Verona
I have related the tale of Scrovegni Chapel. A tale of heat and sweat, bad timing and good fortune. As a precursor to our stay in Verona, I wish to detail another tale, one of international intrigue, flight attendants, muted whispers, and "under the aileron" payoffs. But, before I do, I must warn you that lives and a great deal of money are at stake.
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Way back, near the beginnings of our planning for this trip, we told ourselves that we would indulge in two or three special international events that we would otherwise never have the chance to experience. The Bolshoi Ballet was first on our list. Buying tickets for the Bolshoi is, at the very least, arduous and involves dealing with brokers, getting your name on a mailing list, responding ASAP upon notification that tickets are available, making money payments over the telephone and receiving assigned seats only after payment is made. It occurred to me more than once that this whole process was a scam. Still, with determination and sheer will to see the Bolshoi, we began the pursuit sometime in January while we were in Costa Rica. We signed on to be notified and waited. We received an email sometime in March that tickets would soon be available. We went online, identified the desired 'section' where we wished to be seated, contacted our agent, put in our request and paid her an alarming amount of money for two seats at the Bolshoi Theater.
When I say 'alarming', it is important to realize certain facts about Russia. Firstly, Russia continues to be a functioning failed state. It ranks 12th amongst world economies behind Italy, Brazil and Canada with under 2% of the total world GDP as indicated by The International Monetary Fund's World Economic Outlook projection, April, 2017. Furthermore, it possesses maybe the world's most deeply entrenched system of institutionalized corruption in the world. Everyone is on the take. Like Greece, there are vast amounts of "dark money" floating around in the economy. People do business in cash to avoid paying taxes, and transactions made by businesses are often without record. Law enforcement is weak because the legal system itself is corrupt. And, who would reveal someone else's digression if it would hurt you personally. So, no one tells on anyone else. It is a closed system.
That being said, it is still a trillion and a half dollar economy. And, where does that money go? Well, 60% of the GDP, six out of every ten dollars earned, is generated by and remains within Moscow. Russia has an overall population of about 144 million people; 12.4 million of the total population live in Moscow and a minority share in this wealth. And, although It's growth is expected to top off at a piddling 0.03% (that reads 3/100ths of one percent), Russian Oligarchs who are making their ill-begotten gains from gas and oil exports and arms dealing, collude with the 5% of the total population that are 'Party' members...the central core of whom live in Moscow. So, effectively, 60% of Russia's total GDP finds its way into the hands of 5% of the total population and those chosen to share in this affluence. No wonder people are keeping what they have to themselves. This rarefied society of criminals and elite live in Moscow. They attend the ballet. And, they can afford to pay the inflated prices for seats.
Fast forward. Adele and I have a nine and a half hour flight from Shanghai to Moscow. Our scheduled flight ETA is 4:30 PM. This would, theoretically, allow us to collect our luggage, pass through customs, find our driver and car, make it to the hotel, shower and change in time for a 7PM start to the performance of "The Legends of Love", a ballet in three acts.
We boarded the plane, excited and ready for takeoff. But, take off we would not. An announcement advised us that due to air traffic control in Moscow, our departure time was delayed one hour.
"So, we don't go to the hotel", I problem solve with Adele. We hop in a cab and head over to the Bolshoi Theater directly. Never mind that I was in hiking pants, a light weight, "wicking" short sleeve shirt, hiking boots, unshaven, and a little 'moldy' from travel, if you know what I mean. And, now there was no guarantee that we would even get to the theater in time for the start of the performance.
Be I ever so humble, not willing to forego what has cost us a bundle, and with about two hours left to the flight, I drew the attention of a flight attendant and finely detailed for her our dilemma. I indicated that we were strapped for time and after having paid a considerable sum of money for the tickets, in celebration of our 32nd wedding anniversary, were afraid to lose that money. And, (shrug) could she (sigh) in some way (weepy) help get us through customs (pleading). That "sum of money" was an amount I stated openly hoping to garner some degree of sympathy for our potential loss. But, no. No sympathy. She heard the amount and her monetary Geiger counter was ticking at a jack rabbit's pace. The flight attendant basically, flat out, denied having any ability to get me through customs and told me to take care of it with the agents 'on the other side'. "However, (her mind racing) I will speak to the crew", careful not to impart any hope. I thanked her for listening to my predicament.
We are now in Russian airspace, about one hour away from the Moscow airport and the attendant returns to my seat and asks me to come with her. We go back to the space between first class and economy, as private a space as is available on a Boeing 707 and, with a gentle, polite gesture for me to come closer, whispers a suggestion. "You have American dollar, No? We need speak too many people help you. Ees difficult. Need reason for to do. Maybe you give $1,200.00, and crew give people what need and be able assist you."
Possessing some experience as negotiator and deal maker, knowing that I only had a certain amount of money on hand, I said, "I don't have that kind of money on me."
Without disappointing me. "How much do you have?"
"Four hundred dollars?"
"Oh, I don't think enough for all people we need talk to. But, I will see."
We departed our secret rendezvous. I returned to my seat; she to the cockpit. Ten minutes later she came back to my seat, leaned over as if to serve me some tea, and whispered that we don't have a deal, in a kind of single movement swoop so as to not really stop and proceeding as if we didn't say anything to one another in the first instance. Done!
I had no real intention of paying the money, but was inescapably intrigued. The outcome was to my mind anticipated and relieving, since if I bated them and they accepted, what would I do? I may not be here today if they accepted and I reneged on the offer. I might have ended up on another flight to Siberia or Outer Mongolia in the belly of a Russian aircraft and forced into hard labor until I was able to play Autumn Leaves on a shofar. Such was my fate in the hands of pilot and crew. But, alas, my bluff was not called and we landed in Moscow at 5:35 PM.
To say that Russian customs is s-l-o-w would be an understatement. A sloth is slow and only comes down from the tree to s _ _ t. Russian customs is paranoid, pathetic and lackadaisical. I could sense the tension and desperation in the lives of people having to deal with corruption on a daily basis in a society where everyone is out for themselves. Oddly enough, we were fortunate to get our luggage very soon after flashing the light began to blink and the carousel commenced to circulate. But, now was the challenge. Getting through customs. Adele and I grabbed our bags and rolled them as fast as we could toward the customs area. Outside the baggage claim and at the top of the stairs where we would need to descend to customs, there was a young lady who was directing traffic. I approached her and briefly, with droopy eyes (as much attributable to my exhaustion as to my acting ability) told her the story of our 40th wedding anniversary (I upped the ante) and tickets to the Bolshoi performance, flight delay and our need to get through customs.
"Let me see. (Thinking to herself) Follow me, please." Well, when a Russian tells you to follow them, you listen, regardless of the circumstances. So we followed...down the stairs, through a passage; and into a...OMG!!! This smallish area must have been inundated with passengers from three or four flights all having just arrived. Literally, hundreds of people. And, not just waiting on long lines. They were vying for position, pushing, arguing, complaining. It was a mob mentality. Frustration and anger and impatience ruled. The people I saw were ready to press 'the nuclear button' at the very first provocation. And, into this hostile environment walks a cute, short, smiley, diminutive attendant and a most notably unassuming Jewish couple with four pieces of luggage.
"Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me." She repeated several times as she finagled and finessed us to the front of one of the lines. She spoke a few words to the customs agent, bid us farewell and walked away. At that moment, I feared for our lives. I mean, if we were notables, say famous personalities, like Elton John or Brad Pitt or Kate Middleton, I would not have felt so threatened. I would assume that as recognizable figures and noted personalities, people would defer to us, demonstrating respect and expecting the full service of the Russian government to assist us. But, we are not recognizable and, (sometimes even in my own mind) not anybody in particular. Yet, this 'line creep' manipulation to the front got the attention of the room. Attention that I didn't want. The seconds it took for the person in front of us to have her passport stamped seemed like an eternity. I cowered, lowering my head so as not to look anyone in the eyes lest they realize our unimportance. Truthfully, I completely forgot that I needed to pee, so severely distracting was the situation. Yet, we were able to get through customs in minutes, like honored guests of Vladimir Putin. Absolutely miraculous. Literally, miraculous. You cannot imagine the hundreds of people crammed into this space, and were it not for the favor of this understanding and strong individual, the only ballet we might have patroned was the 'back alley ballet' in one very short act.
We were in our car at 6:12 PM. We have hired cars to meet us at airports to take us to our hotels. A car to the Bolshoi Theatre should take about one half hour. With traffic, though, it was clear that our trip was going to take longer and that if we made the theater it would be just in the nick of time...or not. So, I called the agency through which the car was hired and suggested that the driver instead of driving us to the hotel as originally planned, drive us to the Bolshoi, and then go on with our luggage to our hotel. That agreement set, we sat back and accepted our fate. Our trip lasted (no B S) 45 minutes getting us to the theater with three minutes to spare.
Honestly, it is not modesty causing me to choose not to reveal how much the tickets cost. It more is my sense of literary intrigue. Let's just say that we were not in the bleachers, rather, we sat with the Oligarchs. And, even though in Moscow, as in most of the world, theater attendance is more greatly egalitarian, and has leveled the sartorial playing field so that tuxedoes and jeans find an amicable existence, (even at London's Claridge Hotel's High Tea, casual dress is quite acceptable), our section comprised the 'Gala' set, those who play polo; commodity traders and night club owners; party beauracrats and owners of gas pipelines. Thus, as you might expect, we passed gentlemen donned in finely custom, made to measure suits and tailored tuxedoes and ladies wearing taffeta and silk ballroom gowns.
"Prestitsa, prestitsa". We excused ourselves on our way to our seats, center section in the first elevated row, in a sartorial display of captivating polyester, Teva hiking boots, flannel sweat shirt by Columbia and day old body odor. And, we weren't even noticed. Not disregard. Simply disinterest. I guess when you are a pawn on the chess board, your value only derives from circling to preserve the king. Otherwise, you are expendable. Understood necessary, but not critical to know.
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How do these events, Padua and Moscow, resemble one another and relate to Verona? They were events that, by chance, took place on the same evenings as our arrivals into these towns. And, so it was with Verona. The evening we arrived we had tickets to attend a performance of Aida at Verona's Arena. Arena is a Roman Coliseum constructed in AD 30. And, what remains is remarkably well preserved and original. Situated in the vast Piazza Bra, the 'Arena' historically served as a 'ludi' or performance space in which operas were performed to a capacity crowd of 30,000 people. Today seating is limited to 15,000 for safety reasons. Piazza Bra is a parabola shaped plaza encircled by restaurants and cafes.
Verona's "Arena" dating back to 50 A.D.
The interior of 'Arena' with its seating capacity of 15,000
Part of the original structure.
Setting up for the next performance...
Verona has a little bit of everything to offer. It's central area is larger than that of the larger city of Trieste. It possesses the quaint charm of Padua along with its canals. If you are a shopper, there are plenty of opporutnities to enjoy the duly honored sense of design of the Italians. Their clothing is superbly tasteful; kitchen items ingeniously designed for form, function and beauty. And, it is a city of culinary delights. Yet, one can eat only so many cannollis. What had a most endearing and lasting impression on me were the colors of Verona: deep ochre and burnt umber; cinnamon and burnished copper; sun bright yellow and dusty golds. They provided a great backdrop for me to photograph my sweetheart.
That's my honey-bunch.
Our apartment was in the center of Verona.
One of the many bridges in Verona
A beautiful corner balcony.
There is currently a Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit of posters and engravings in the Verona Museum of Art. Well staged, the show had many of his most famous posters including "La Revue Blanche".
In the hills of Verona