Men say about women that they have a bad sense of direction. I dare to disagree this time. Where there is nothing, it can't be bad. Women generally have no sense of direction. I am a shining example of this. I arrived in Leipzig with a slight delay because the fact that the large blue sign Teplice, advertised at several Prague intersections, does not lead drivers to the highways but it only timidly suggests the approximate direction of a nature trail across the Czech lands, ending probably in one of the cosy pubs of the Teplice area, is beyond my comprehension. (That misty morning, perhaps even the questionable businesses on the border stretch of the E55, where the audience can enjoy an impressionist scene straight out of a Monet painting, looked cosy. To reach perfection, the freezing girls in creative clothes were missing an umbrella of the colour of old rose.)
So I came straight to the tense atmosphere of the beginning of a new opera production. Everyone present looked as if the accession of Uganda to the European Union had just been approved in a vote. (They were probably fully aware of the serious mission of their profession, after all, the name "classical" music asks for it). The costume designer was just explaining why it is essential to have the buttons on a silk dress buttoned up to the neck (it will probably be a little harder to sing but he believes that we will manage eventually), the stage designer presented models of his ideas (a set of inclined surfaces, on which the silk cloth will be particularly slippery, but seasoned performers at our level will surely deal with it somehow). The conductor was silent, promoting musical opinions in the current conception of the opera is an at least courageous step, he just whistled a few times in admiration at the historical "joke" which was added at the end by the director to lighten the tense atmosphere. Singers shook hands and ensured each other that they can no longer wait for the upcoming six weeks of cooperation.
Knowing the proverbial German precision, I hurried to a meeting with the owner of my rented flat. Maybe she also could not find the way? My wait was sweetened by Vysotsky's songs performed by a street singer and sausages with mustard. I was freezing outside like crazy and the view of the ugly, empty city in January, the smokestacks and cranes brought back sentimental memories of my childhood spent in the times of socialism.