As I am corralled into the chaotic, frenzied theatre, I am welcomed by the scent of salty nuts and the shouts of enthusiastic spectators. Worn coins are shoved into greedy hands in exchange for a viewing of the entertainment. Last minute bargains are made outside the entrance, securing the shaky deals made for sought-after seats. I have watched this festive scene from afar my whole life, but I have never been an actual part of the action. I feel as if I have been initiated into a once secret group of cultured individuals who have the ability to watch England’s best diversion. My wonder of the spectacle overcomes me, but I am violently ripped away from my own thoughts by the impatient crowd. My father beckons me to follow him through the maze of untidy, rowdy onlookers in the Penny Pit. My father guides me up the wooden stairs and onto the stage. Because it is my birthday, my father agreed to pay extra so that I could be one of the privileged stage-sitters. Because of his generosity, I will now be able to have the most vivid view of the performance. I cautiously wipe the dust away from the wooden boards with my sleeve, careful not to tear my new dress. My father notices my predicament and gallantly spreads his coat on the stage so that I can sit with ease. Because my father is a baker, clothing items and other expensive goods are sparse. Living frugally has taught me to value clothing and rare gifts, such as this trip to the Globe Theatre.

            My father stands beside me next to the stage as Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night begins. I am captivated by the actors’ quick, witty conversations and flamboyant props. Romantic gowns diligently follow the fluid motion of graceful ladies, and the bright sun catches on gentlemen’s velvet pants as they float across the stage. The performers speak and move in a confident, passionate manner, engaging even my wandering mind. Although I am a child, the words and actions displayed on the stage are not foreign to me. Rather, I understand this scripted play more easily than reality. Eventually, the performance comes to a close, much to the entertained audience’s dismay. When the spectators’ hands cease praising the acting troupe for their fine work, I am plucked out of the magical world of Shakespeare and dropped back into the bustle of the theatre. When I left my humble dwelling this morning to attend Twelfth Night, I was simply expecting an exciting birthday diversion, not a life-changing performance. However, when I leave the extravagant theatre to return to my comparably dull home tonight, I will have nothing but Shakespeare’s eloquent words flowing through my mind.