When Rituals Change Hands

When my husband announced he’d be traveling for work over a weekend, I started thinking about how I would spend my solo Saturday night. A movie? A cozy night at home playing online canasta? A night at the opera?

There wasn’t anything I was aching to see in the theaters. Staying home felt a bit boring. So I went on the Metropolitan Opera’s website and was delighted to find that La Bohème would be performed on my big night out.

As a kid, many of my springtime Saturday afternoons were spent in and around Lincoln Center. For those outings, my mother asked me to put on some dressed-up version of my typical tomboy attire. We drove into Manhattan, parked the car, and met my grandmother, Nany, and my aunt, Yvonne, for lunch somewhere on the Upper West Side.

Lunch was an event—a restaurant with tablecloths, a glass of wine for the adults, and a place where I could get plain pasta with butter and parmesan.

The Fersen Women—Nany, aunt Yvonne, my mother and me—over the years.

“We are Fersen women!” one of them exclaimed over lunch, referring to their family name, shortened from Ferstenfeld. While I mostly spaced out and played with my silverware, I heard everything. There were troubles with kids, marital issues, health problems. There were trip details, holiday plans, work dilemmas.

Unbeknownst to me, I was slowly earning my place in this club—the Fersen women—whose core values included strength, savviness, and an I-will-get-through-this attitude. They were tough, these ladies. They were French, and très chic, clad in slimming ensembles, heels, and pearls draped at varying lengths around their necks.

After lunch, we walked the few blocks to Lincoln Center, where the fountain shot water into the sky. If we had time to spare before the ballet, I’d run around the fountain’s large circular rim while the grown-ups talked…and talked.

“You see those large paintings?” my mother asked me, pointing at the enormous canvases hanging in the Met’s front windows. “Those are by the Russian artist Marc Chagall.” Of course, I knew, because she lovingly reminded me every time we were there.

Once inside the Met, we walked down the red-carpeted stairs, holding onto the golden stair rails. My mom took me to the coat check, where she’d request a booster seat for me—a square cushion covered in maroon velvet that added nearly a foot to my view of the dancers.

But first, before taking our seats, my mom walked me to the end of the aisle so I could see the musicians in the orchestra pit. I could hear the cacophony of instruments—the winds and strings simultaneously tuning—and there was always at least one musician who saw me wave and waved back.

Once settled in our row, my aunt pulled a plastic baggie out of her purse and passed me a Coffee Nip, the most delicious hard candy that slowly melted into a creamy caramel texture. Yum.

Like clockwork, my mom then tapped me on the shoulder.

“Carenitza, look up!” she said, using my family nickname. “Those crystal chandeliers were a gift from the Austrian government and they only go up once before the performance begins.” I watched in awe as each starburst fixture slowly soared toward the ceiling.

Inside the Metropolitan Opera House before La Bohème—and the crystal chandeliers.

After the performance started—whether it was ballet or opera—I drifted between boredom-infused dozing and total fixation on the elaborate costumes, the velvet, the chandeliers, the gold.

When my grandmother passed way in 1996, our Fersen-Women-Go-to-Lincoln-Center club disbanded. My aunt moved to Florida. My mom and I continued to go for several years, until she grew ill with dementia.

A ritual that spanned from childhood to adulthood, these daylong excursions were filled with much more than entertainment and culture. There was connection, learning, and love. There was history, legacy, and belonging.

I’ve tried to pass parts of this ritual on to my own daughters. We go to the ballet a few times a year, and each time I stand in that plaza with its fountain, I get goosebumps thinking of those countless Saturday afternoons.

My daughters and I at the Lincoln Center fountain pre-ballet.

My daughters, now 30 and 32, know about the Chagall paintings, have waved to the musicians in the pit, and watch those chandeliers rise to the ceiling only once per performance.

That night, when I took my seat alone and watched the chandeliers rise, I didn’t feel alone exactly. I felt the Fersen women with me, and understood again how rituals don’t disappear—they change hands.

And now…

A MANTRA FOR YOU:

What we carry becomes what we offer.

xx Caren

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