The hell with Arabian Nights, Verona is hotter than hot, and in a lot of good ways. My white button down shirt suddenly translucent from liquid pouring from my body as if I were Aquarius (and I'm not; I'm Ares), Corinne and I shaped our bodies around one another without any more contact than fingertips to shoulders, despite the infrequency of each other's company over the past two months, while we looked down incredulously upon some of Italy's most talented musicians and operatic singers performing Aida in the Arena of Verona. The ancient stone benches held the heat of the day long into the night and amplified the porous leakage. After spending all week with a class of only five eight-year-olds, a small class even for ACLE, who created more cacophony than an army of banjos waging war on a civilization of cymbals, I was simply awestruck at the pure and absolute silence produced by the couple thousand patrons filling the arena as the orchestra let flow a sound of liquid silver. Without any electronic amplifying devices, the singers showed no difficulty in projecting their powerful voices to even the individuals, such as myself, sitting on the rim of the giant's cereal bowl.
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