Stepping through the ancient gates, I gazed upon the open theater before me. Rows of ash-colored stone curved in perfect symmetry around a ring of fine dust. Thick evergreens outlined the perimeter. Carrying a hint of rain, gray clouds pushed around in the blue sky above.
Dotting the 55 tiers of the Ancient Theatre of Epidaurus, in Greece, children and adults ascended the steps. Others maneuvered their way back down to the ground. Some strategically scattered themselves around and simply remained seated.
From the stone plate secured in the middle of the circular stage, a woman recited, emphatically, a passage I didn’t recognize. Lines from a play. A poem, perhaps.
“You stay here and wait for her to finish,” I instructed my husband. “I’m going to climb to the top row and signal you when I’m ready for you to say something. I want to see if I can hear you.”
The design of the theater lends itself to exceptional viewing opportunities. But it also holds the distinction of possessing perfect acoustics. From every seat, every word presented can be heard.
Of the numerous aisles that stretched toward the top, I chose one on which no other person was climbing. Occasionally touching the tips of my fingers to the stones for support, I scaled several steps and then turned around to see if my husband was in position.
By the time I reached the top, he had secured a spot on the plate. I stretched my arm above my head and waved. Although brutally focused, I could not discern what my husband said. I raised and waved my arm, again, hoping he would realize I needed him to repeat himself.
Still, I heard nothing from him.
Disappointed, I made the descent back to the ground, where I reported back to my husband.
“What do you mean, you didn’t hear me?” he asked.
“From the top of the theater,” I explained. “I couldn’t hear what you said.”
“But I didn’t say anything,” he replied.
Apparently, he also hadn’t heard me when I explained my intentions prior to making the climb. We laughed and walked toward a seat that would give us a good vantage point of our surroundings.
Located at the site of a sanctuary dedicated to Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine, the 14,000-seat theater was built in the 4th century BC. Ancient Greeks visited the sanctuary in hopes of improving their physical and mental health. Therapeutic benefits, they theorized, could be gained by attending the theater.
At one point the theater was buried but ultimately uncovered in the late 19th century. Amazingly, except for the stage, it remains close to its original state. And in the summer months, the setting plays host to drama festivals. Both ancient and modern performances are staged.
Now seated, even without a performance before us, I could easily grasp the lure of the theater. And a whispered word escaped me: therapeutic.
(Note: Marjorie Appelman is an English, communications and journalism teacher at Mason County High School and co-founder of the travel blog Tales from the Trip, which is on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. She can be reached at marj.appelman@gmail.com.)
