Trials, Tunes, and the Existential Metro Stop

To set the scene: It’s 10pm on a Sunday. I’m curled up in my slightly-too-small Toulouse apartment, nursing a cup of herbal tea like a middle-aged yoga instructor, with some soft classical guitar playing on Spotify — because, apparently, I am 87 years old at heart.

Outside, rain is politely cascading over the tiled roof and into the cobblestoned courtyard below, and inside, I am feeling… reflective.

Uh-Oh - Dangerous, I know. But... whats new?

---

View of the Garonne river, looking towards St Cyprien

Tomorrow, I kick off a tour of 'Le Bus Papageno' with Théâtre du Capitole. We’re about to zigzag our way across the Occitanie region, bringing Mozart’s ‘Die Zauberflöte’ (aka The Magic Flute) to schools, towns, villages — and, a week in Cannes. #NotTooShabby.

It’s a cleverly reduced version of the opera, directed by the brilliant Frédérique Lombard, with our entire orchestra replaced by the magical skills of Parisian accordionist Michel Glasko (yes, he’s amazing — no, I can’t explain how he does it).

Now, ‘The Magic Flute’ follows young Tamino and Pamina on a journey of self-discovery, growth, and yes, love. Along the way, they’re guided (or misled?) by Papageno and a few wild characters, and ultimately must face a series of trials. Cue the drama. Cue the symbolism. Cue the awkwardly tight costume changes carried out in usual touring fashion with our crew dutifully holding up an old blanket while I not-so-elegantly strip down to change from 'Boy Scout Tamino" to "Man Tamino" behind the hand painted backdrop - glamour, I tell ya!

One of my favourite moments in the show — and this is where it really gets me — is the trial Tamino and Pamina undergo together. They’re surrounded by fire and water, quite literally thrown into the elements, and as they walk through it all, they sing:

“Marchons, la flamme nous inonde, Mais l’âme peut ce qu’elle veut, Ton chant nous gardera de l’onde, Comme il nous garde ici le feu.”

Translation: “Let us walk, the flame engulfs us, but the soul can do what it wills. Your song will protect us from the waves, as it protects us here from the fire.”

It’s the opera’s way of saying: Real partnership is standing in the fire — and the flood — and still walking forward, side by side, because your souls have chosen it.

And that line — well, it’s got me thinking.

Here's the Excerpt - skip to 2:45ish if you wish

Because just this week, while I was climbing my way up the metro steps en route to a coaching, I stopped short. Not because of divine inspiration. No, it was an Instagram story.

A friend of mine — a wonderful one back in Melbourne — now has two children. Two! I messaged her in a moment of awe something like: “Wow. You have TWO humans. And they’re going to be with you for your whole life.”

It hit me in the gut.

Because as I was walking alone to a coaching, prepping arias for a recording, it dawned on me: so much of this life — this beautiful, complicated, opera-fuelled life — is done in solitude.

And the thing is, nobody really explains what ‘sacrifice’ looks like when you sign up for this. Sure, they mention it in vague terms at university: “You’ll have to make sacrifices.” But they never draw the diagram. They never show you that it means birthdays missed, friends’ weddings you can’t attend, the moments when you’re surrounded by magic — literally performing it — but have no one to turn to and whisper, “Isn’t this incredible?”.

I left a nearly seven-year career in finance in Australia, and funnily enough, spreadsheets don’t prepare you for the emotional tax of doing something you love while building a life that often feels… solitary. Every spare dollar went into lessons, flights, coachings, language courses (and let’s be honest, my Italian is still mostly hand gestures and the occasional burst of confidence). But it was worth it. It is worth it.

Still, some days, I find myself wondering: how did I end up here, building something so meaningful — yet with no one next to me to share it with?

---

So let’s talk love. Because, why not?

In my very PG-rated twenties, I stumbled into three very different love stories:

Love #1: The Fixer-Upper. I thought being a nice guy with a healing spirit (calling the innocent empath and some bad decisions to the stage, please) could help someone through a hard personal time. Spoiler: it didn’t. I ended up with more relationship anxiety than wisdom.

Love #2: The Anxious One. The COVID love story. Comforting at first, chaotic by the end. We tried, but we were two people needing stability when neither of us could give it.

Love #3: The supposed 'Real' Deal. The slow burn. The future-planning kind. The big “we could really make this work” love. But in the end, half of us couldn’t meet the moment. And when it ended, it left a void that’s lingered longer than I care to admit.

Cue a deep sigh and at least one or two brooding walks by the river.

Now, here’s where it gets interesting.

I’ve started to notice the generational shift in what love — and relationships — even mean.

My parents married young. They stuck it out. Their generation endured, committed, persisted. Ours? We therapize. We prioritise. We draw boundaries. We swipe endlessly. We’ve built a culture of self-awareness — which is good! But it’s also makes dating feel almost conditional.

It seems that in society, we want the soulmate and solo travel. The stability and spontaneity. The perfect partner… who also knows all five of their attachment style triggers and goes to therapy on Tuesdays, but also has no problems, no doubts, 'positive vibes only'.

Love, once an act of mutual choosing, now feels more like competitive compatibility testing. And if the chemistry doesn’t flow within three dates, or the vibes are off, we bail. Our parents worked through stuff. We block, we journal, next.

And yet, I’m still — stubbornly, perhaps foolishly — drawn to the idea that the best kind of love isn’t the whirlwind, but the steady march through the fire and water. That quiet choosing, day in and day out. That line in The Magic Flute? It’s stuck with me:

"Marchons, la flamme nous inonde..." — Let us walk, the flame engulfs us.

Because that’s what commitment really is. Walking through life’s chaos, not unscathed, but willing. Together. Soul-deep. Singing through the fire.

And maybe I haven’t found that yet. Though I don't necessarily believe this next sentence, maybe I’ve built a life so focused on one thing that there hasn’t been space for it to grow. Or maybe — just maybe — it hasn’t arrived yet because I’ve still got trials of my own to walk through - which actually is pretty exciting. If this was one of those American films with the lists of clubs to sign up on - give me the one for 'Personal Growth' any day!

---

But love? It shows up.

In the friends who send late-night voice memos from many time zones away. In a castmate’s glance after nailing a hard scene after they tired to upend it with a surprise comic flair. In the little texts from students, thanking me for helping them (though honeslty most of my students are absolutely filled with sass - the young people, I tell ya! - you know who you are).

So perhaps we chase romantic love thinking it’s the pinnacle — when really, love is what we build along the way. Maybe it’s not a grand duet, but a series of solo lines that, together, still make music.

That might be the most operatic thing I’ve ever written. God help me. Maybe I am THAT tenor. Call in the executioner!

But it’s true. And until that duet does arrive — until someone comes along who wants to sing through the fire with me — I’ll keep singing anyway, with a good dose of wisdom, kiwi charm and light-hearted fun.

Because this life I’m building? It’s full of meaning, full of magic. And that shy kid from Invercargill could never have imagined any of it.

And maybe that’s the point. Not chasing love. But recognising it — in quiet corners, in loyal friendships, in the applause after a well-sung aria. Or, at the very least, in the smell of fresh pastries and the joy of nailing high notes in front of fifty twelve-year-olds in a gymnasium in rural France.

Marchons. The flames might engulf us. But the soul? It can do what it wills, and right now.. that is sleep.. and maybe in the morning.... a freshly baked Chocolatine....

Tenor Out.

Z