Every so often I forget why I dislike something, and I think to myself, “why don’t do this? Other people enjoy it, so shouldn’t I?”

Classical music concerts are exactly this to me.

There is an international classical music festival here in Ushuaia right now. It seems like a pretty big deal, so I thought maybe I should check it out.

But it’s that idea of “I should” made me waste my money. For example, shouldn’t I want to pursue once-in-a-lifetime opportunities such as listening to the Moscow Symphony Orchestra in the city at the end of the world? Shouldn’t I want to better myself with the musical genius of Bach, Rachmoninof (spellcheck) and Chopin?

No, I shouldn’t. Whenever I go to the symphony I regret it. But it has been a few years since the last time I did. It was actually a first date - a blind date in fact - at Abravenal Hall. When he first asked me if I like that stuff - going to see the symphony and such -  of course I said “sure!”

I like that stuff, right? Who doesn’t WANT to like to do that stuff? Again, shouldn´t we all want to be smarter and more sophisticated than we really are.

Although I WANT to like going to the symphony, the sad truth is I hate it.

I learned that in my date two years ago and I was reminded of it again last night.

I’m current traveling with a French guy named Clement (pronounced Clay-Mo). He seemed game to attend a concert, so we bought (somewhat expensive) tickets (at least on a traveler’s budget) the first day we arrived. (Mind you, it was dumping snow at the time, and any indoor activity sounded particularly appealing.)

So last night, Thursday, we went. But I knew the moment I sat in my seat about ten minutes to 9 that this was a bad idea–a very bad idea.

I had been trekking for the past days in cold and snow, and my body was exhausted. And throw in a big plate of meat and carbs for dinner an hour earlier, I was doomed for a case of some serious Food Coma.

I complained to Clement why don’t they have a concessions stand. I could have seriously used some Skittles or peanut M&Ms to stay awake. But he responded in a quintessential French accent how Americans are so uncivilized and you don’t eat Skittles at the symphony.

“Don’t you know anyzthing about ze etiquette at ze zsymphony?” (all Zs are intentional)

“is etiquette a French word?”

“&@$;):*#%”

I probably wasn’t helping my country’s PR at the moment. But how could anyone sit up straight during this stuff for two and a half hours? I looked around the same hotel salon that was turned into an improv concert hall, all I saw were bunch of Argentine couples, not one under the ages if 50, sitting perfectly straight in their chairs with all eyes ahead. I desperately wanted to find someone with his/her face resting forward in his/her hands but my misery was not shared.

And then it came. An overwhelming heaviness of sleep that fell on my head that, no matter how bad I wanted to stay awake, knocked me out for the rest of the concert.

I laid my head on Clement’s shoulder and apologized. I couldn’t help it. Maybe if they were playing the Star Wars theme I could stay awake.

He, with his French etiquette, was sympathetic and let me sleep.