Last Tuesday, I ran back to my apartment to get dressed for the opera after moving my car. I threw on the dress I neglected to dry clean, hoping it didn’t smell like smoke from the last time I wore it. In the bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror, applying the little makeup I had learned to use recently.

My phone rang and I yelled into it, “I am not going to dive into your car yet!” I heard a voice laugh and he said that he wasn’t even at my apartment yet, just had exited the freeway. I got my shawl and struggled to get my stiletto heels on. Did the straps go behind or in the front? About 15 minutes later, I finally emerged (after one more phone call where I insisted that I still wasn’t going to dive into the car while it was moving).

At the opera house, we found parking near the city hall. I commented that I had never seen it and he took me inside. Crossing the street, a young woman holding political signs whistled and said loudly, “Go sexy voters!”

I smiled. We walked through city hall, admiring the staircase where the San Francisco mayor had granted same-sex marriages. The area where people work daily for the city. It was beautiful–a place where decisions were made for this great city in great architecture.

Inside the opera house, we found that we had missed more than half of the lecture and shuffled to a seat near the front. When the lecture was over, we pretended that we didn’t know where our seats were. Unfortunately, an usher asked us where our seats where when someone asked why we were setting in row 8, seat d and f. As a result, we meandered out of the bottom floor nonchalantly and finally climbed to our seats. He had bought the tickets from an ad that said these were great seats but we were on the top tier–nosebleed section.

The music started–familiar notes I recalled. Sopranos, baritones…all harmonious. The set twisted and turned. Unique house and props. Modern adaptation almost, but not quite.

During intermission, we wandered up and down the opera house. At one point, he pointed out the box seats. The Z box is empty, he observed with a twinkle in his eye. I nodded and we walked into the box as it was ours all along. The people around us were dressed well, with an air of superiority. They seem to know each other. Inside the box at the balcony, we practiced being a non-english speaking couple–speaking English with a bad Chinese accent, laughing as we did so. We had a great view and we leaned back to enjoy the rest of the opera.

Afterwards (after tearing my dress a bit with my stilettos) we walked out…it was nice. The sky had turned misty and he had grabbed a stack of the opera programs, trying to hold it over my head. I laughed and said that I didn’t care about my hair. We walked around the block and I checked my phone realizing that I had missed a call. He suddenly realized that he didn’t have his cellphone. And we walked back to the opera house.

Instant backstage tour as a security guy let us in to search for his missing cellphone. I took off my shoes, hurting my feet. We touched the plush kangaroo and stared at the set, hoping that one of the opera singers would come out. But where was that missing cellphone?

The security guy didn’t seem as starstruck as we were. We walked through the empty opera house, coming up with stories why we were on the first floor, top tier and the box seats. No luck, but we were directed to contact back the following day.

He drove me home and unluckily, I left my phone in his car. A smattering of bad luck and an adventure to remember.