MOVING IN STEREO

Ghost of a Chance

"I don't believe in destiny.

Or the guided hands of fate

I don't believe in forever.

Or love as a mystical state

I don't believe in the stars or the planets.

Or angels watching from above

But I believe there's a ghost of a chance we can find someone to love

And make it last..."

Ghost of a Chance

Rush

The plane touched down at Vienna International Airport at about ten-thirty at night. The ancient city was lit from end to end, a neatly packed star cluster of life amid black farming fields and endless forests. There was a room reserved for me at the Ruby Marie Hotel that was supposed to be walking distance from the show at the Wiener Stadthalle. Martin and Renee well planned this as the Stadthalle was the venue for Cirque. After checking in through customs and having my passport stamped, I decided to find my way on foot. The front of the airport had floor-to-ceiling glass walls, and the sight of the city lights had a beckoning power I could not resist. I stepped outside into the freezing night air. Damn, that's something else I hadn't thought through. The time and temperature were in bright lights atop a building of some kind just opposite the entrance to the airport, and it claimed it was ten after eleven and to be minus one in temperature. That was in the neighborhood of actually freezing using the civilized Fahrenheit scale. In other words, cold!

I put on my hood, pulled the strings tight, shouldered my single duffle bag a little higher, and began to walk. Within minutes, I realized that the airport was not within walking distance from my hotel despite the brightly lit surroundings and the bustle of activity, especially in the cold. I stopped at an open coffee shop/newsstand and bought a city map and a strong cup of coffee. All the alcohol had worn off, including the three in-flight Martinis. I was stone-cold sober and had no idea where in the hell I was going.

"Guten Tag," I said to the man folding newspapers over a taught cord at the front of the store.

"Wo finde ich ein Taxi?"

My German was rusty, very rusty, but I had traveled several times with my father, so I could get by.

The man stopped and looked at me, puzzled.

"Wie bitte?"

"Ein Taxi?"

The gentleman nodded, waving his hand for me to follow him to the street corner just outside his brightly lit shop.

"Wo gehst du hin?"

I handed him my reservation booklet for the hotel. The address was marked in bold print on the face of the brochure.

"Ja, ja, ein bisschen oben in der Stadt," he smiled as he walked to a small portable-looking building and spoke to a man standing inside smoking.

 The man stepped outside, glanced at me, nodded, and waved a hand. A silver Mercedes pulled up to the curb in no more than a moment. The gentleman working the magazine stand shouted, "Bis spater," as I climbed in the back seat, shoving my duffle into the other.