When I was thirteen, I saw Rogers and Hammerstein's South Pacific. It was my first Broadway play. It was on tour in Pittsburgh where I grew up, and even though my dog Sparky had disappeared that day, I managed to adore every second. My parents bought me the LP (that's a long-playing record for those who don't remember the pre-CD world), and I memorized every word of every song. I could still sing them all, that is if I could sing at all.
When South Pacific was revived at Lincoln Center in New York about two years ago, I really didn't want to see another old-fashioned musical. But the reviews were glowing and friends told us how much they loved it, so we decided to put it on our agenda for last weekend in New York.
I cannot remember three hours flying by the way they did at the Vivian Beaumont Theatre at Lincoln Center last weekend. When the overture began, the music brought tears to my eyes, partly because I am sentimental, but mostly because it is so beautiful. I was completely transported. I sat at the edge of my seat with a grin on my face (once the tears stopped), and was mesmerized by the acting, the singing, the dancing, the sets, the music, everything. I didn't want it to end. When it did, I didn't want to leave. I gave some thought to buying a ticket for the evening performance.
Peter doesn't like musicals all that much. So I was a little worried about taking him to this one. Occasionally, I glanced at his face during the performance. It was obvious that he was loving it too.
With all the troubles in the world, with all our concerns about ourselves and those we love, a trip to South Pacific was just what the doctor ordered