There is a band playing atop a huge hill in Graz. I look out over the city and an image of the Ghost, imitating me, pops into my head. We are lying in bed, the alarm has gone off and a trumpet sounds from the radio station. We mock the sound with interpretive dance, laugh, and go on with the day.
A thought occurred to me today though: instead of Meg Ryan's steadfast quote from French Kiss, "Oh! Beautiful! Wish you were here!", I'm overwhelmed by a new one-liner.
"Beautiful, beautiful! Glad you're not here!"
Because as lonely as it has been to dine alone and retire to a single bed here (and as cruel as my new quote sounds in retrospect), I'm ever-so-thankful I don't have to force Austria on anyone who might not appreciate all this splendor.
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