February 1993. It was the fulfillment of a long-held dream: an evening at the legendary Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow. And we were late.

My colleague Kate and I were in Moscow on business for just a week, and we had managed, through our hotel concierge, to get tickets — at “foreigner prices” (which, of course, meant expensive) — for a weeknight performance of the Russian opera “Prince Igor.” I would have preferred a ballet, but what the hell . . . it was the Bolshoi! They could have performed a British Punch & Judy puppet show, for all I cared. I was going to the Bolshoi!

And so, dressed in our finest, we set out into the bitter cold, snowy February night with our intrepid Vitold as our driver . . . who, in his eagerness to get us to the theater on time, managed to get himself stopped by the GAI — the Moscow traffic police — for speeding. This was nothing new to Vitold; I believe most of the local traffic cops knew him by his first name. But of all nights!

When we finally arrived at the theater, the performance had already begun. And although our high-priced tickets were for seats in the orchestra section, we were not allowed to go to our assigned places as it would have been disruptive to the performers. So we were instructed to go “upstairs” until the first intermission.

Okay, I get it. Rules are rules, and this one didn’t seem unfair. So up we went . . . one flight, where we were told, “Again.” And another flight, where yet another attendant said, “Again.” And a third, a fourth, and an astonishing fifth, where — totally winded and becoming more than a little exasperated — we finally reached the “nosebleed” section and were allowed to find a couple of seats with a wonderful view of the crystal chandelier.

And there we were, without opera glasses (because who knew we’d need them?), packed into the cheap seats among the local opera lovers who couldn’t afford the lower tiers and were grateful to be there at all.

With their children.

In our Western evening dress, we stood out like a couple of . . . well . . . “rich” Americans among everyday Russians. But no one seemed to mind; they were immersed in the wondrous spectacle down below, and the soaring strains of Aleksandr Borodin’s music. Including the children.

And that, to me, was the best part of the evening. I could not imagine the average American youngster being dragged to an evening at the opera, much less appreciating it. Yet here were these boys and girls, ranging in age from perhaps eight to eighteen, thrilled to be at the Bolshoi, lapping up the culture . . . and with their parents, no less!

“Where had we Americans gone wrong with our children’s cultural education?” I wondered. And I still do.

When the first act ended, and we were able to take our seats in the orchestra section — after first mingling with the crowd and imbibing some champagne during the intermission, of course — I was almost disappointed. I missed seeing the rapt expressions on those beautiful Russian children’s faces.

Because those people — the ones in the cheap seats in nosebleed territory — they were the hoi polloi, the real Russians. And they still are . . . the ones who want — as we all do — to live in peace, to work at meaningful jobs, to have a little fun on their days off, and to raise their children in a world where they are free to hope and strive for an even better future for the next generation.

And that evening, I got to experience the best of both worlds: mingling with those good, ordinary, everyday Russian people, while seated at the pinnacle of Russian culture . . . the Bolshoi Theatre.

That night, at the Bolshoi, I was truly blessed.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
2/17/25