Sugar-Plum Specter

Experiences that spawn ideas and inspire a lifetime are what make memories profound. For me, one of these experiences would be the first time I went to see the Nutcracker Ballet, at the San Francisco Opera House. At a rather young age, this particular experience commenced a family tradition, as well as my appreciation for theater and ballet. Striking events such as those, that nourish a childhood imagination, must be vividly remembered.
In the lobby of the opera house, the frigid breath of winter dissipates and is swiftly basked in the golden light of jeweled chandeliers. Looming, like ancient gods, they scrutinize with illuminate eyes while hanging from the infinite altitude of a lavish ceiling. Expensive fabric draperies, ornate coffers, and intricate carvings exude an unearthly vibe, as if crafted by the deities themselves. The atmosphere is thick with culture and the faint scent of vanilla wafts about my delicate nostrils. At each end of the room, gargantuan spiral staircases are positioned, accenting into the upper level of the lobby where the bathrooms dwell. The lustrous white marble railings seem to curve off into the heavens. We are belittled in this presence, vulnerable beneath the structured “sky” and ever-reaching walls.
Amidst the hallowed tranquility, the melodic work of Beethoven plays, notes floating and dancing amongst the air. As this soothing tune sways to the back of my mind, another presence comes into existence and such incessant chatter drones on like the call of a desperate cicada in summertime. Hearty laughter bellows from the chests of tall men, with the faint smell of tobacco lingering on their shirts. The sharp clicking on the gleaming tile floors of Stiletto high-heels pierce my ears as a young woman, heavily saturated in perfume, slinks past me.
I tighten the moist grip on my grandmother’s hand and she exudes the plush scent of Shalimar as she stands confidently. The dark wool coats of elderly couples heavily sway and stir the wind with every slight movement, occasionally brushing my arm. Strangers tower over me from all directions in this crowded room. So dense, it’s as if I can hear their thoughts; so close, I swear I can taste their individual aromas.
In the midst of this civilized chaos, grand mahogany doors open to reveal an unfamiliar room in which we are herded into like aristocratic cattle. The monumental theater is packed with rows upon rows of never-ending seats, arranged with a weak understanding of personal space. The intimidating curved balcony shadows our seats and the curious box seats, adorned with phantasmal carvings and exquisite draperies, call to me. Brilliant sculptures of Hellenistic figures cling to the walls dramatically, as I habitually stroke my fingers against the sleek wood and brocaded fabric of the chair i am sitting in. Various conversations are to be heard and the continuous tweaking of unorganized notes, a product of the practicing orchestra, act as an omen of the performance to come.
At the cue of an abrupt silence, total darkness covers and hushes the crowd. My breath scurries back into my lungs and I can sense my pupils widening. From the obscurity, a seemingly holy light flows across the barren stage as thick golden ropes, reeled back by some imaginary specter, draw away the luxurious red-velvet curtains. Gloriously painted scenery and landscapes slide onto the stage, transforming what was once empty into an enchanted world. A sweet melody, reminiscent of a nightingale’s song, rings out to us, painting an alternate reality of springtime and of light. This symphonious spell lures out several ballerinas with synchronized elegance and unbridled beauty.
The slender women dance as powerful muses, gliding across the stage like swans, their dainty and twittering footsteps echoing only in the mind. Their delicate legs are gingerly laced with silky ribbons that stem from the heels of stout, pastel ballet slippers. Each striking individual emanates divinity as their costumed garments stream and flow like the sacred arms of a willow tree. Stories are left to interpretation, applauding booms out, still such grace and beauty stands timeless as all eyes stare with awe. Such art continues, and the pure and poetic movement of their ethereal bodies lulls me into lucid dreams of sugar plum fairies and far away lands; of heroic princes, disheveled rodents and of an innocently unfathomable inspiration. At the subtle conclusion of a scene, all senses fade away.