The exterior of the building was striking. Black, it stood out against the surrounding sea of beige, scrolling letters proudly spelling out the show’s name on the lit marquis. The inside, where I now sit, is lush and opulent. A string of lights hangs above the fallen curtain conjuring the ambiance of Coney Island. The same crimson velvet blanketing the floors upholsters the rows of seats. The chairs themselves are spacious, but I make little use of mine, instead perching on its edge, bouncing in fit of uncontrollable excitement.
I spew information to my mother, not really caring if she is listening or not. In a matter of minutes she has heard more than she probably cares to hear about the actors, their résumés, the composer, the show. I flip through the glossy souvenir program, commenting on the photographs. There is Sierra Boggess, the original Christine, whom I had really hoped to see. With her is Ramin Karimloo, the original phantom whom we would see tonight. Does she see that necklace? Swarovski cut the crystals especially to reflect the theatrical lighting. That boy there is Gustave, Christine’s son. Did she know they had six boys who alternate the role? In the US there are normally only two or three children who share a part. Look at that dress! Christine wears it when she sings her aria. Isn’t it beautiful?!

Suddenly the lights dim. I stop mid sentence, force myself to cease bouncing. The theatre is quiet, but the air is full. It pulses with the energy of collective anticipation. To me this is the most magical feeling in the world. Sitting in the theatre, knowing in mere moments the curtain will rise. Nothing compares to it. I hold my breath; so much rests on a single note. A year-and-a-half of waiting, of wondering. year-and-a-half of listening to the score on repeat, of singing the melodies incessantly. A year-and-a-half for expectations to build, and this one note could send them all crashing to the ground. The reviews had been mixed. The show was to close. I love the music, but will the music be enough? I want to love the show so badly. I want to cry, to laugh, to be for two and a half hours fully transported to the vibrant world somehow contained on a single stage. The curtain rises and the introductory chords to the song I know so well begin to play. They’re the same chords I have heard a thousand times, but yet they are different. They don’t come from tiny ear buds or from a computer’s speaker, but rather fill the air around me and envelop me. I know in mere seconds the lone actor on stage will open his mouth, and his voice will intertwine with the melodies already filling the theatre. Will it be all that I wish it will be? I hold my breath, and hope.