At 3 p.m. Monday in the lower lobby of the Intercontinental on Front (TIFF headquarters for most journalists), with 10 minutes to kill between interviews, I decided to use the time getting organized. I spread my notes and tapes on a handy piano and started labelling. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone sit on the piano bench. Suddenly this lovely, Cole Porter-ish music filled the air. I looked up to smile at the pianist. Dustin Hoffman smiled back. One lone handler stood nearby. He played his song. I leaned on the piano and listened, like we were in a cocktail lounge. Two minutes later, he stopped, I applauded, he stood up and gave me a little bow. Then he and his handler walked off. Spell broken, I looked wildly around. No one else had noticed. That moment was his and mine alone.