A night at the opera

Jack's maniacal Italian electric typwriter (Benito) had struck again (for full story see book) so we were off to Glascow to strangle the repair guys. It actually turned out to be a great trip. The weather was beautiful down through wild Rannoch Moor and Glen Coe. The pipers are playing laments in memory of the the MacDonalds who, if they hadn't been slaughtered in their beds, were forced to hide in those cold, bleak mountains to escape from their murderous B&B guests.

The typewriter guys gave us a manual machine - abandoning all hope for electric model repair. Oh well - at least the manual didn't have its own agenda and only wrote what it was told, unlike the Olivetti which I guess had decided to exert its own literary criticism.

As long as we were in town we stayed over night for an excellent dinner and the Scottish National Opera production of Tosca at the ornate Edwardian-style opera house. We were able to get good seats and the singing, costumes and scenery were special enough to make it a memorable night out. Not as memorable, however, as the night we saw a production of the same opera staged years later by the Minnesota Opera Company in St. Paul. That night, at the end of a spectacularly fine performance in the title role, Tosca jumped from the parapet and the opera came to its inevitable tragic end. The audience, Jack and I included, jumped to its feet errupting into wild applause - waiting to give the well deserved curtain call ovations. But the curtain stayed stubbornly closed - the applause fading uncertainly - until we all left the theater in utter confusion. We found later that the soprano had missed the mattress behind the parapet which was to break her fall, and hit the hard floor breaking several ribs and other bones. Now that was a memorable performance!!