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How not to lose your life at the Met

February 6, 2018 by norman lebrecht

3 comments.


Abigail Mitchell, a newly hired chorus extra at the Metropolitan Opera, finds herself struggling with lack of signage, unhelpful nicknames and elevators the lead to the bowels of despair:

Not to be fooled again, next time I checked the elevator before getting in to make sure that it went to my destination: C level. It did! So down I went, feeling confident. But when I stepped out I found myself in some sort of creepy, deserted basement. Large pieces of lighting equipment were piled around, and after I wandered a bit I discovered—safely at a distance, thankfully—that I must be by the lift, for the floor gave way in a sheer drop off. It was, I’m convinced, the place where the monster in Stranger Things lives.

I started to panic. It was so clearly the wrong place I was hesitant to wander around, but there was no one nearby to help me. I took out my phone—maybe I can send Daniel Hoy a desperate SOS? No reception. Increasing panic clouded my reasoning and for a moment I couldn’t even find the button to call the elevator back. I’ll be stuck here forever! I’ll die here! Someone will find my body in seven years when they’re looking for those old lights from that ’95 production of The Ghosts of Versailles!…

Read on here.

 


Comments (3)

  1. Theodore McGuiver says:

    Studied at the RCM. Can’t be bad.

  2. Old Man in the Midwest says:

    The Bowels of Despair?

    Sounds better than the Pit of Misery!

    Dilly Dilly

  3. Rich C. says:

    There was a murder at the Met sometime in the early ’80s. I believe the female vic was dragged to the roof.


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