The evening calls to me. I’ve put on my best black dress, spent twenty minutes on make-up, and blown every crinkle out of my longish hair. Jewelry or not? Not. It might get in the way. Level-two eyes or level-three eyes? Better go with level three, otherwise my eyebrows will disappear and I’ll look like a Martian. High heels or flats? Doesn’t matter much, since I’ll spend most of the evening off of my feet.

I’ve been summoned to an unfamiliar place—the Hans Arp Museum in Remagen, Germany, for a meeting with a stranger. The night is crystal clear and cold and stars splatter the anthracite sky. Kate, the über-polite English voice on my GPS, tells me how to get where I’m going. I marvel at the technology; the best minds in the world can't track down Osama bin Laden, but they're able to pinpoint my little Mazda, transfer the information to Kate, and have her tell me, with an obscenely civilzed accent, which way to turn.

I follow along, slightly nervous about the evening ahead of me.

“Turn left at the next intersection,” she says.

“Make a right, then take the freeway.”

“Follow the freeway for 18.3 kilometers.”

“At the next light, turn right, then take the ferry.”

Kate has obviously gone bonkers. I've read the stories of people (mostly women) driving into lakes because the GPS told them to. I try to ignore Kate's directions. She argues for a few minutes, then gives me the silent treatment. After driving in circles and winding up in a dark alley, I decide to trust her, and head back to the turn-off for the ferry.

The lyrics to the Gilligan’s Island theme song run through my head.

I drive onto the boat, look out at the moonlit Rhine River, and step outside the car to consult—in pig-German—with the briny-looking skipper about the boat’s destination. I'm fearful of ending up in Switzerland. I'm a big fondue fan, but I’m already running late.

The skipper takes one look at my black ball gown, points at the huge building on the opposite bank, and smiles. He’ll take me where I need to go.

After disembarking, I park my car and head into the museum. It’s a beautiful place, full of beautiful art and beautiful people. I’m greeted by a hostess who has been assigned to me for the evening, and she takes me to my dressing room to freshen up before I meet my date.

“Are you ready?” she asks. She's way too perky and way too thin. I used to look like her.

“Yes,” I say, taking a deep breath. I’ve been through this a thousand times. I'm ready. Will I be faced with a refined gentleman, a tipsy lady in a polyester dress with a crooked hem, or a rowdy youngster determined to shout at me all night long?

The hostess touches my arm and guides me through the crowded room.

“Voila,” she says. “I hope this is okay for you.”

Praise be. It’s the refined gentleman. Some pianos are men, some are women. This one is a man. The Steinway Model D Concert Grand sparkles in the corner of the ballroom, freshly tuned, freshly polished, and in need of a little company.

I wait for my introduction. I take a bow, sit at the Steinway, and begin with “Starry, Starry Night.” The piano responds to my touch, whispers to me in tones I can understand, and tells me that the hours stretched out in front of me will be full of acoustic colors, both brilliant and subtle, reflecting my mood, the ambiance of the ballroom, and the sparkling star dance in the February sky.

We are a pair, this dapper piano and I. Without him, I’m an average musician, out for another paycheck, experiencing another frustrating performance that leaves me longing for another profession. With him, there are no wrong notes. I know I’m in the right place, doing the right thing, at exactly the right moment in time. We are made for each other, at least for tonight.

I finish my concert, say goodbye to my blind date, and make a silent promise to meet him—or someone like him— again, sometime soon.

The ferry ride back across the Rhine is quiet and dark; clouds have covered the moon, and the stars have slipped behind them. I shiver and glance over my shoulder at the shimmering lights in the museum. I catch the silhouette of the Steinway in the window of the ballroom—beautiful, proud, and waiting, with a well-earned air of entitlement, for his next appointment. I am one of many. He is one of a kind.

Robin Meloy Goldsby is the author of Piano Girl: A Memoir. Her next book, Rhythm: A Novel, will be published in October, 2008.