People were kind to me

Sunday afternoon we buzzed up to the City for a little cultural enhancement. Friends of ours had given us tickets for a children's performance of the SF Symphony. Somewhat skeptical that my son could sit still for any of it, yet also somewhat hopeful that he might benefit from seeing an orchestra live, as he seems to like classical music, we made our way up the peninsula, into a parking spot, and into Davies Hall. Our tickets were for Tier 2, which we discovered after a time is about 30 stories high. Travelling, as I was, with the fit and the active, we took the stairs. I sneered momentarily at the people packed into the elevators, for two floors! Slackers.

Somewhere around the 23rd story, I started to flag. Have you ever been to Vancouver? And done the Grouse Grind? Well it was something like that, including the rush of mortification to the head as the younger and stronger run by you, you who are dragging your breathless self up, and up, and up while the blood flow to your legs shuts down. Finally I made it to the top with most of my dignity intact. We were now a little late and had to rush, but we got there. We were in section JJ, the furthest away from the top of the stairs. Of course!

In Davies Hall, the balcony seats are clustered into half clam shell pods, each with about 20 seats. The vertical rise inside each pod is about 89 degrees. Our seats were at the front of the pod, with a dainty wee railing to keep us pitching over the edge. Once we were seated, I began to admire the view. Why, the great thing about being up at cloud level is that you get such a wonderful view of the orchestra. And look! There are the other pods on the other side of the building, and oh my god we are just hanging off the walls! No visible means of support at all! And there we were, just a few days shy of the '06 Great Earthquake of San Francisco!

And then the altitude sickness set in. Just like that poor guy in Vertigo, I could see myself hanging from a bell tower, the world below spinning, spinning. After some time of being aware of my heart beat accelerating and feeling a fever coming on, I relocated a few seats back. Higher up, yes, but further away from the edge. Where I now had a great sight line on my son leaping up on the second to bounce a bit and peer over the railing. What if he fell? Could someone catch him? Would he land on someone's head and kill them? Soon he was up again and coming toward me. He was hungry! Oh Joy! We headed out toward the makeshift snackbar located near the stairs, the stairs that could lead me downward, down to the ground. I looked longingly at them as we rushed by. On the way I tried not to look out the windows, so many of them, so generously giving us a view of the Civic Center so far below. We had a cookie and water and then I told him, "I can't stay here. I feel terrible. I'm going to have to go." Back we went to tell my husband. I perched on the stairs of the pod while my son delivered the news.

Outside of the pod, we huddled trying to decide what to do next. Finally, an usher came by and asked me if there was a problem with our seats. "Well, I've got terrible vertigo," I told him, "So yes, there is something wrong the seats." I explained the free tickets, the not realizing how high they would be, the dizziness. He looked sympathetic and disappeared. Suddenly it was intermission and there were people everywhere. The usher came back and told me if I talked to Steve, the head usher, they could maybe, maybe arrange for new seats for us. We continued to huddle, my husband bemused, my son bouncing, me dizzy. I could see a different usher now talking to Steve and waving back in our direction. I was happy I was wearing electric pink and so helpfully visible. I wandered over to see what was what, avoiding again the windows, and it appeared things were in the works. While we waited, I told Steve my story. At first aloof, he then confessed that it was a steep drop and could be alarming. He suggested something on the ground might be better. "Yes, the ground," I agreed, "the ground would be good."

Things went on. We met with more ushers. I forced my husband, British, demure, horrified at being an inconvenience, to deal with them. They found us seats on the ground. In an empty box, which was a ground-level pod with four chairs. And our own coat hooks. Very chi-chi.

The music was odd and my husband was unimpressed. My son continued to bounce, but lasted until the end of the show. I was in heaven, safely seated on the solid safe earth. Play on! Afterward we went and explored the playground by the City Hall. I understood a Hispanic mother ordering a child to keep his sweater on, and was proud of my linguistic skills. I was euphoric that everyone had been so kind to us. No usher sneered. All ushers compassionately obliged us with new seats. How nice! And I was alive! Then we headed home to tea, somewhat enriched and a little wiser. Next time I'm checking the tickets first to see exactly where our seats are. Or at least I'm taking the elevator to get there.

Comments

[Jo]

Hateful awful feeling! Glad you are still alive.