Thursday, March 27. I arrive at the Met and find that my dear little frock, Mary Jane shoes and Bo Peep bonnet are hanging in one of the dressing rooms in the Principal Artist area, just down the hall from Angela Gheorghiu, our Mimì. I am sharing with Mercedes, whose costume is similar to mine. (Although she does have a better hat!) Michelle is there to help us dress, and Tom Watson comes in to put on our wigs. Mercedes’s wig is a rich auburn and mine is a boring brown. (Where the heck are those flashing lights he promised me?) They both have center parts and both have corkscrew curls. I am sure I will look like Olivia de Havilland in Hush Hush, Sweet Charlotte. (Or is it The Heiress?)

Before the wigs are put on, Tom puts our own hair in tight pin curls, firmly—and I do mean firmly—secured with hairpins. Ouch, Tom! My head isn’t one of those dummy blocks in your shop! Next comes a nylon stocking, which makes us look bald. He actually dares us to have a picture taken at this point. We politely decline. Once the wigs are in place, our hats go on. Mine doesn’t look so limp now, it looks rather sweet atop my Olivia wig. Mercedes has a rather spectacular bonnet that frames her face. We stand in front of the mirrors and turn this way and that. We are totally into this now. We are different people—and we love it!

Victor Callegari, head of the Makeup Department, checks us out and declares us fit for the show. All of the debutantes are herded to the stage, and I see that we have a new colleague. His name is Nathan, (are men called debutantes?) and he looks very handsome and dapper in a three-piece suit, top hat and spiffy walking stick. At the stage door, I am met by Roger, my strolling partner, and he takes my arm and we go into the wings. The stage is much darker than it was yesterday, and we must climb a steep staircase in order to reach our opening position. It is not easy. My skirt is too long, and I keep stepping on my hem as we make our way upward.

To my surprise, we arrive at the upper part of the Latin Quarter set, only at the moment it is not attached to all of the shops. It is on a moving platform called a wagon, and once we are all aboard, it begins to slide in from the wings. I feel a little like I am on a tumbrel, on the way to my beheading. But we arrive without incident, our tumbrel is secured to the adjoining piece, and—voilà!—we are on the stage. We don’t waste any time. The curtain goes up, the orchestra strikes up and we begin our walkabout: greeting friends, sampling the wine, just as we did yesterday. But it feels different. The lighting is much lower, lanterns in the store windows are glowing, streetlights are casting shadows. And, lovely as it seems, I’m pretty sure none of my friends will be able to pick me out.

But what does that matter? I know where I am, and I’m having the time of my life.

The aroma of freshly cooked food wafts up to us from the Café Momus. They are actually eating down there! I later learn the principals have been served roast chicken, salad and French fries. But, alas, the deep red liquid in their wine glasses is only cranberry juice.

The bear dances, the donkey brings in the toys, the horse brings in Musetta and the music preceding the waltz begins. No longer the new kid on the block, I go into my Stanislavski mode and prepare myself for the freeze. I don’t itch, sneeze or breathe on anything. Hey, I’m getting good at this! At the end of the act, we have a curtain call, all of us waving to the audience. I am smiling, waving my tri-colored flag, barely managing to keep myself from jumping up in down with excitement.

And then a remarkable thing occurs. Peter Gelb, the General Manager, walks onto the stage, and from the wings on the opposite side comes a man in a wheelchair. 250 faux Parisians crane their necks and there is an unanimous catching of breath. Our visitor is Franco Zeffirelli, the genius who created this production 27 years ago. He is an icon among film and stage aficionados, and he has given the Met some of its greatest productions.

He rises from the chair. He looks good, very elegant with a long scarf draped around his neck. Ms. Gheorghiu runs out and hugs him. Mr. Gelb shakes his hand. The rest of us are agog. This living legend turns to us and begins to speak. From where I am positioned he is difficult to understand, but I am told that he said he was very pleased with what he saw, and that the production looks exactly as it did when he created it. Everyone is extremely moved by this stunning surprise. We are all a bit weepy as we leave the stage.

We debutantes return to our dressing rooms, but we are not to undress. We are going to be photographed by the renowned portrait artist, Jason Schmidt. Hey, is this Christmas for real? Now I know what they mean by an embarrassment of riches.

Act III has already begun when we return to the wings, where the Café Momus set is now standing. Jason is a great-looking guy, full of energy and bubbling with enthusiasm. For those of us who no longer feel so good about having our picture taken, he is just what the doctor ordered. We know we are safe in his hands. He wants to start with a group photo, and he places us around the café. Most of us are sitting; Melva is leaning against the bar. We are holding glasses of cranberry juice. Or so they tell us. No one braves a taste. At Jason’s urging, we smile at each other, we turn our heads this way and that as the camera clicks. Then—out of the blue—a mystery woman rushes in. It happens so fast it takes a moment to recognize her. She is dressed pretty much the same way we are, but she was definitely not in our crowd scene. She plops herself down beside Mercedes, and Jason’s camera clicks like mad. She is Angela Gheorghiu, on a quick break from the scene in which she lies to Rodolfo about her fatal illness and tells him goodbye forever.

The camera clicks and clicks and clicks and then she is up and dashing off to he stage. We are awed by her spontaneity and sense of fun. Who says opera singers are… Oh, never mind. I went through all this when I encountered Paul Plishka. And we can’t wait to see the pictures!

Jason takes individual shots of us, and we head back to the dressing rooms. Mercedes and I help each other out of our costumes and get back into our street clothes. We join Melva and our wonderful friends Gail and Sandra, the Met liaisons who have been at our sides throughout this journey and who have made the entire experience perfection, in the Met cafeteria. We babble excitedly about the events of the day, and those of us who were on stage don’t know what we will have to live for once our debuts are over. We exchange cards, vowing to stay in touch. This is the last time I will see them as performers as we are appearing on different dates. But none of us will forget the camaraderie we have shared. Did Maria Callas and Birgit Nilsson ever have this much fun when they were hangin’ with their buds?

My big night is two weeks away, but I will not be idle as I wait. I have a party to plan, friends to greet, and a whole lot of bragging to do. I am a Diva!

I’ll let you know if anyone slaps me silly.

Wednesday, March 25th. I am called for my first rehearsal. It is to be with a piano only, and costumes are not worn. Once again I arrive at the stage door, but this time I am whisked to the Green Room, where the principal artists sometimes greet their fans after a performance. It is a small, pleasant room with couches, chairs and a monitor beaming in the action on the stage. Act II of La Bohème is already set up and my heart starts to beat a little faster.

I am not the only “debutante” there. Three other auction winners are introduced to me, and they are just as excited as I am! Their names are Mercedes, Susan and Melva. But before we have a chance to really get acquainted, we are introduced to three handsome men who are going to be our partners in this incredible journey. One of them is a chorister, the others are professional supers who actually get paid for having all this fun. My man is Roger, a former dancer, who has been working at this job for the past four years and has taken part in hundreds of performances. He is going to guide me around the stage during Act II, one of the highlights of which is Musetta’s famous waltz.

Roger is friendly and considerate as we make our way to the stage. He assures me we are going to have a great time and all I have to do is follow his lead. My whole body is thrumming with anticipation. We make our way to the stage—and suddenly we are in another world. The world inhabited by Mimì and Rodolfo and Musetta. We are in Paris in the 1830s, standing in a square teeming with people. And I do mean teeming! I have been told that the number of people on stage in this scene is in the neighborhood of 250. Many of them are choristers, and they are not all adults. The Met’s enchanting children’s chorus is there, under the supervision of the ubiquitous Elena Doria, their devoted teacher, stern taskmaster and enthusiastic cheering section. The rest are supers—like me. Roger and I are standing at the top of a flight of rickety-looking steps. At the bottom is the small, cozy Café Momus.

From our position I can see into the vast, darkened auditorium, empty now but for a handful of technicians and other people. Although there are no musicians in the orchestra pit, our conductor, Nicola Luisotti, is on the podium, picked out by a small spotlight so the singers can see him. On either side of the stage, unseen by the audience, are four monitors, each focused on the Maestro, making it easy for the singers to walk around freely, yet always be cognizant of every wave of his arms.

And I can see the prompter, a woman named Jane Klaviter, standing in a tiny box at the foot of the stage, the score in front of her, ready to rescue anyone who gives the slightest indication that he or she has drawn a musical blank. Does this really happen? Apparently, more than audiences realize. And Ms. Klaviter doesn’t take any chances. She mouths every word in the score, often singing the notes, her lips moving from beginning to end.

The stage is enormous, and our Bohème set is on two levels, the upper level consisting of various shops, all of them open on Christmas Eve, their wares displayed outside their doors, their proprietors hoping to earn a little money from last-minute shoppers. The lower level houses the Café Momus, where, of course, Mimì and Rodolfo celebrate their newly found love and Musetta creates chaos for her rich, elderly date and her poor, handsome ex-beau, Marcello.

The stage director, Knighten Smit, asks for quiet and introduces the principals as they enter the stage: Ramón Vargas as Rodolfo, Ainhoa Arteta as Musetta, Ludovic Tézier as Marcello, Quinn Kelsey as Schaunard, Oren Gradus as Colline, and Paul Plishka as Alcindoro. Angela Gheorghiu, our Mimì, acknowledges applause from the auditorium. Mr. Smit tells us we can move around as we please, as long as we keep ourselves spread out as much as possible. And he reminds us that the Met stage is known for its great acoustics, so we must walk quietly and silently mouth any conversations we appear to be having.

And then the music starts. It is only the piano (played by Carrie Ann Matheson), but it is loud and clear, the music as familiar as an old, comfortable bathrobe. And Roger, my partner, begins to propel me around the stage. There is music everywhere. Hawkers are singing the praises of their wares (“Oranges! Dates! Hot roasted chestnuts!”), children are running around, frenzied with excitement. A cart, overflowing with wonderful toys arrives onstage, drawn by a donkey with a red hat perched jauntily on his (her?) head.

At first, I feel very awkward. The upper level, where we are positioned, is very steep—or highly “raked,” in theatrical terms. I am walking at a funny angle, one foot lower than the other, and I hold on to Roger for dear life. But as we stroll, I find myself completely caught up in the scene, and I no longer think of my feet. I follow Roger’s lead and greet other couples with a small bow of my head. As I grow bolder, I offer my hand—and occasionally someone kisses it! Roger and I stop in front of a wine store, where the proprietor mimes pouring us a taste of his product. Although he is actually pouring it into our cupped hands, we pretend to savor its bouquet.

We move on. Members of the chorus are scattered through the crowd and one sings in my ear, the sound rich and full. It blows me away. We inspect a loaf of bread, obviously stale and hard as a rock. (Maybe because it’s made of papier-maché?) I have my fortune told and quickly jump out of the way when a dancing bear suddenly materializes. We hear commotion on the street below. The children run toward the sound. Roger and I follow them. Musetta and her wealthy admirer are entering the stage in a carriage pulled by a white horse. I am as excited as any child, I have seen this scene many, many times, and now I am right in the middle of it! How much better can it get?

Suddenly, Roger whispers in my ear. Musetta is about to sing her famous waltz. The second she begins, we are all to freeze, not move a muscle until the aria has ended. “Now!” he hisses, and I turn to stone, my flower in my hand. At first I feel it is going to be impossible to hold this stance. What if I get an itch, or have to sneeze? But I slowly find myself zoning out, still as a statue. My eyes focus on he monitor in the wings and the waltz lulls me into catatonia. I only wish I wasn’t holding my flower so close to my face. My breath causes it to wave back and forth. Well, what can I do? I have to breathe, don’t I?

And then the waltz is over and we can start moving again, bowing to friends, tasting a second bottle of wine. Roger and I explore the inside of the shop. Nothing much there. We are behind the set, where it is dark and stark.

Suddenly, we hear an awful screech. Musetta’s shoe is too tight! She orders Alcindoro to run out and get her a new pair. We see him hurrying up the stairs toward us, the offending shoe in his hand. The Bohemians are trying to find enough money to pay the bill. Musetta, now reconciled with Marcello, is eager to get out of there in case the old man comes back. And in the midst of all this we hear the sounds of trumpets and drums. It is a marching band, passing right by us, followed by quickstepping soldiers carrying their muskets. I see people waving to them and I hold up my flower and do the same. I have completely forgotten I am on a stage. I am in Paris on Christmas Eve, having the time of my life! Oh là là! I am starting to think of myself as French.

And then, way too soon for me, it is over. The Bohemians leave the café, the two sets of lovers arm in arm. Carrie Ann Matheson stops playing the piano. The curtain does not come down, but Mr. Smit says it’s down, and I feel limp, like a hot air balloon that is slowly deflating. I am in the real world now, and there is no music in my ears.

But, wait! Maestro Luisotti is saying something. He wants us to repeat the entire act. Oh joy! Quelle chance! The virtual curtain is going up. Roger and I resume our stroll, and my heart is singing.

This time, I’ll remember to hold my flower away from my face during the freeze.

Au revoir for now!

It is March 20th, and I am called for an actual costume fitting. At last I will be able to discover the 19th-century Parisian I am destined to be. Since the day I was measured I have been trying to imagine how I will look and what sort of person I will become. Will I literally be a Bohemian—a frill-free suffragette type who lives in a garret and burns her petticoats in order to stay warm? Or am I the wife of a successful Parisian businessman dressed for a party in a chic little suit with a bustle and perhaps a small cocktail hat perched on my neatly coiffed head?

Or let’s take it one step further. Maybe I am really upscale, a socialite perhaps, or a famous actress, or even a Russian Countess who has fled the Revolution with jewels hidden in her bodice! At the Metropolitan Opera House, anything is surely possible.

As I ponder all this while waiting for the elevator, I suddenly become aware of the man standing next to me. He has a certain presence about him. Although he is not tall, he looks rather imposing, and although he is not young, he is handsome with his silvery hair. And he looks familiar, like someone I know but can’t really place. I am brazen enough to look at him directly, and I realize he is a singer. Why, he is Paul Plishka, the American bass who is a fixture at the Met, extremely versatile, popping up in all sorts of roles that run the gambit from the title role in Falstaff to Alcindoro in La Bohème. In fact—and I catch my breath as this begins to register—he is portraying Musetta’s wealthy beau this very season. In the Christmas Eve scene at the Café Momus, my scene! I wonder if I should introduce myself. I am only a part of the crowd, but we are sharing the stage. Surely it would not be untoward for one colleague to greet another. As a matter of fact it would be considered ill-mannered if one didn’t.

I take the plunge. My instinct is to address him as “Maestro”—or is that only for conductors? I settle for “Mr. Plishka.” He acknowledges me and smiles politely when I tell him my name and inform him of our collaboration, incidental though it is. Naturally, I explain my role, and he nods with an air of understanding with slightly bemused overtones. He says something like, “How nice.” The elevator arrives and the door opens. He asks if I am going down. I tell him I am going up—to Wardrobe to try on my costume. Since the elevator is heading downward, he steps in and smiles again before the door closes. I am thrilled. What a delightful man! Who says opera singers are temperamental and stuck up?

In the costume shop I am greeted by a woman named Michelle, and we get right down to business. She pulls a long woolen dress from a rack. It is dark blue, imprinted with a sprinkling of tiny beige-colored flowers. It has a high neck and sleeves that pouf out from the elbow, but fit tightly around my wrists. It’s not exactly Countess-like, but it is pretty in a cozy kind of way. I strip down to my underwear and reach for it. But wait. This gown has underpinnings of its own. Not one, but two enormous crinolines. I slip them on. They are beautiful and sway when I walk. They make me want to dance. The dress slides over them and is laced up the back. A black band cinches my waist. The high neck makes my own neck look long. I step into low black shoes with “Mary Jane” style straps over my instep. I stare at myself in the mirror. I like what I see.

Michelle tosses a dark blue stole over my shoulders and places a frilly bonnet on my head. I’m okay with the stole, but the bonnet flattens my hair and gives my face a pinched look. I turn to Michelle and ask if we can try something else. She tells me there is something else, picks up the phone, and asks to be connected to the wig department. The wig department! She asks if Tom Watson can come and have a look at me. I perk up considerably. Mr. Watson is the head of the Met’s wig department, a fantasy place where a woman with limp blond hair can be turned into a sexy redhead with thick shiny curls cascading down her back, or a man with no hair at all can look like Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean. When Mr. Watson arrives my bonnet is removed and he measures my head. I ask if he can give me something that stands out from the crowd so my friends in the audience will be able to recognize me. He suggests something with flashing lights… Yeah, right. In my dreams. I give a resigned sigh. I have a feeling I’m going to look like Little Bo Peep.

And then it’s over. Mr. Watson leaves, I am unlaced, untied, unshod, and myself again, slipping into my plain black pants and jacket. I no longer sway when I walk, my neck doesn’t resemble a swan’s in the least. But my costume is carefully hung on the rack and my Mary Janes sit beneath. I do not know who wore these things before me or who will wear them in the future. But, for now, these are my clothes, as surely as if they were in my own closet. And the next time I put them on we’ll be going for a walk together—on the great stage of the Metropolitan Opera.

And I expect Mr. Plishka to ask me to call him “Paul” any day now.