Thursday, September 5, 2019

The choreographer (I presume) leaps onto the stage from the theatre floor, joins hands with the dancer furthest to the right, and leads the troupe forward for another curtain call. Some members of the audience stand and cheer. Others feel immediately compelled to check their phones. The rest applaud. The applause syncs into a steady pulse, at two beats per second. The house lights come up. The clapping fades. The audience gradually rises and streams down the steps, through the lobby, and out to the open square. A man on a stone bench by the exit plays classical guitar. To his left, another man with a multi-colored hat spins to the music, his tzitzit spreading out like woolen spokes from beneath his shirt. The guitarist glances at him in annoyance, but smiles and nods as people drop coins in the open case at his feet. I follow the crowd east along the cobblestones, past the artists' galleries, now closed for the night, and the crowded high-end gelato shops, returning to the city's too-bright asphalt streets to catch a late bus home.