Every Hotel Room Looks The Same
Surprising wisdom from an older, wiser opera singer
About a decade ago, I got to sing in the chorus for a production of the original “Spaghetti Western” — the opera La Fanciulla del West (“The Girl of the West”).
Like most operas, Fanciulla is quite long (almost three hours), so performers have lots of downtime backstage, in the green room, and in our dressing rooms.
As someone who had come to singing opera late in life (I didn't start until I was a father in my late 20s), during this performance, I was feeling pangs of regret about how I hadn’t taken music more seriously earlier in life.
Since I was a teenager, it was always my goal to be a professional musician. But I put that on the back burner and pursued marriage and parenthood before chasing an elusive career in music.
During Fanciulla, I was excited to be on the big stage with a professional company, but I was also hit with a profound sense of sadness that I was just catching a small glimpse of something I’d never get to experience fully.
I knew I had completely missed the boat, and it was too late for me to do anything more than sing part-time in the chorus like I was doing. There was no chance I’d ever be a soloist performing music full-time.
During our final show, while waiting in the wings for our entrance in the first scene, I spent a few moments talking to one of the main characters.
We were about as different as could be. I had just turned 31, I was married and had five kids, and I was singing on a very part-time basis for pure joy and passion. He was in his 50s, wasn’t married, and had no children.
I had stumbled into the world of opera as an adult, almost accidentally. This man, who was much older than me, had spent his entire life singing professionally.
Out of curiosity, I asked him what it was like to have an actual career as an opera singer. What he said totally shocked me.
As we waited backstage for our entrance, he wiped the sweat that had formed on his brow from standing in an overstuffed costume in the hot, bright stage lights.
“I don’t know. I’m getting too old for this, man,” he said, almost annoyed.
“Really? How long have you been doing this?” I asked him.
“Over thirty years.”
“That’s amazing!” I remarked. “Where have you sung?”
“Oh, everywhere, man, all over the place. Name an opera house, name a country, I’ve done it all.”
“Wow, that sounds like an exciting life!” I said wistfully, feeling regret that I hadn’t pursued the same career path he had.
But he vigorously shook his head right before taking a sip from a water bottle.
“No, not really: this is a hard life, man. Don’t let people tell you otherwise. Flying around the world sounds great, but it’s absolutely exhausting, never knowing what time zone you’re in.”
I stared at him in astonishment.
“Really? I never thought about it that way before.”
“I’m telling you, man, no matter what country you’re in, every hotel room looks the same.”
I was almost bowled over. He asked me about myself and how I had gotten into singing opera. Whispering, I told him about my background, and he surprised me yet again.
“I wish I had done what you’re doing. It would’ve been nice to get married and have kids. I don’t even own a house, man. I just live in hotels. I have a rental apartment, but I’m never there.”
We went on stage, and our conversation was over.
I was still pondering what he said when we left the stage and headed back to the dressing room. As I walked, another, much younger singer had apparently overheard what I’d said and wanted to know more.
“Dude, you have kids?” he asked, apparently shocked that I wasn’t a single guy like him.
“Yeah, I have five kids,” I told him.
He paused for a second, looked at me with huge eyes, and said, “Wow… lucky!”
I’ve never forgotten this. Whenever I feel bad about getting married at such a young age, having kids, working in a “boring” career, and only partaking in performing arts sparingly, I think about these comments. I am lucky. I’m a father. I get to sing for fun.
Now, every time I stay at a hotel, I open the door to my room, take a look around, and remember: “Every hotel room looks the same.”
With few exceptions, he was right.