The Met is presenting a New Year’s Eve gala performance of Gounod’s “Roméo et Juliette,” directed by Bartlett Sher. Dinner, dancing and fireworks will follow, but my friend and wingman, Ricky, and I have time to catch only the first act. A busy night looms.

The opera house lobby isn’t open yet. An optimistically well-dressed woman is disco-napping against a wall in the cancellation line. Once the caped ushers welcome us, we head to the upper levels to watch people pour in. The red cantilevered stairways look like the ventricles of a heart coursing with glitter blood. Everyone, men included, seems to be in “Where the Wild Things Are” furs; coat check looks like the Bronx Zoo. Floral patterns abound, on stunning floor-length gowns and crisp suit jackets. Shoulders are bare and unblemished, and jewels dangle together in family reunions. The sounds of soft, expert cork pops bounce percussively off every wall. It’s all impossibly glamorous.

“This is the only place to be,” says Roberta, from Manhattan, who gives me a New Year’s kiss on the cheek but not her last name. “I’ve been coming here for 25 years. It’s civilized, it’s gorgeous, no one gets drunk, and you’re home by 10:30.” Is she ready to say goodbye to 2016? “Absolutely. It’s gotta get better.”

Anxieties about 2017 are nowhere to be found. Are we waltzing on the Titanic? Sorry, I can’t hear you, the ushers are ringing the bell. I’ve got to go hear characters divided by hate sing.