Waiting for Waiting For Godot

Waiting For Godot is one of those plays I've always heard about but have never seen performed. I haven't read it either. All I know is that it's about two guys sitting around waiting for this person named "Godot" who never shows up. It's one long conversation about, well, life, the universe, and everything, from what I can gather. And there's this kind of play on the name "Godot" -- God, Godot -- get it? So. Very philosophical, very neat stuff. When it first hit the stage, people loved it. People hated it. People reacted. So when it turned up on my Artsopolis eSavers email, I had to go, didn't I. Plus, I thought it would be fun to take my son. I bought the tickets online, printed out the directions to this place I never heard of, and out into the dark we went.

It was a dark and stormy night. (No, really!) Could that have been the reason for my disorientation? It contributed to it, anyway. That and the flipping lousy directions. I'm telling you, people can't give decent directions, let alone a machine. Mapquest be damned. I don't know who's to blame -- Artsopolis, the Santa Clara Players, or Mapquest -- but I drove around in circles for an hour before I found the place. Sort of found the place. What I found was the Triton Museum of Art. The play was supposedly being held at the grandly titled "Triton Pavilion." My son and I walked around the grounds for 20 minutes before finally giving up and crashing what was an obviously high society party at the museum. Did anyone know where the so-called "Pavilion" was? Staff directed us out back.

There, across the dimly lit grounds, with little more than a hedgerow path to guide us, was the "pavilion" -- a set of squat hexagonal-shaped buildings more akin to an outhouse. And sure enough, posted there next to the door, was a sign the size of a postage stamp declaring the performance of Waiting For Godot. The play was already in progress. We were an hour and a half late.

Then, before I could even say a word, this ancient woman who could have passed for one of The Furies herself descended upon us and said, "You can't go in there! The play is already in progress!"

That, my friends, was the proverbial last straw. I lit into her and told her what I thought of the so-called directions available through their website. I also asked for my money back. She couldn't help me. The ticket guy had already packed up and gone home. So I grumbled, as I exited stage left, that I would be writing a letter of complaint. (Eventually, I will).

We went to a movie instead.

The irony of this whole experience is not lost on me, however; you see, I'm still waiting for Waiting For Godot.