The National Theater
Two nights ago we heard Handel’s Messiah at Teatro Nacional. We knew the conductor from Church and because she sends me the U.S. Embassy employee newsletter every couple weeks, which advertises various events, moving sales, and the like. A good, smart, energetic lady, and an accomplished conductor besides. I was thrilled at the chance to see the National Theater since I had heard the architecture was impressive. And simply being able to hear something “cultural” if not spiritual in the heart of Guatemala City, Zona 1, made me ripe with anticipation.
As we should have known, just getting to the theater itself proved adventurous. Zona 1 is known for its over population, gang violence, and theft. I had been there once to sign the lease for our new house with an attorney’s whose office was in various states of desuetude. I had brought my neighbor Tony with me because foreigners need a “sponsor” to sign any kind of binding paperwork down here, and as we’re coming out, two blokes are sitting on a dirty curb in front of the alley we need to walk down to get to my car. About this moment, Tony decides to tell me the story of how his wife threatened to send a hit man after him once. Tony, whose hip gets worse by the day, is cradling my right arm like a bride, like a girlfriend, leaning heavily on me even for a small man. He stops just shy of the curb and turns to me, looks me in the eye, and says, “It’s very easy to have somebody killed here, Daniel.”
To get directions from any Guatemalteco is an exercise in bewilderment. You never get the same story. Never. And since nobody pays attention to street names, nor which way is north or south, etc., you risk a great deal going on anyone’s word. Directions from Guatemalans are as good as, say, a mediocre land mark that you have to strain to see at night. Kristin brought her cartoon city map, which has saved us numerous times. She’s a genius with that map, and with her impeccable memory and deer hunter’s sense of direction, I usually feel safe as a kitten.
But, alas, we got lost in no time. The only advice we had gotten about visiting Zona 1 was not to meander off the main the roads. Within minutes, I was on a narrow side street squeezing the Vovlo between ghetto rides and surly looking townsfolk.
I think it’s even more frustrating to see the place you need to get to (the theater was in plain view above the blackened and filthy building fronts) and not be able to get there, than to be lost outright. We could see it. We could circle it. But with all the one-way streets, all the people, the buses, we could not seem to get close. Of course we eventually found it, but not without our hearts getting a little rattled in the process.
The National Theater (also called the Miguel Angel Asturias Theater) is said to look like a jaguar from the outside, with the buildings to its front and back representing volcanoes, but I thought it looked more like a mishapen cruise ship. The line to get in with tickets in hand snaked a couple hundred meters around the outer pools and fountains. We waited nearly an hour, which put us well past the designated starting time (which we knew meant very little) before we actually got inside the ship. The lobby was impressive for two reasons. First, the ceiling had these amazing lights in the shape of jacks, hundreds of them, hung in assorted shapes, just glistening there above us. Second, there were about six U.S. Marines in full dress uniform serving coffee and punch. Marines, as you probably know, have the most impressive military uniforms on the planet. I had to do a double-take. It’s not often you see such proud and stately figures in such humble service. Everywhere you go you see guards armed with sawed-off shotguns in bad security uniforms, in front of nearly every store, and yet here, at the National Theater, we see the real deal, the best of the best, serving…punch. Weird.
Stepping into the theater was like entering the set of a bad 1970s science fiction B movie. The balconies had a “modern” angular design with what looked like gold and bronze colored wallpaper covering them. At either end of the stage were wood-paneled semi-circular towers that clashed with the bronze and gold wallpaper. The seating was like that of a movie theater. The ceiling rolled like a characatured ocean wave and look smoke-stained. The small, circular lights on the side walls were arranged in no particular order, and about 1/3 of them were burned out. The acoustics sucked.
The orchestra was small and young and handsome, as were the tenor, bass, and alto. The choral group was massive, the women dressed in black with red scarves, the men in black suits, at least a hundred singers in all, maybe more. They were great, and it was wonderful to hear live music again. I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed choirs, particularily at Christmas time.
I felt a little bad leaving at the intermission, but to be honest, we could barely keep our eyes open. As much as I would like that masterpiece, any masterpiece, to move me, to change me in some way, to draw me closer to God somehow (why not, it is after all the greatest telling of the Gospel every conceived), and for all my desire to be of the “cultured” crowd, I stumbled out of the theater with my wife laughing at what an embarrassment I thought the architecture to be, and wanting a frappuccino badly. We were tired from another day, and a little giddy. We drove home, flipped on the TV, and I drank a beer. So much for culture. Frankly, I am ashamed of myself.
As we should have known, just getting to the theater itself proved adventurous. Zona 1 is known for its over population, gang violence, and theft. I had been there once to sign the lease for our new house with an attorney’s whose office was in various states of desuetude. I had brought my neighbor Tony with me because foreigners need a “sponsor” to sign any kind of binding paperwork down here, and as we’re coming out, two blokes are sitting on a dirty curb in front of the alley we need to walk down to get to my car. About this moment, Tony decides to tell me the story of how his wife threatened to send a hit man after him once. Tony, whose hip gets worse by the day, is cradling my right arm like a bride, like a girlfriend, leaning heavily on me even for a small man. He stops just shy of the curb and turns to me, looks me in the eye, and says, “It’s very easy to have somebody killed here, Daniel.”
To get directions from any Guatemalteco is an exercise in bewilderment. You never get the same story. Never. And since nobody pays attention to street names, nor which way is north or south, etc., you risk a great deal going on anyone’s word. Directions from Guatemalans are as good as, say, a mediocre land mark that you have to strain to see at night. Kristin brought her cartoon city map, which has saved us numerous times. She’s a genius with that map, and with her impeccable memory and deer hunter’s sense of direction, I usually feel safe as a kitten.
But, alas, we got lost in no time. The only advice we had gotten about visiting Zona 1 was not to meander off the main the roads. Within minutes, I was on a narrow side street squeezing the Vovlo between ghetto rides and surly looking townsfolk.
I think it’s even more frustrating to see the place you need to get to (the theater was in plain view above the blackened and filthy building fronts) and not be able to get there, than to be lost outright. We could see it. We could circle it. But with all the one-way streets, all the people, the buses, we could not seem to get close. Of course we eventually found it, but not without our hearts getting a little rattled in the process.
The National Theater (also called the Miguel Angel Asturias Theater) is said to look like a jaguar from the outside, with the buildings to its front and back representing volcanoes, but I thought it looked more like a mishapen cruise ship. The line to get in with tickets in hand snaked a couple hundred meters around the outer pools and fountains. We waited nearly an hour, which put us well past the designated starting time (which we knew meant very little) before we actually got inside the ship. The lobby was impressive for two reasons. First, the ceiling had these amazing lights in the shape of jacks, hundreds of them, hung in assorted shapes, just glistening there above us. Second, there were about six U.S. Marines in full dress uniform serving coffee and punch. Marines, as you probably know, have the most impressive military uniforms on the planet. I had to do a double-take. It’s not often you see such proud and stately figures in such humble service. Everywhere you go you see guards armed with sawed-off shotguns in bad security uniforms, in front of nearly every store, and yet here, at the National Theater, we see the real deal, the best of the best, serving…punch. Weird.
Stepping into the theater was like entering the set of a bad 1970s science fiction B movie. The balconies had a “modern” angular design with what looked like gold and bronze colored wallpaper covering them. At either end of the stage were wood-paneled semi-circular towers that clashed with the bronze and gold wallpaper. The seating was like that of a movie theater. The ceiling rolled like a characatured ocean wave and look smoke-stained. The small, circular lights on the side walls were arranged in no particular order, and about 1/3 of them were burned out. The acoustics sucked.
The orchestra was small and young and handsome, as were the tenor, bass, and alto. The choral group was massive, the women dressed in black with red scarves, the men in black suits, at least a hundred singers in all, maybe more. They were great, and it was wonderful to hear live music again. I didn’t realize how much I enjoyed choirs, particularily at Christmas time.
I felt a little bad leaving at the intermission, but to be honest, we could barely keep our eyes open. As much as I would like that masterpiece, any masterpiece, to move me, to change me in some way, to draw me closer to God somehow (why not, it is after all the greatest telling of the Gospel every conceived), and for all my desire to be of the “cultured” crowd, I stumbled out of the theater with my wife laughing at what an embarrassment I thought the architecture to be, and wanting a frappuccino badly. We were tired from another day, and a little giddy. We drove home, flipped on the TV, and I drank a beer. So much for culture. Frankly, I am ashamed of myself.
posted by Daniel Todd at 3:40 PM
1 Comments:
I did NOT ask the Marines for a drink, though I did come close to asking them to escort us to our car.
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