Recently, I had an isolated but attitude-changing encounter
with a man I’d never seen before and never will see again. I was visiting Charleston for the Spoleto USA Festival, and he—having just
been seated at the next table at the restaurant where I’d stopped for lunch
before my afternoon concert (my first at the festival)—was glancing at his menu. When my BLT (the tomatoes,
fried green) was delivered, I said something like, “Oh, wow,” to the waitperson
as he set my plate down in front me. It was the most impressive sandwich I’d
seen in a long time.
“That sure looks delicious, ma’am. May I ask what it is?”
the man asked me, the way we all might do when we’re trying to decide what to
order from a varied menu. His lunch companion arrived just then. They began
to converse, and I began to eat.
I couldn’t help but overhear snippets
of their conversation as I ate. When the waiter took their order, his companion
ordered breakfast. The man who had been chatting with me ordered only coffee.
As their conversation continued, it became clear these men knew each other only
slightly (through connection with a distant cousin who’d recently died), and
the breakfast-eater had fallen on hard times. The host for the meal was the man
I’d talked to.
My 1:00 o’clock concert was coming
up, and I was getting full. I looked at the huge half-sandwich remaining and the mounds
of fries I couldn’t possibly eat and was inspired to ask a question I’ve never
asked of any stranger before. His answer was affirmative.
“Why ma’am, since you asked . . . I don’t want to be rude .
. . why, yes, I would love to have it.” By the time the waitperson brought it to him
in a box, we’d struck up a real conversation.
“What brings you to Charleston?”
“The festival.”
“Oh, ma’am, you have a treat in store! Will you hear “Paradise
Interrupted” [a new opera by Huang Ruo commissioned by the festival]?
“No, I’m too late for it—I just got here last night, and its
last performance was yesterday.”
“I got to hear it rehearsing and it was wonderful!”
He went on to explain . . . and this accounts for my knowing
anything about him, “I’m the sexton the church where they rehearse and I’ve
never heard anything like that music in my life. And. . . in Mandarin! It was so beautiful, and I met the man who sang high, like
a lady.”
“Yes, he’d be what’s known as a countertenor. There are only
a handful of men in the world who sing those operatic roles.”
“I had never heard such a perfect voice before. That opera
was beautiful. And the other one, too . . . in Italian ["Veremonda, L'Amazzone di Arogona"]. I’ll never forget it.”
His comment almost made me cry. I thought of how many people
go through life without ever having a chance to experience the arts at their
most sublime—and how salvific that experience can be. We continued to talk—the
Seahawks, the people of Charleston, the tourists to come for the festival—and I
don’t think I’ve ever heard, “Bless you, ma’am, thank you, bless you,” so many
times—over and over from both gentlemen.
As I left the restaurant I realized the tide in my heart had
turned. When I was first seated in the restaurant and handed a menu, I was
wondering why I thought I this week in Charleston had been a good idea. . . why
I thought traveling on a weeklong vacation-trip by myself was doable this soon
into my widowhood. I was feeling mightily sorry for myself. I’d been walking
through the city to get my bearings, locating venues for
the many performances I had tickets for. I was hot and tired and lonely.
Then “the incident.” That little conversation took me out of
myself and put me into another’s shoes—just for a couple of minutes. But that’s
what happened, and no longer was I feeling down. I was feeling extraordinarily happy,
thinking about the extraordinary ability of the arts to touch us all because of
that serendipitous sharing of food and conversation.
As I settled into the Dock Street Theatre, about to hear the
program of chamber music played by the gifted musicians at Spoleto USA, I had no inkling as to how rapturous the next hour-plus
was going to be. But I was ready for it. I’d stopped thinking about myself and
my heart was open.
Amen.
1 comment:
This was a beautiful experience, the joy of knowing a stranger for even a few minutes. Good for you for going on your own!!! Bravo!!!
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