It was the eighties and I was touring with the International Touring Company of A Chorus Line. It was my first real foray out into the world of what is now called ‘adulting.’ I spoke no foreign languages and we were traversing 9 countries and my contract was to be for three years. To think about it now, it sounds as if that would be challenging, but the young-determined me, only saw adventure; dark mysterious eyes; smiles and romance to greet me: An adventure that would possibly be put before me only once in my lifetime. I didn’t blink and I seized it with no regrets. We typically sat in a city up to two weeks, before we moved to the next location and I had partnered up to create a small combo with a few of the company musicians. Our plan was to book ourselves in to some late night shows in local Cabarets. It worked nicely, I had my charts with me; they had theirs and we built a show around the great American Song Book: Some original works; and everything from Roger Miller, to Judy Garland, to Tom Leher. By the time I got this gig, I had been singing in Cabarets for years.
And so, when the musicians asked me if I would like to be the song stylist in the combo, I was thrilled. The first country we were to visit was Switzerland. Upon arrival the drummer and I went out our first day to see what might suit us and who might be interested. We found a charming place, Minnares (which is Dutch and means Mistress). We met the owners, Matteo and Luca, and they were gracious and interested. By the time we had finished a glass of wine and some conversation, and the promise that we could get them box seats to see the show—we were in. The drummer of the combo, Tony, was impressed that the “tickets” sealed the deal. I, on the other hand, am a believer that bribing to get a gig doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve accomplished something on merit. Anyway, Tony and I left and as we walked out from the Cabaret, it occurred to us, that we now had to figure out a way to get his drum set there. Yes, they had a piano, so we were fine there… but the drum set was a horse of different color. So, off to the car rental we went. We found ourselves a cute little Citroen’, not particularly sensible, but it felt Euro and we were new to the Euro Experience and as a result we rented it, but not without regret and reward. After all, Citroen’s
are small and a combo of five, with a trap, is not. Still, we came, we saw, we concured and every night after final curtain—we took off to Minnares with great excitement and abundant merriment. The shows went well: A Chorus Line and our Combo’s. It was our last night in Geneva and our last night doing a late-night show at Minnares. Now, Minnares sat on a busy corner, up two blocks from the guillatine in the Old Town’s Square. Every night on our way back to the hotel, that little Citrone would slip and slide around like a drunken Sonja Henney, but never a problem, she behaved as we needed her to behave. After the show, we typically had a glass of wine, maybe two, to unwind. It was this night, there was a horror of a snow storm; whipping wind and if the snow stopped, we caught the horizontal rain. And of course, being our last night in Geneva, we decided to let our hair down and embibe a bit more than usual. As we drove down the street, I asked Tony—who always sat in the front with me—Is there an island in this part of the street? I can’t see for the snow. He assured me there was none and then said, “I will keep a look out for the cars and you hit the petrol to scoot across the road when I tell you the coast is clear.” Well, in my young-intoxicated wisdom, I thought that was a fine plan. Blocking out the noise from the back seat—you know musicians—I heard Tony clearly say, HIT IT. I stepped on the petrol and thud. We stopped. We not only stopped, we stopped perpendicular to the oncoming traffic. We all filed out of the car on cue—as if we were car clowns—to see what oh what could the problem be. And there it was, we were high-centered on an island. An island, as I understood earlier, shouldn’t have been there. We tried to push the back end of the car up and over the island, but to no avail. It was then, in that very moment, the world went into slow motion and from the shadows came two men, they appeared as if they may have lived on the streets: unkempt, belequered, quiet. And as if the citroen’ was no heavier than a fork or spoon, they not only lifted the car, they turned it and put it in the correct lane going the right way. It was then and is now, unbelievable to me. The boys immidiately piled back in the car and started yelling at me to get in and drive, but I was more interested in thanking these men who helped us. I turned, and they were not there. I yelled for them, nothing. I got back into the car, and tried to see through the snow for figures walking, but could see nothing. The remainder of the ride back to the hotel was quiet. We were a couple of blocks away when I heard a voice from the back seat ask, “Was that a weird moment, or is it my imagination. And where did those guys go, were they even there?” Now you may be thinking—hah, they had too much wine; but know this, we may’ve had too much wine but we weren’t crazy-drunk. We did know we were fine enough to get home safely. And then I heard it. I heard what we all were thinking. “Were these guys ether? Angels? How do you appear, how does time slow down, how is a car—tho small—be picked up as if it was light as a feather. We all agreed, they were angels. Not angels because they helped us, but angels sent to us. I adulted a lot on that tour. But I never expected to be visited by angels. It changed me and how I look at everything and everyone in this world. I see every stranger on the street differently. And I certainly see myself differently too.