Some Enchanted Evening

Last Friday, I went to see the Joffrey Ballet’s performance of Giselle. The Joffrey has been using the Auditorium Theatre on the Roosevelt University campus on the corner of Michigan and Congress Parkway of late, as they wait for their new concert house to be built. (It’s going to be on the corner of Washington and State, and if you come and visit me, I’ll be happy to show you). Auditorium Theatre is unique for several reasons, one of which is its profusion of box seats. Because of this surplus, I was able to sit in a box seat for the first time ever, and it was every bit as wonderful as I had imagined.
The performance was excellent. The characters of Giselle and Loys were by far the most outstanding in the entire company, and Loys’ entire body was so expressive during the beginning of the second act that I nearly cried. Few things make me realize the potential of beautiful physical prowess in the human body like the ballet (and football, too, though that’s on a different level altogether). From my seat in the box, I was able to marvel at the precise control that these dancers exercised over each quivering muscle. It was glorious.
After the ballet, I struck out along Michigan to head back to the train station. It had been raining all afternoon and evening, and luckily I had remembered to bring my umbrella with me when I left my apartment. The rain had slowed to a slow drizzle as I walked along, high on ballet and drinking in the sight of my favorite city. After a few blocks, I noticed that a handsome man in a well-cut suit was walking in the same direction as me along the sidewalk. He had no raincoat or umbrella, and was walking rather quickly, but our timing with the streetlights kept us more or less parallel. We had stopped for traffic when our eyes met, and after a few moments he asked me if I too had been to the ballet. We began to discuss Giselle, and I invited him to share my umbrella; he accepted with thanks, and we moved north together, he holding the umbrella (since he was the taller of the two of us) and I walking so close beside that our coat sleeves brushed against each other. Looking back on it, I can’t believe my daring. If you know anything about me, you know that I’m the last person one would expect to voluntarily speak to a strange man I meet at night on the streets of Chicago, but something about him put me at ease, and I found myself perfectly comfortable as we made our way down the street.
After the introductions, I asked the ever popular so-what-do-you-do-for-a-living question. Imagine my surprise and delight when he said that he was a financial manager for the Lyric Opera! The rest of our walk was devoted to nothing but opera. Apparently, he divided his work time between Chicago and another office in St. Louis, and he was in town for a long weekend to sit in on auditions for some of the operas coming next season (Porgy and Bess is being seriously considered). It was a magical moment – walking down Michigan Avenue, sharing an umbrella with a handsome stranger, and discussing the business side of opera.
He had just asked me about myself when we reached Millennium Station. Now, had I been thinking at all, I would have recognized that this was a serendipitous romantic moment, and that I should take advantage of it in some way. Unfortunately, I was so distracted by our conversation that I didn’t think of anything else; I made a polite and hasty farewell, and disappeared down the stairs into the station before I even remembered to ask for his name (which I had forgotten in all the excitement).
And now, a week later, here I sit – still kicking myself for being so blind. Why didn’t I just keep walking, or suggest a hot chocolate at Moonstruck, or at least ask for his name again before parting? I can’t believe how thick I can be at times.