amongst all these revelers in my prim Opera attire. I was instantly cheered up, however, when I asked Brett what we could say we were dressed up as and he deadpanned “Adults.” The chill of the evening was making its way through my bones and I was disheartened by the length of the queue to get into the bar. It was then that I noticed Vermillion, a tiny art gallery/ bar located right next to our destination. Having to go to the bathroom more than anything I figured it would behoove us to slip inside and order drinks. Besides which, the warmth was a welcome change to the craziness outside. Vermillion’s atmosphere inside the brick walled bungalow was sleepy and chill. Delighted with our find, I insisted that DeAnn and her husband Paul join us. Eventually, they found their way over and we all enjoyed a few glasses of wine and some hearty homemade mac and cheese. Since the night was still young-ish (1am?) and the intensity of Barca’s line was a bit more subdued, we headed in the direction of where we were to close out the evening.

Upon entering, I immediately wrangled my way to the front of the bar and ordered drinks for the group. The bar was a mess of drunken revelers dressed up as PeeWee Herman, Roger Federer, Hamburger Helper, Balloon Boy, and Saudi oil Sheiks. As I was standing and reveling with my wine in hand, a chap draped in a paper bag tumbled into me and my glass. Mustering my best attitude, I asked that he kindly go to the bar and procure me some club soda. Much to my dismay, he came scampering back with the soda moments later. (“I even got you a lime,” he whimpered.)

on the perch

Somehow, we managed to wrangle our way up to the second floor which was apparently where a private party was taking place. I was accosted by a bouncer on the stairwell who demanded I tell him the password. Shaking my head, I waited for the person behind me to state “Law” before I passed along the knowledge to my group. We pranced up the stairs and perched at a corner table overlooking the whole bar.

An hour or so passed while we commentated on everyone’s getup below. The lights began to flicker and we were booted from the second floor around 2am. Slowly making our way through the crowds, the four of us were washed out onto the streets where we said our heavy-lidded and giddy goodbyes.