Hamilton

 Last week, in celebration of our 20th wedding anniversary, Todd and I traveled to New York.  He had a day or two of work in the northern part of the state, and then we traveled to our happy place to see some Broadway shows.  We had not really discussed, but sort of decided in our own minds, (at least I had) that we were not going to bust our butts to try to see the hottest show in town, "Hamilton."  Tickets are currently selling well into 2017, so we knew the odds were against us: http://www.hamiltonbroadway.com/. 

Our oldest daughter turned us on to the soundtrack sometime back, and it is amazing.  This new musical tells the story of our founding fathers and the establishment of the United States as an independent nation, from the perspectives of some very ambitious, and very flawed, public figures, namely Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr.  The style of song and dance is hip-hop.  I just... I don't know... Well, just google it for an explanation, I guess, or watch the PBS special (which will tell you more about the history than about the musical, but it's something.) 

So, we started talking to people on the street and texting friends who've seen the show, and it just seemed like a very real possibility, and at least a must-try.  We arrived in the evening, way past our chances for Wednesday, so we picked up discount tickets to another show for that night.  Thursday morning, I was letting Todd sleep, when he rolled over and looked at me and said, "What are you doing here?! I figured you'd be in the ticket line! Don't you remember how this works?!" He high-tailed it over to the Richard Rodgers Theatre on 46th Street, and I followed after a necessary Starbucks stop.  The box office opened at 10:00, and workers confirmed what they confirm every day: no tickets.  So, then, fans have the option to wait in the cancellation line.  If, for any reason, tickets for that day's show are returned to the box office-- from journalists, celebrities, unclaimed lottery winners, etc.-- box office workers offer those tickets for resale at face value whenever they come in.  We had been told to expect approximately 20 tickets per day would become available, possibly with additional standing-room-only spots that could come back from cast comp tickets.  We were fifth in line; the first woman had arrived at 7 a.m., after getting in with a standing-room-only ticket the evening before-- she wanted to see it again!

Todd and I stayed all day, sometimes together, and sometimes taking turns.  We made friends.  On one side, there were two women from Utah who were hanging out while their husbands attended a real estate conference.  They'd never really heard of "Hamilton" but quickly learned it was all the rage and decided to try their luck.  On the other side were two older women, friends who had driven from Boston for a few days of show-seeing, but this was their mission.  We waited all day, becoming more anxious, until it was less than 30 minutes till curtain.  The security guards let in all the ticketed theatergoers, and then began calling in buyers from the cancellation line, one at a time.  Each could purchase up to two tickets.  They called in four people.  I was next, but we were sent away.

We pouted.  I admit it.  After nine hours and the loss of the opportunity to buy other show tickets at rush or discounted prices, we were licking our wounds.  We did go see another show.  It was not "Hamilton."  The next morning, I made sure I was the first in line.  There were no guarantees we would get tickets, but, if we didn't, no one else would, either.  The security guards and street sweepers gave me grief: "Are you sure you're first?" I was.

After I'd been sitting approximately 30 minutes, wishing for coffee but not wanting to risk it, (and knowing Todd would later bring it,) the others started lining up.  Immediately behind me was Erika, a graduated student from Los Angeles who had come to New York to celebrate her birthday, and mainly see "Hamilton."  Behind her was Zara, a recent divorcee who had upended her life in a move from London to Greenwich Village.  It would be another interesting day.  People stopped to ask what we were doing.  They asked how long we'd been sitting there.  They asked how long we'd be willing to sit, how much we'd be willing to pay.  They were curious and kind.  Everyone wished us luck.

Again, it was getting close to show time, and the security guards on duty were warning, "It's tight.  It's really tight tonight."  Todd was constantly refreshing the StubHub app on his phone.  It was our last night in New York, and so it was our last "Hamilton" opportunity for some time.  We couldn't even get tickets to the touring show in Chicago-- I checked.  He was determined we were going in, even if we had to pay inflated prices from scalpers.  I encouraged patience.  Finally, the guard at the door announced, "First in the cancellation line-- IN!"  We were in.

It was 15 minutes before the curtain, so there were no options and there was no time to spare.  Plus, I really, really had to pee.  The ticket agent pointed to the two open seats on his map and Todd slid his credit card under the window.  The seats were in the center of the seventh row, the best seats in the house.  We were stunned and thrilled and excited to get word to all who had been rooting for us (right after I made my way to the bathroom, which is no small feat ever in a Broadway theater.) 

 The show was all that others hyped it to be and more.  It was hard to know where to look and who to watch.  It was hard to breathe sometimes.  It was hard to not sing along all the time.  It was really hard to not be mad at the people who brought squirming kids or who came back late from intermission.  Then, all of a sudden, it was over.

 People thought we were nuts, and I suppose we are.  Yet, it was a really wonderful experience.  The show, yes, was incredible, but Todd and I also enjoyed our time together, just being near one another, talking to each other, and sharing our stories with others as we heard their stories.  It was worth it.