It has been a month of strange gigs, not just for me, but for everyone I know. Intrepid Piano Girl Emilee Floor played a Salt Lake City job that involved accompanying a German speed dating contest. While she played, a roomful of amorous (some might say desperate) Germans attempted to find their soul mates. They had forty minutes to accomplish this. Took me forty years. Anyway, whenever one of the pairs would hook up, a moderator at the back of the room yelled JAWOHL!!! Why this Colonel Klink version of the Dating Game was taking place in the middle of Brigham Young territory is beyond me. No doubt it involved the work of a zany European tour operator, high as a kite after one of those lunches with too much red wine.

While Emilee was serenading the swinging Germans, my friend Robin Spielberg was touring Montana and Idaho with a concert Steinway piano and technician in tow. One of her concert stops was a nudist (whoops, I mean “naturist”) retreat. But I’ll let her tell you about that sometime. No, she did not perform naked.

My husband, who wasn’t anywhere near any naked people (I hope) was performing with a jazz trio in Serbia in a town called Cakak, on a tour arranged by the Goethe Institute. The country, still suffering from the effects of the war, seemed a sad place to hold a jazz festival, but—according to John—the music was well received, the players were treated with respect, and the accommodations were drafty but acceptable. Word of caution to musicians traveling to Serbia: Never ever order THE BALKAN PLATTER.

In the meantime, I was slogging through a Soprano-esque wedding at a fancy place in Germany. I had asked the bride earlier in the week what color her flower centerpieces would be, because I usually try to wear something that coordinates (I admit this is an über-girly thing, but I can’t help myself), and she said, "Oh we don't have flowers, we have BALLOONS." I took a deep breath and said, "okay what color are the balloons?" and she said BLACK AND GOLD. This left me two choices: to dress as either a bumblebee or a Pittsburgh Steeler. I usually don't wear black to weddings, but for this hula-dula I wore a simple black dress with pearls. The guests were dressed in a clothing that looked like it had been designed by Donatella Versace for K-Mart. One bridesmaid wore gold lamé high heeled boots and a mini-skirt and the bride donned a mink-trimmed Victorian number that brought to mind those Barbie dolls with the big skirts that cover extra toilet paper rolls—you know, the kind of thing you can buy at craft fairs in Ohio.

All of this would have been okay, except that the guests were sort of nasty to me. Usually I’m treated very well—maybe not as well as the musicians in Serbia, but still. There were no offers of food, wine, or even a junior-sized Balkan Platter. The bride, who couldn’t have been older than 19, glared at me every time I took a break. I found myself sneaking into the buffet area to steal shrimp, just so I didn’t starve and drop into a dead faint at the Yamaha.

Wedding season is just starting. I shudder to think of the months ahead. Perhaps I should consider a tour of the former Yugoslavia.