I attended the LA Opera matinee production of La Boheme yesterday in my Gordon tartan with Argyle jacket, waistcoat, day sporran, gillies and flashes. I took along a good friend who had never been to the opera, and we had a wonderful time. She especially enjoyed the smiles, whispers, nods of approval, and the snickering that went on, not only regarding my kilt outfit but about our age difference as well, she being about 12 years my senior. (The joke being that I must have looked like her kept "boy toy"). The first and second acts were very emotional for me because La Boheme was my late wife's favorite opera, so I watched with a huge lump in my throat and tears in my eyes for much of it. At intermission we decided to go to the lobby of the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion and have a glass of wine and reflect on my friend's first opera. We were standing in line chatting and two women in front of us, one slightly younger than the other, were whispering and turning around to sneak looks at us. They seemed very nervous, but too curious not to say something. The older woman turned to us and this is how it went:
Woman: "I love your costu.........I mean outfit"
Me: "Why, thank you, thank you very much"
Woman: "What's your plaid.......I mean clan?"
Me: "This is the Gordon tartan, but I'm not a member of the clan, I'm actually Italian"
Woman: "You mean you're a fake?"
Me: "Well.....you don't have to be a real cowboy to wear Western clothes, do you?"
Woman: "If you want to be a phoney, I guess"
Me: "To me, this is just another male garment and it's fun to wear to the opera"
At this point, she turns to her friend and says, "Let's wear something "funny" next time".
Me: "I hardly consider this "funny" madam"
(My emotions were on the edge and my Italian blood was boiling right then)
Woman: "Oh, no, I didn't mean that.........you look very nice"
She then turned away and the chimes rang to call us back to the theater. We gave up on the wine and returned to our seats. My friend and I were incredulous......that a compliment could so quickly turn into an insult because I said I wasn't a Scot. The last two acts, especially the death scene were too much for me to bear so I quickly forgot the ignorant woman in the lobby. I should mention that my late wife was very petite, but she had the heart of a lioness, and would have ripped that woman's gizzard out for saying those things to me!
That evening, my friend's husband joined us for prime rib at a desert English pub, and when we walked in, you would think that Price Charles himself had entered the restaurant. All eyes were on me and there were more smiles and nods of approval than Toby mugs on the mantle. One woman commented, "A man in a kilt.......how nice". Yes, how nice indeed.
Happy St. Andrews my friends!
RB