When you hear your cue, Sing.

About three years ago, between gigs singing opera, I took a vacation to Bolivia.

Since I was only going for a week, and since Bolivia is ridiculously cheap, I splurged on everything. I went more than once to the fanciest restaurant in town, known among tourists as one of the only places it was safe to eat raw vegetables. During my first dinner there, a live pianist entertained. He was playing, of all things, highlights from the very opera I had just performed a week prior: the waltzing Viennese comedy Die Fledermaus. I was tempted to ask to sit in and sing my arias, but seeing as how extreme altitudes like La Paz’s (the highest capitol city in the world) deteriorate breath support, and how I didn’t speak Spanish, I chickened out.

A day or two later, I made a point to go out to a wine bar in the center of La Paz, just to treat myself to “the good life” that was denied me as a starving artist back home in New York. I walked through the nippy night streets bustling with colorful Aymara dresses, until I found the address.

As I walked through the door, I heard a strangely familiar sound. Two voices were singing a melody, a song that I knew. It was beautiful. It was universal. It was Verdi.

A man and a woman were sitting at a table, singing the famous Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves, the song that united Italy. They were “la la la”-ing, struggling to remember the Italian lyrics.

This time, I took my cue. I walked in the door, raised my arms à la Pavarotti, and hit the arching high notes. “Le memorie nel petto raccendi!!” “Rekindle the memories of our hearts.” Their jaws dropped to the floor, and they stood up and applauded and pulled me up a chair.

They were members of a local chorus. We talked music. He sang me a tango. And I learned my lessons: Music is the universal language. And: When you hear your cue, sing.