We woke up in France.
We had to return the rented gear and the rented van by the afternoon in Holland.
We drove for an hour or so and had breakfast at a rest stop in Belgium.
I ate a cream of mushroom soup that was not bad.
Since we were in Belgium, I also ate a chocolate waffle.
I sat in the front and worked on a piece about deaths at Yellowstone.
The sun made me sleepy.
I laid down my torso on the front seat and fell asleep.
It was nice.
I woke up violently, my neck thrusting forward.
My mouth caught my vomit before it could escape.
Instincts are quicker than you.
I swallowed it, grimaced, and looked around.
Mike was listening to the second disc of Get In The Van.
Last day of van life for a while.
I took the final leg of driving, through the inexplicably traffic clogged rural by-ways of The Netherlands. I don't know what it is about Holland, but you just sit in traffic, marinating.
Around 4:30 we returned the gear to a warehouse on the outskirts of Amsterdam. We paid the man in cash. What we didn't know was that we also had to pay the same man for the rental of the van. He only takes cash. Unfortunately, we did not have enough cash to pay for the van in cash.
You see, we had been doing alright financially on the tour. Spain really took care of us with handsome fees, as did Holland, Belgium, France, and Switzerland. But once we crossed into the UK, all those savings had vanished. It costs about 300 Euros to get in and out of Britain. The petrol costs more, the guarantees are less than half what we had gotten elsewhere, and nobody buys merch. As a human, I love Britain. As a musician, it's hard.
Yeah, so we had to take out a bunch of Euros to pay for the van.
This is the reality of touring.
And please, don't get me wrong, I love it blah blah blah.
But sometimes my non-music friends have this misconception about what we do. When I get back people think I've made all this money, stayed in these amazing hotels, ate all this amazing food, and was driven around in a big bus.
But really we didn't make money, drove 7,500km ourselves in a cargo van, ate at rest stops, and slept on floors. I had to finish a water bottle in London traffic so I could piss in it.
Oh boo hoo.
I don't know why I feel compelled to shatter the myth for my friends. Why can't I let them think I'm a big, rich rock star stereotype?
I guess that wouldn't be honest or Rollins or some ridiculous nonsense that I need to outgrow.
So we followed the rental guy to the rental van place, and then he took us to the Schiphol airport, where we paid him. He recommended a rock and roll hotel downtown. We put our guitars and heavy shit in an airport storage locker and got on the train to Amsterdam.
Alan made the call.
"Hello, is this the ROCK AND ROLL HOTEL?"
A tram took us to the Leidseplein and eventually we found the hotel, whose name was actually BackStage Hotel. It was a funny spot. There were snare drums and saxophones used as light fixtures. An out of tune piano sat covered in bands' autographs. I couldn't tell if Built to Spill or The Vivian Girls had actually stayed there or if fans of the bands had professed their love.
We didn't sign the piano.
We didn't sign the guest book.
The desk clerk was very nice.
"There are guitars on the wall and if you want to take them into your room you can."
That was the last thing we wanted to do, but we said thank you, and they put our end-of-tour convenience store champagne on ice. We waited a minimal amount of time for it to barely cool and popped it open anticlimactically.
The rest of the night was very fun. We indulged in cliches and got very lost in the red light district. A bit on purpose really. It's still strange for me to see these women behind glass, tapping said glass, and selling you a come hither look. It reduces me to shy, junior high dance behavior; stealing a glimpse and then darting to the floor when our eyes meet for a split second. I get uncomfortable. I don't think I would actually be able to perform if I were to go through with this procedure. Too much pressure and not enough reality. Maybe if I were single, it would be a different story. Or if I wasn't baked on hash.
Still, it's fascinating and I have no judgment about it.
It seems to work.
We got lost for real trying to get away from the red lights, but eventually stumbled upon a New York-style pizza parlour. I ate a chicken tandoori and jalepeno slice that I thought would be stupid, but turned out to be very tasty.
We found the Leidseplein and, one by one, all went back to the hotel to not play guitars.
First Mike, who was eager to get back home to see his lady.
Then Alan, who started feeling dizzy.
Reid and I went out for a couple of beers, watching the party city and admiring the respect it has for itself. It's unlike an American party city in that way. Less shouting. Less self-absorbed attention bullshit. Less public vomiting. After 2am, it still seems to work.
I was next to head back, a Burger King cheeseburger in hand.
And then there was one.
Verdict: Win
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