We almost didn’t go to see the orchestra because we were tired. Offered the tickets to other people, none of whom wanted to attend. Ultimately summoned the energy to go out for the evening. The change of set and setting helped.

This time I actually did attend the orchestra in a sweatshirt – otherwise jeans and boots and overcoats, scarves and hats and gloves.

Steve Rogers drove us to the parking garage. On the road on the way there and back again I played a few songs from a band called the Bleachers, of which I am growing fond. The walk from the parking garage to the concert hall was bitterly windy and cold. As we sat inside the hall by the window in the café and sipped on a glass of wine, we watched people march by on the sidewalk outside carrying the Palestinian flag with cardboard signs. I think it takes a certain kind of dedication to march in weather like this, but the discomfort of walking home in winter in this city is probably nothing compared to what many of the people of Gaza have endured.

At the next table, an elderly man talked politics with his friend. Their words droned out a worn out tune of discontent and disapproval and of what might have been. Tonight I didn’t have the energy to listen. I guess maybe I just wanted to be present.

“Tell me what you know about Beethoven,” I said. And Steve obliged with the story of the composer who lost his ability to hear, but kept on making lovely music anyhow, who could hear music for an entire orchestra in his mind before it was even written down.

Tonight the Philharmonic Orchestra performed Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 4, in G major, Op. 58 (among other things). According to the notes in the program, this concerto is said to have been inspired by the story of Orpheus and Eurydice.

The hall itself never fails to be impressive. It’s beautiful. The chandelier, the murals on the walls, the art, the busts of Bach and Beethoven on opposite sides of the stage, the masonry, the light reflecting off the brsss and the cellos and the upright bass, the red curtains reminiscent of that one motif running through Twin Peaks.

I let my head rest on Steve’s shoulder and hold his hand and listen to the piano. His fingers twitch in time with the music as he listens. I close my eyes and listen to the strings, then tilt my head back and let my eyes trace the patterns on the ceiling and listen to the melody from the keys.

We walked back through the parking garage to stay out of the cold. It was like finding our way through a maze, like a dream. It was cold.

We got home safe.