Legends, All
by Amy Boyes
“That’s Barbara Walters.” An elderly lady pointed over the railing of the fifth-floor balcony of the Lincoln Center, past Sputnik chandeliers so dated as to be cutting edge, towards the diners in the Grand Tier lobby. Like exhibitions at a museum, well-heeled patrons of the Metropolitan Opera feasted from sparkling china, while the rest of us peered from various balconies, the social order inverted from top to bottom.
It was 2012, and I was visiting New York City for a conference. Mostly skipping the trade show and lectures, I explored the city instead. From the top of the Rockefeller Building, I peered down the coruscating corridors of skyscrapers. I inhaled the piquant perfume of unseasonably early magnolias in Central Park. I luxuriated in exceptional service in old Italian restaurants, where grown men treated table waiting as a calling, an artform of the highest order.
I was fascinated by everyone, from the bored lotto ticket teller under the subway stairs to the jay-walking executive who whacked my taxi with her briefcase and yelled at the driver for rolling forward on a green light. I ate my bacon and eggs at the counter as the Puerto Rican cook complained that her daughter paid three grand for a dump— “Just to live in Manhattan!” I watched a fashion photographer capture a shivering model in moss-green silk under the Bethesda Terrace. I giggled at the influencers filming themselves in the Lego store.
“You’re right,” the lady’s companion agreed. “There! In gold sequins, with her back nearly to us.”
“She looks well. Must be 80.”
“No!”
“Oh, I think so. She wrote for the Today Show in the ’60s and then starred in the ‘70s.”
“I suppose. If we’re 80, she must be too.”
The two women were sensibly dressed. Anna Netrebko was singing Manon, but they hadn’t let it go to their heads. Their draping opera jackets were suitable for the cool, spring weather without being so heavy as to require a coat check. Their flat shoes were sturdy for walking. Blush brightened their pale cheeks. Pearls dotted their ears. Their white hair looked freshly coiffed, with brush rollers and a drop of blue in the dye. One wore a wool tam with a fierce hat pin through it.
“Excuse me,” I said, hoping they’d be up for a chat. “Is that Barbara Walters down there?”
“Oh yes,” one said. “Celebrities often come to premieres. Tonight’s sponsor is Yves Saint Laurent, so there’s quite a gang tonight—Amber Heard. January Jones. Even Salman Rushdie.”
“The great and the good,” I said, squinting into the crowd below. I only spotted Barbara Walters, her distinctive jawline setting her apart from the other grand dames at her table.
When I booked my opera ticket, I hadn’t noticed that the performance was a premiere, sponsored or other, and even if I had, I wouldn’t have expected the splendour around me. At the National Arts Centre where I lived in Ottawa, celebrity spotting is an unlikely pastime. Even if the Governor General or some other dignitary has an insatiable desire to hear a little Massenet, they’d be chauffeured to a side door and sequestered to a private box. There would be no dining in full view of the season pass holders, no spectatorial opportunities for gawkers in the balconies.
“You attend the opera often then?” I asked.
The two women squinted at each other, pursing their lips. “For years. Decades really, even before our husbands passed. Season tickets for the balconies are reasonably priced. It’s a hike to get up here, but the sound is just as good. Netrebko carries well.”
“And the length? Manon is five acts,” I sputtered. “I’ll never stay awake until midnight!”
The women smiled indulgently. “We so enjoy the music. And the subway is just across the Plaza, so it’s not difficult. Forty-five minutes and we’re home.”
My mouth fell open. These women were octogenarians, but they had budgeted for a season’s pass, trotted up five flights of stairs, and would take the subway home in the wee small hours. I couldn’t believe their commitment. Was the subway safe so late at night? Were their children not worried?
They guessed my thoughts.
“Some people might think we’re crazy, but this is New York!” one of them said proudly. “It’s not just the great and the good who enjoy the arts. We all do. And spotting celebrities is just a perk.”
Just then the lobby bell rang, and the women hurried off, fetching programs to read in the shadows of the rafters. I watched them go then cast a final glance over the railing. Barbara Walters was sauntering through the lobby, the crowd clearing before her. Resplendent in a floor-length evening gown and towering shoes, she held a sequined bag in one hand and a tuxedoed arm of Sir Howard Stringer in the other.
I admired, but I didn’t rush down for an autograph. I had already met two legends that evening.
BIO: Amy Boyes is a writer and music teacher from Warman, Saskatchewan. Her writing explores music, family, teaching, and the places they intersect. Her first book Micro Miracle was published by Signature Editions in 2019, and Yes, Miss Thompson by Now or Never Publishing in 2023.