Glyndebourne. It's not in Afghanistan or Vietnam or India or Africa or anywhere else I usually travel, but I mention it because it is an experience I am most likely never to have again. It is in the southeast of Britain and renowned for its opera "festival" (or in opera terms, its "season"). The story goes that years ago a Lord, married to a woman who fancied herself a soprano, built her a venue to sing in. He would bring in tenors and supporting cast so she could star in her own operas. They would invite their closest friends and soon word spread that this was something that one absolutely must go to. Over the years, the venue has rebuilt and rebuilt to accommodate the overflow of opera lovers to what it is today. The snag? It is set in the idyllic British countryside which is victim to the most onerous of criminals: British weather. Imagine these black-tied guests, whose butlers have set up picnic tables replete with table linens and silver candelabras and crystal flutes, having to run for shelter when the weather turns (it's actually kind of hilarious). This means jumping over quickly forming puddles (and sometimes sheep) to get to some shelter. Then there is the problem is having to sit through the opera with wet and muddied shoes and clothes. But nothing is worse that having to deal with either a boring show or snoring seat mate (my apologies to my seat mates!).
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