neophyte

We're sitting at opposite ends of his sectional couch, like boat anchors. And we are awash in opera music. Big sonorous waves of it are pouring out of his tiny speakers, pressing us backwards into the cushions. I've closed my eyes, listening hard.

I am decidedly out of my element, but even I can tell that this isn't really a 400-level course. He's starting me off with broad, appealing opera, the kind of stuff you'd have to be insensate not to at least appreciate. He talks me through plot lines and voice qualities: first Maria Callas, then each of the Three Tenors.

At some point, I laugh aloud. He doesn't ask why -- maybe doesn't notice, so intent is he on Maria's tone -- and I don't volunteer.

But this makes me think of that time my sister called me out of the blue, bubbling over about Pablo Neruda. "Have you ever HEARD of him?" she asked me, the English major who had just bought her fourth ceiling-height bookshelf. "He's so AMAZING. Poetry! I think I get it now!"

I was sure for a few minutes that she must have suffered some kind of traumatic head injury. But then, of course, the explanation came tumbling out, and it wasn't just Pablo she wanted to gush over. "I've been trying to get you to read poetry for the last 15 years of your life," I remember saying, "But all it takes is one good-looking Spanish boy with Neruda on his bedside table, and suddenly you're a fanatic."

Now, in the living room, iTunes recedes into silence. "Did you like that one?" he asks.

And I say, "I think I get it now."