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I'm headed to Berlin tomorrow to play a concert at Steinway Haus. The trip will be a little more stressful than normal—my flights were cancelled due to a strike by pilots, so I'll be training it from Cologne to Berlin.

I had a bad day at the castle on Sunday at the Champagne Lunch, where most of the 65 guests were seated outside on the terrace, due to the beautiful weather. I was tucked into my usual piano corner, playing my elegant Sunday repertoire and hoping to avoid being hit by a piece of quiche sliding off the plate of one of our enthusiastic diners.

Comment 1:
(from an elegantly dressed older woman accompanied by her two angelic looking grandchildren, named Rosa and Tommy)
"I certainly hope you won't be too loud."
She said this to me with one of those fake horizontal smiles plastered on her bo-toxed face. Thinking I didn't hear her properly, I asked her to repeat herself, which of course, she did. I smiled, played louder, and said, very loudly, "HOPEFULLY."
She went to her table on the terrace, leaving Rosa and Tommy to play next to the piano.

Comment 2:
(from an Einstein look-alike balancing a plate of oysters in one hand and a platter of steak tartar in the other, dodging little Rosa and Tommy, who were running in circles around him, screaming like banshees)
"You sound pretty good—what are you doing playing in a place like this?"
I would have answered him, but this would have necessitated using a bullhorn, as Rosa and Tommy were shrieking and throwing themselves against the banquet next to the piano. (Their grandmother, from a distance, gazed at them with great admiration)

Comment 3:
(from an aging playboy wearing a Hugh Hefner kind of silken pajama outfit)
"This isn't a funeral, Madame. SWING MUSIC!!! Play some SWING MUSIC!"
Of course, in German this comes out sounding like SVING MUSEEK. I do not now, nor have I ever been much of a svinger.

Comment 4:
(from me to the grandmother, as I attempted to play louder than les enfants terribles)
"I HOPE THE MUSIC ISN'T TOO LOUD FOR YOU."


Comment 5:
(in response to Comment 4, shouted at me by the grandmother with that same phony smile on her face)
"Oh no, dear, our table is outside; we can't even hear you while we're eating. It's perfect."

And so it goes . . . the glamorous life of a hotel pianist. I'm kind of looking forward to this Steinway conert.

It reminds me of the rumor (unfortunately, untrue--- or at least, denied by CHP) that cars identified as Gross Polluters would be seized by the Highway Patrol, and towed off to be crushed. I refer to the adorable grand-liebchen--- or would we say gros-liebchen.

What a good idea that would have been!

At least, Robin, you might have told the grandmother--- confidentially, but loud enough to have been heard all over the terrace--- that her botox provider had missed a spot, and that she should get it seen to. You know just the tone: oh-so-friendly, but also oh-so-audible. Then, suggest a spot in the shade, so the wrinkles won't cast a shadow, with an earnest and helpful, just-between-you-and-me smile.

You-and-me, and a few hundred thousand readers.

As for the gentleman. Send Monsieur over, to say quietly to him, "But sir, it is a funeral--- didn't you know? I'm sorry, but the terrace is reserved... I'll have to ask you to move inside... well I would make an exception--- of course--- but the bereaved is complaining; she's understandably overwrought... no, sir, I couldn't; she doesn't want to meet you at this time, but I'll be sure to convey your condolences. Oh--- don't worry about your brunch and beverage... and tab... I'll have the busboy bring everything to your new seat. If you would just follow me, please."

Now that I think again, the gros-liebchen, their grandmother, and the gentleman could all be escorted to (or near--- very near) the kiddies table, with Monsieur explaining that no, madame, the waitstaff cannot look after your grandchildren. The insurance; the publicity; The Castle management forbids... but the kiddies' room is lovely, with no harsh sunlight.

And, "Today in Wedding History"

April 9, 2005 – Charles, Prince of Wales, married his long-time mistress Camilla Parker Bowles.

Not a Page One story, perhaps; there's a school stabbing, a tornado outbreak, a lost (and now, maybe, found) 777 airliner, and a frightful mudslide to the north... and--- oh, yes--- a frightful drought to the south, all jostling the story to the back pages and squeezing it into an ever-smaller typeface.

The story that made me feel all squishy inside, was that Diana, on her wedding day, in all that mob in Westminster Abbey, found her eyes lighting on the face of one person only: that of Camilla Parker Bowles.

Talk about Double Jeopardy--- think of Prince Chuck, with two wives on his wedding day. What a narrow escape he had, should it have come to pass, with a jillion cameras broadcasting worldwide, and live, that Camilla might have shoved her way up to the very altar of God and had it out with Diana, snatching her bald, on the spot. Would the government have tottered? Would the Queen have broken out in a rash? Would the future royal progeny have decided to sit the marriage out, poised unmanifest in prakriti and biding their time until a less unsuitable occasion came forth?

Oh, the Wedding History that might have been. Well, somebody had to mention the occasion... and they did give Let's Talk Weddings something to talk about. And it's not a limerick.

This is:

A troubled young heir, name of Chuck
Married Di, but continued to ****
With Camilla. Now fate
Has condemned him to wait
He may never never be monarch. Hard luck!

Oh dear. I'm not touching that limerick with a ten foot you-know-what. Wombat, you seem to have a special talent for this form. Well done!

I worry, I do, that sometimes my hair resembles Camilla's hair. I am still mad at the royal family for not hiring me to play for William and Kate's wedding. What a disappointment.

I have a wedding to play tomorrow! 28 people—I am playing for the nuptial dinner. The season is officially open.

The concert in Berlin was so much fun. I read the story about my grandmother (The Man on the Ceiling from Piano Girl), the stripper story, the sauna story, the horse story, and a new piece I've written about the concept of "home" (a hot topic when performing for an expatriate audience). In between the stories I played some of my compositions. The event was at Steinway Haus, so I had an amazing instrument—a Steinway B with no wrong notes. Love that!

I returned home last Friday, worked Friday and Saturday nights, then, Sunday morning (here at home), threw myself down a flight of steps on my way to get a cup of tea. No, Clef, an Event Planner did not push me.

Right toe: broken (again)
Right arm: scraped
Left thumb; sprained
Left shoulder: wrenched
Tailbone: sore & swollen
Ego: bruised

I am okay and going back to work this evening (limping—which is always good for sympathy votes). Be careful out there, folks! One false move and you have Camilla hair and you fall down the steps.

Happy weekend!

I hope you are feeling better soon! Take good care of yourself!

(Don't sit on hornets tails
Or on nails
Or third rails
You'll get a pain that'll ruin your tum tum!)

Feeling much better, thank you, BDB—although I surely won't be scheduling any nude photos shoots this week. I am the color of an eggplant. I'm quite lucky I didn't end up in a full body cast.

2014 Wedding #1:

Well, the first wedding of the season turned out to be a lovely affair. The bride, who was about 10 months pregnant, wore a tight white lace knee-length dress and looked stunning. As a two-time mom, I marvel at any woman who can be that close to giving birth and still manage to look chic. She wore very high heels and had her hair piled on top of her head. The groom was dashing. The guests were beyond elegant, except for one rogue brother or uncle or something who really truly looked like the Unibomber. Very long hair, messy beard, untucked shirt, shifty eyes. As you might guess, I had my eye on him all night. While everyone else was sipping rosé champagne, the Unibomber got the waiter to bring him whiskey (in a champagne glass). He knocked back about four glasses during the cocktail hour. He was pretty well-behaved, but when I left the night was still young, so who knows.

I expected the bride to give birth during the soup course, but that didn't happen. All in all it was an uneventful event—but I'm happy to be off to a good start!

Let's be careful how we mention soup courses...

I'm so sorry you were injured, Robin. My best wishes, and I hope you feel better very soon. There are some ladies who seem to believe the color eggplant flatters them... but they mean the kind of outfit you can take off (or wash off).

What a coincidence, that this has occurred so very close to the date of Backcountry Weekend (you will remember the story of the unfortunate lady who suffered a fall, a few years ago--- and tongues haven't stopped wagging since). I am waiting for a full description of how many firetrucks pulled up to your house, and how many firedaddies carried you back up the offending staircase and ministered to your toe.

I fell on my inside staircase, a number of years back. The knee replacement surgery proved to be a serious inconvenience; we got rid of the Stainmaster carpet, whose yarn is coated with teflon before being made into floor coverings, for it made the nose of the stairtreads far more slippery than anyone would suspect. Now, all I have to worry about is the persistent efforts of the dogs, who try to trip me on the stairs, so I will fall, break my neck, and release the treats I'm holding in my hand.

Nah... they're smart, but they're not thinking ahead that far; the world is strewn with banana peels enough, though, and we all have to watch our step.

Tonight I attended a performance of Faust at my daughter's college.

It was auf Deutsch, of course, and my daughter was one of the actors.

Fortunately there was a very good program, or I would have had trouble following. I did live in Germany 5 years, and I have a little German, but I'm very rusty.

But I had more trouble following for a very different reason.

My daughter volunteered me to sing a short verse from the audience, auch auf Deutsch, on the cue "Ich trinke, ich sterbe." Okay, I can be a good sport about it. I'm saving a life, after all (my intervention prevents Dr. Faust from drinking poison.)

Just watch for your cue in scene two, don't be late. Oh, and ring this bell just before you sing.

And.........they handed me a small cowbell!!!!!!!!

You know where my mind went.

MORE COWBELL!

In fact, that's about all I could think about. Thanks very much, Christopher Walken and SNL.

Somehow I got through the gig. With a smile on my face, and my brain going MORE COWBELL while my mouth sang Christ is erstanden.

Great story, Tim. I always say my life in Germany resembles one very long Mel Brooks film. Sounds like you're in the same Boot.

Ich trinke; ich sterbe—indeed.

More cowbell! More soup! More Firedaddies!

Survived the Easter Sunday champagne lunch. A large group of small children, determined that eggs had been hidden under the grand piano, crawled around down there for most of my first set, but they were well-behaved crawlers (as opposed to the braying devil-children from previous weeks), so that was fine. Luckily I was wearing a pantsuit.

Hope all of you had a peaceful weekend. I did not eat a chocolate bunny, but Frau Siegling-Weberhorst, who is 97 years old (and the owner of a rather large chocolate company), did present me with a huge box of chocolate truffles. After eating a few of them last night, I've decided this must be the secret to her longevity.

I was out hiking with Martin, a charming fellow, who was 'really into' foods that can be found in the wild. I received quite an education about common plants which are edible-- he said. He offered me a bite of what he said was a wild truffle, but it looked enough like a dog turd that I just couldn't--- but I'm sure Frau Siegling-Weberhorst knows who's who, and who's not who, in the truffle world, and that her truffles could never be taken for... ok, I'm not sure I like where this is going.

I don't know how it is in Germany, but I hear that in France they use pigs to serve as truffle hounds, prizing their ability to sniff the tasty truffle treat in its underground home. I'm not sure that this ability did anything for the pigs' longevity, but I do know that two out of four of my grandparents smoked like chimneys and drank like fish, and lived on to be quite elderly. So, if you think truffles are the key to a very long life, and if that's what you want, then go ahead and roll the dice. I would find it hard to argue the point with a 97-year-old truffle factory owner... but I do know that there are pianists whose work is highly prized, up into their very advanced years.

If you see a bunny laying brown eggs, don't eat them.

They're not chocolate.

No wedding news, but I did play last night (my regular gig) and felt like I was in a crazy house. There was a man who decided to sit at the antique desk in the lobby. He stared at me and wrote in a notebook, which, let me tell you, is enough to jangle any Piano Girl's nerves. I thought maybe he was writing a review or drawing a picture of me (oh, how my ego trips me up sometimes), but I sent a waiter to look over his shoulder and it turned out he was doing a crossword puzzle. When he left he said: "Your music really helped me."

I am now considering renting myself out to provide background music for Scrabble tournaments.

Then a group of four women from Taiwan came in and sat crammed together on the leather sofa next to the piano. This was slightly odd since there were about 25 free seats elsewhere in the lobby—but the ladies were joined at the hip and wearing really cute rain bonnets. Every so often they would shout something at me in heavily accented English. They moved as a unit (in my piano reverie I started to wonder if there was such a thing as Siamese Quadruplets) and kept yelling at me that I sounded like "Kevin Kern." Nice compliment—although it took awhile to figure out what they were saying. Kevin is evidently very big in Taiwan. Maybe now I will be big in Taiwan, too. One can hope.

Anyway, in the middle of all of this was a woman who was stalking the piano—she was there looking for a piano gig. She kept asking inappropriate questions really loudly, things like: "HOW MUCH DO YOU MAKE?" Clef, I sent her down to visit the Ninja Swans.

To wrap up the evening, an elderly woman who looked like a prison matron from the outskirts of Istanbul put her hands firmly on my shoulders and hissed : "NICHT SO LAUT." I don't suppose any of you need a translation for that sentence. I usually have snappy replies for such guests, but this woman was a little scary. Maybe I should have sent the Taiwanese Quadruplets after her. Death by rain bonnet. The four of them together (plus me) didn't weigh as much as she did.

I love my job, really I do.

I believe the proper response is "Nicht so nahe."

I would have said, "dann moechten Sie mehr Kuhglocke?"

(would you like more cowbell?)

Great idea, Tim. I shall start carrying a cowbell in my gig bag to handle such situations.

Well, that's unanswerable... although the subtext is deafening. I believe a loose translation might go something like, "Madam, stop mooing." What are they going to say--- "How dare you give me a cowbell?"

They take it to the manager; the manager shrugs. "Let me find you a nice table a little further from the piano," he says, with an ingratiating smile and a little twinkle. "Here--- I'll take that cowboy cowbell."

Yep, the kiddies room.

More cowbell! Let's Talk Weddings has now had over 2 million hits. If that doesn't call for more cowbell, nothing does. Many thanks to all our readers and writers.

I played last night for 50 Japanese people who are driving through Germany in Porsches. Imagine that convoy. They showed up at the castle for a cocktail party and dinner. Lots of bowing, which, frankly, I love. Much better (and more sanitary) to bow than shake hands or do the European kiss-kiss thing. In between bows I had my picture taken about a thousand times in the course of 30 minutes. Fashion report: The women were gorgeous—I haven't ever seen such pretty dresses. I've come to the conclusion that upscale Japanese women really get it right when it comes to style. They listened to the music and smiled and were all in all the perfect guests. Fun night at the castle . . .

Here in multi-cultural Vancouver Canada yesterday, I had a Japanese-appearing chap give me a lovely little bow of thanks for my stopping my car at a crosswalk to allow him to cross. I appreciated the gesture!

I think we should introduce bowing into western traditions. I am also a fan of the curtsy, but I like the unisex appeal of the Japanese bow.