I have been to Kennedy Center multiple times, in my previous life, for performances but never been to Adrienne Arsht Center for the performing Arts in Miami since it opened its door’s in 2006.

I got my first taste last Saturday and can attest that it is one magnificent gorgeous piece of structural design. With its symmetry simplicity, its ambiance makes your jaw drop and drool of wow. The sound is behind spectacular; the acoustics, it never leaves you as you embrace it from every corner. The lighting is alluring, just perfect. The seats are elegant, exquisite and comfortable. And the ushers were enormously courtagious and super professional; every one of them smiled and were behind gracious; token of anyone’s appreciation.

I enjoyed the concert. There was no intermission and the standard occasional change of attire was replaced by one black au couture outfit, replenished by an all 3-piece black sophisticated necklace (long enough it toppled her slender physic) that went around her neck ten times. But, somehow the singer was able to hold the court the whole hour and half.

But the bizarre, a story I want to share, happened at the end of the concert, while exiting the premises.

I went to the show with a friend. We had good seats. We were this close to the performer. Row E, go figure; when was the last time that happened to me? It was my other friend’s doing; he has connections. I am beginning to think that I am suddenly an important person.

We were going up the few flight of steps when I heard this voice behind us.  It was this very slander lady – typical theater going person, simply but very well dress, walking beyond us. She unexpectedly asked me a question.

The Lady: “Who are you wearing?”

(Surprised, I turned.)

“Excuse me?”, I asked.

The Lady: “Who are you wearing?” with insistence and interest.

(Astonished and perplexed, I turned to my friend.)

My friend: “She wants to know who you are wearing.”

“Who me? Who am I wearing?”, I asked.

(Still surprised, I asked her to please validate)

My friend: “Yes”

“Oh, Zara but I bought it in Europe”, I stated.

My friend: “Oh, Zara? There is one in Aventura.”

Some guy, the two appeared to be acquaintances, attempted to participate on the exchange but broke away in a hurry. I guess he had somewhere to go.

“Oh,Yeah, there is one in Aventura? I know the one in Dadeland Mall.”, I replied.

The Lady: “Oh yeah; there is also another one in Ball Harbour.”

The Lady (looking down): “And your shoes by who?”

(Now she wants to know about my shoes!)

“My shoes?”

(Has she had me confused with someone else?)

Still startled I answered, “Carlos Santana”.

Done, I set aside her “imposter” cross-examination (what else to ask?), and I continued chatting with my friend. I was done being gracious. Furthermore, we were close to the door and I needed to go to the loo.

The joke now is “Who are you wearing?”

I still don’t understand why I was quizzed, why the questions and will never know. Perhaps, it was seat E or I looked too cute or carried on a certain aura(ding dong). Next, she would be asking me about the color of my underwear?!