Playing Dress-Up

My cousin and his wife visited New York City this past weekend. My family and I just saw them during our business trip...I mean, um, family visit...to Florida in early March. Not much time to let the heart grow fonder, but it was still exciting.

It was J's first trip to "La Grande Pomme," as I like to think the French call the Big Apple, and she had asked us what she and my cousin D should wear to see a Broadway musical. I looked at her jeans, t-shirts and flipflops and said, "Well, it's cold in New York, so you might want to put on sneakers." And that's the state of Thee-ay-tuh today – you don't dress to the nines unless you're attending a special event.

This instantly catapulted me back in time 10 years (ahem, 12 years), to junior year of college, when I was studying in France and planning my winter break excursion with my roommate, Sarah. We planned to take a two-week trek through Europe, with the halfway mark falling on Christmas in Vienna. And what does Christmas in Vienna mean? Vienna Boys’ Choir, and world-renowned opera.

Here is what I knew about Opera: it was spectacular, it was slightly boring, and, if Pretty Woman was any indicator, one was obliged to wear a gown.

Backpacking through Europe does not lend itself to packing a gown. Or more than two pairs of pants. So I settled – to the amusement of my friends – and stuffed a spring dress into my bag, insisting I would wear it to the opera. Let’s just say there were doubts.

Our first opera was in Budapest. Not my finest experience. I was sick, and the songs were in Italian. There was a digital sign above the stage that translated the words...into Czech. Watching the lyrics be translated from one language you don't know into another language you don't know, while suppressing a hacking cough and popping unidentifiable pills that a German pharmacist (or someone you hoped to god was a pharmacist) had promised you in broken English was "for the nose concern," is not particularly conducive to enjoying opera.

Christmas Eve in Vienna arrived.

It was winter. It was much too chilly for my dress. I hadn’t brought heels, stockings or a nice jacket. Or makeup or jewelry, for that matter. But I was determined to bring this vision to life. So I stepped into my green corduroy pants, threw on a long-sleeved cotton shirt and tied my French sneakers (which are similar to American sneakers, but purchased in France). And last, but not least, I shimmied into my "gown."

I remember Sarah doing a double take when I emerged from the bathroom in The Christmas Outfit.

This is my artistic rendering of what I wore to see Don Giovanni:

I looked ridiculous.

But you know what? I felt GREAT!

Sarah and I entered the magnificent Vienna State Opera and ascended the carpeted staircase. I looked down on a crowd of people wearing tuxedos and gowns. And I knew that I fit right in.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And corduroy pants or no corduroy pants, Julia Roberts had nothing on me that night.