Siete Veces Adiós: Maybe I Like Theater After All

I’m not what you would call a theater person. Or at least that’s what I like to tell myself, as if distancing myself from the stage were some guilty confession. In truth, I’ve spent more time involved in theater this past year than in all the others combined.

Last spring, we staged Oklahoma in Thomasville, Alabama, a small-town production with big Broadway dreams. In a rural corner of America where opportunities and artistic connections often feel scarce, the tradition of mounting a musical each year feels nothing short of miraculous. 

A few lines, a few dances, two performances, a sudden COVID scare, and a handful of new friendships, that’s what I carried away from that experience. Whenever I think about how I ended up on that stage, I laugh softly, looking at the ceiling as if in silent gratitude for the restless spirit my parents somehow instilled in me, a spirit that always seems to land me in unexpected places.

A few months later, I traveled to New York with my family. Broadway, the sacred heart of musical theater, was an inevitable stop. We made our choice not based on critical reviews or personal passions but purely on ticket prices, trusting that even the most affordable show in New York would meet a standard higher than almost anywhere else. 

Chicago, Wicked, Romeo and Juliet, and our obvious pick: Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. My family adores the books. The production was impeccable, a kind of stage wizardry, but after nearly ten hours spent wandering the streets of Manhattan, exhaustion took its toll. I fell asleep midway through the second act, lulled by the very magic I had come to witness.

Still, despite the humble charm of Thomasville and the extravagant spectacle of New York, neither experience quite captured me. “It was good,” I would say, shrugging, “but I’m just not a theater person.” That was the story I kept telling myself.

One evening, back home with my parents, we watched Wicked on Amazon. I cried. Elphaba’s story moved me more than I cared to admit. And yet again, I told myself it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t a theater person.

When I moved back to Mexico City, a bustling capital where theaters seem to spring up on every block, it was only a matter of time before I found myself seated before another stage. It happened almost by accident. A few weeks prior, my girlfriend had mentioned wanting to see a play called Siete Veces Adiós (Seven Times Goodbye). We discussed ticket prices and venues but never actually made plans.

That Saturday morning, I asked her not to make any plans for the evening. I had a surprise in store. That evening, we wound through the endless arteries of the city until we turned down División del Norte, where the modest façade of the Teatro Ramiro Jiménez came into view. We arrived early and found a nearby café, where we split a biscuit over coffee. She looked radiant, her eyes wide with the thrill of surprise, her outfit perfectly echoing the soft melancholy of the musical we were about to see.

Siete Veces Adiós is the brainchild of Alan Estrada, a Mexican actor whose work I’d admired for years and with whom I had once had the chance to collaborate. The premise is simple: a couple mourns their relationship after a breakup, revisiting the seven moments that shaped their time together. It’s a modern love story about heartbreak and the grace of saying goodbye.

At first, I struggled to connect. The first act felt a little distant, as if the story were still finding its footing. But as the night unfolded, the play gathered momentum, delivering a second act that was raw, transparent, and disarmingly honest.

At one point, I overheard a woman in the audience lean over to her partner and whisper, “I’m sorry for dragging you to such a sad play.” I chuckled. For a brief moment, I wondered if it had been a terrible idea to bring my girlfriend of just a few weeks to a story about the end of a long relationship. But soon, I understood: love is not bound by timelines. Love finds its place in every story, in every gaze, in every heart.

The brilliance of Siete Veces Adiós lies in its structure: a simple concept, delivered with restraint. Seven memories. Seven variations on a theme. It never plunges too deeply, but it doesn’t need to. What it lacks in depth, it compensates for with tenderness and authenticity.

The production itself mirrors the emotional arc, starting small and understated, building toward something luminous. The second act showcases the actors at their best, the songs at their most stirring, the set and lighting at their most expressive.

Estrada’s choices are bold but measured. He flirts with theatrical excess but always pulls back just in time, trusting the simplicity of the story to carry the weight. Siete Veces Adiós is a conceptual musical, but not an experimental one. It borrows from the traditions of the genre while carving out its own distinct path.

By the end, I found myself in tears. Not out of sadness, but out of a raw, bracing empathy. Out of love. Out of recognition. I allowed myself to feel the ache of a broken heart, not because I was living it, but because I understood it.

From Siete Veces Adiós, I took away a simple truth: you don’t need a broken heart to connect with someone else’s pain. Love must be lived, savored, released, and celebrated. It is impossible not to recognize it when it passes through your life.

That night, our adventure didn’t end at the theater doors. We drove through the city, wrapped in the warmth of stolen kisses and shared glances, as if living our own love story set to music.

And if you’re wondering: yes. Maybe. I am a theater person after all.