Heaven and Earth in the Opera House

People often say, "Aspire to greater heights." Yet, ironically, in the opera house, the opposite holds true. Here, the successful ones are on the lower levels, considered heaven, while the peak seats represent the mortal realm. To create such a stark contrast, the theater must be grand. The Metropolitan Opera House, with its six levels of seating accommodating nearly four thousand spectators, forms a vast social kaleidoscope. For ordinary people to get close to art, they must climb the proverbial ladder, while the upper echelons have it within easy reach.

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Orchestra Seats

My usual spot is in the orchestra seats, not because I am wealthy, but thanks to the Met's student discount policies that let us purchase these tickets for under $40. Sometimes, a rush ticket goes for as little as $25.

The orchestra section is the most dazzling showcase. The theater's interior glitters with gold and velvet red, complemented by radiant crystal chandeliers. From here, the surroundings are awash in glittering opulence. You'll encounter elderly white men in logo-free bespoke suits and ladies in various luxurious furs during winter, their shiny jewelry sparkling against the soft fur. The middle-aged successful individuals usually arrive in pairs, dressed in business casual, sporting a subtle Rolex Submariner with just a glimpse of the cuff, accompanied by a tall, sensuous partner dressed in a body-hugging dress and stilettos, their makeup impeccable and hair meticulously styled. This setup, which would typically dominate any scene, here only garners polite nods and smiles during intermissions, as they lightly applaud the jokes and bravado of their peers. After all, you can't wear luxury watches on both wrists, so one hand sports a Rolex while the other carries another symbol of status.

This place is vogue, a field of fame and fortune, the house of cards, bustling New York, a bastion of capitalism. Here, old money and nouveau riche mingle, curious tourists, dream-filled music students, newcomers eager to peek at the so-called high society's refined arts, and die-hard fans of this art form. Sometimes, the opera house feels like Starbucks—beyond watching performances, it serves as a third space. Some come for socializing, others to check in, and some to dream.

I've been here in all sorts of attire, from cocktail dresses that earn plenty of exchanged glances and greetings to jeans and hoodies that render me a ghost, barely noticed as I move through the crowd. But it's in jeans that I feel most grounded. After dinner, I ride my bike straight from the Upper West Side, arriving just in time for the show. During intermission, I often chat with acquaintances about our thoughts on the performance, then bike home, the wind from Central Park refreshing as I replay the opera's melodies. This is my favorite way to enjoy a show solo.

Before the opera starts, the orchestra seats buzz with joy—laughter, chuckles, jests, forced laughs, restrained smiles, giggles, and loud laughter. But once the opera begins, the upper-class audience falls silent, the mood turning solemn. Any noise attracts disapproving glances, and it doesn't take an usher for someone to give you a stern look or even scold you. Sometimes a single noise provokes a shush from the crowd, and soon, others join in, the shushing louder than the initial disturbance. After each act, the audience claps in a restrained yet polite manner. When the lights come on for intermission, the atmosphere lightens up again.

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Family Circle

The peak has a warm name: the family circle. These are the cheapest tickets, farthest from the stage, but they feel the most grounded. Up here, there's no grandeur of towering clouds, only the pressure from the ceiling. It makes me appreciate the adage that distance lends enchantment, as the magnificent chandeliers up close are not as beautiful, instead quite blinding.

The crowd here is bustling, without the big laughs and mockeries found below. The conversations are whispers and murmurs in the cramped corridors and seats. Dim lighting and a lack of flashy jewelry make the New Yorkers in gray and camel blend into a dark mass.

The family circle does indeed have many families. Parents, somewhat awkwardly, point out the chandeliers to their kids, who peer curiously at the distant stage, mumbling, then playfully wrestling with their siblings. Mothers discipline them to avoid disturbing others, while fathers try to decipher the plot from the program.

Couples are scattered everywhere. Some hold hands and cuddle, sharing insights from the program; some are enthusiastic, others disinterested; some politely explain the program to their date, often on one of their first outings, with the men perhaps speaking a bit louder.

Neatly dressed elderly couples, clearly seasoned theater-goers, sit quietly in their best outfits, bags on their laps, waiting for the curtain to rise.

Besides seats with a distant view of the stage, there are also seats completely out of sight of the stage, positioned at the sides. Here, you can't see the stage at all, but the acoustics are beautiful. The few who choose these seats are either students studying the score or artistic directors making notes to give feedback to the performers backstage. After the curtain rises, anything goes at the top. But the lower seats are unaffected by the upper levels since sound travels upward. Thus, the noise from the top stays at the top, while the orchestra's sound fills the entire theater. Children's cries, adult whispers, coughs, yawns, snoring... these sounds ebb and flow during the applause.

But the cheers from the top are the most thunderous. If you've never experienced cheers from the top, you've never truly heard cheers. It's a curious phenomenon—although the performance may not be passionate, it's hard to tell if the cheering is a celebration of the end of the incomprehensible "rich man's refined art" or a genuine appreciation of the art form. Especially after the final curtain call, the cheers are deafening. Those who were coughing, napping, snoring, complaining, whispering... suddenly come alive, energized in the final moment, children and elders alike. The applause here isn't the restrained, grammatically correct "bravi" and the gentle clapping of fingertips against palms found in the orchestra seats. It's a wild array of shouts and howls, with hands clapping with full force, booming in a way that seems to lift the roof of the opera house.

Standing at the top, I look around at the people beside me and far off at the small stage. The grand stage now seems so tiny, like a beautifully crafted music box. I think to myself, the true La bohème are not on the stage of the Met, but at its summit—this is where the lives of the "Bohemians" truly unfold.

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Heaven and Earth

To conclude, let me share a story.

Once, a student newly arrived in New York wanted to see "La Bohème," which was hugely popular due to its star-studded cast. With student tickets sold out early, the student had no choice but to buy a standing ticket at the back of the orchestra.

After standing for nearly two hours by intermission, the student leaned against a column to rest. Then, an elderly white man stopped before him, handed him a ticket, and said, "I'm leaving, enjoy the show." Before the student could react, the man had already walked away without looking back. The student, still not having seen the man's face, checked the seat number on the ticket and found a spot in the front of the orchestra seats. A nearby elderly lady glanced at him, obviously out of place, and skeptically asked, "Do you have a ticket?"

Startled, the student frantically searched through his pockets and bag, then realized he had been holding the ticket all along. After showing it to the lady, she turned away, silent, and he finally saw the price on the ticket. Not long after, the lights dimmed and the music resumed.

Years later, he says, recalling this insignificant incident still makes his palms sweat.

He doesn't know whether the ticket he clutched was a gateway to heaven or a fragile human dream and dignity.