Onegin

The first time I saw Onegin performed by the San Francisco Ballet, a few years ago, I recognized that his full name (Евге́ний Оне́гин) was featured on an inner curtain in script, as if he had signed it. I didn't notice, then, the faint writing that covered the whole panel. Pushkin's verse, no doubt.

It was “show-and-tell” at the ballet today, with tutus and footwear in the lobby for all to admire (and, touch). The bodices are sewn with rows of hook-and-eye fasteners to make them easy to fit to different bodies. How anyone can balance, leap, and twirl in toe shoes baffles (and awes) me.

I feel a kinship with the young Tatiana, more interested in reading than in the shallow distractions around her. How often was I admonished, growing up: “Get your nose out of that book!” [More times than I can count.]

Onegin was so imperious, it was hard to see her smitten with him and to watch her struggle with her feelings when he returns. After she spurns him in the end, as harshly as he had treated her, the crowd roared—as much for Tatiana, I think, as for Yuan Yuan Tan's performance.

Another magical season drew to a close, and we stepped out into the reality of 2016.

To crazy street people in tatters, getting by somehow. Why do we treat stray animals with more care than stray people?

To a mass transit system that's rapidly deteriorating. I'm sure there are older subway cars in service in Manhattan than BART cars in San Francisco. A 10-car train pulled into the station, fully packed with riders gripping straps and bars to stay upright. Then came the announcement that they were taking it out of service for “mechanical issues;” everyone had to exit the train and join us in waiting for the next train. Which would need to accommodate three trains' worth of passengers.

One of the wealthiest cities in the U.S. Seriously.