Once again, I almost didn’t go to the opera. I was on a deadline and hadn’t been feeling well all weekend. A finished draft and a nap sounded better than getting dressed and leaving the house. But I had never seen a Russian opera before, and I knew I liked Tchaikovsky’s music, and Sunday was the only day I could possibly go. So I dragged myself to McCaw Hall and thoroughly enjoyed every one of the 190-some minutes of the matinee performance; then couldn’t fall asleep that night for thinking about Eugene Onegin.
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