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So, there we have it. Another weekend, another show, and, for me, another journey through the hell that is the gig itinerary. Firstly, a 5 a.m. get-up, followed by a 7.15 a.m. arrival at airport parking, and then check in for my 8.45 am flight for Hannover from Alicante. Did I say 8.45? I meant delayed. My flight was posted with a one and a half hour delay, but in the event proved to be a full two and a half hours late! I had my first train booked for 14.06, normally plenty of time, but no, it was not to be. Even a 2 hour delay would not have troubled me, but that extra thirty minutes was crucial. It sent my day into chaos. My train ticket was non-changeable, my card had maxed out and I was at the mercy of the train staff, as I attempted to negotiate the five trains across Germany to the backwater of Meuselbach-Schwarzmulle, or whatever the hell it was called. Something double-barrelled. Meuselbach Tyler-Moore probably. I began my train journeys only an hour behind schedule, immediately coming face to face with German bureaucracy, in the form of a disgruntled train guard (they’d been on strike that week) telling me I was on the wrong train, I was reserved on the earlier one. Tell me something I don’t know, Herr Konductor. I explained about my horrendous flight delay, but he just replied in clipped English; “That’s not my problem!” Not a good start, but I refrained from explaining my position with aid of a fist in his face and thankfully he stamped my ticket, albeit reluctantly. On my arrival in Gottingen, I discovered that the connections did not automatically follow my pre-arranged pattern hour for hour, so I had to get a revised itinerary, after talking nicely to the platform staff. This at least ensured that I would arrive at my destination, but now a full two hours later than planned. At least it gave me an hour to chill in Miki’s old University town of Gottingen. I had a hot brownie (is that legal?) with Ice-Cream in her honour. Well, that was my excuse anyway. Suffice to say, I reached the hotel at 20.30., ate and showered in thirty minutes flat, and was on my way to the gig with the guys at 9, having barely had time to say hello. We actually caught up on news during the gig. The saving grace of this debacle, as always, was the show. A packed marquee in the town square cheered and jumped up and down to our 75 minute set, which we delivered with a verve that belied our travels (The guys had not had an easy trip either)
I was really happy with the show. Amazingly, after 5 hours sleep and a 14 hour travel day, my voice held out, and I felt it was one of my best performances. A brief rest in the dressing room with multivitamin drinks, and a few autographs signed, it was back to the hotel for bed, grabbing scant hours of precious sleep before yet again embarking on another train marathon. Eight trains today, beginning with breakfast at 7a.m. in the hotel. (The owner had to be woken to make it, as apparently they don’t start until 8, and that was when we were leaving.) I think it’s something to do with the fact that the majority of guests were over Eighty, and the extra hour was to allow for the crash cart and CPR. Then Rudi, our promoter dropped me at Meuselbach station, a little one-track one-shack affair in the middle of nowhere, where I spent a captivating twenty minutes watching a couple emerge from a motorhome in the car-park- the guy changing his trousers and shaving alfresco out of a bucket at just 6 degrees centigrade. They’re made of stern stuff here in the East. As I write, I am on my fifth train and its still the morning. I’m on the ICE trains now, which are a cut above the Thomas the tank engine stuff. All has gone smoothly so far. Fingers crossed it will continue. I will return to you, dear reader, when I board the Frankfurt to Dusseldorf express a little later.
An ICE Train earlier today...Just a little bit later….
Aha! Well, you find me able to put pixel to screen a little earlier than anticipated, having located a power socket between the seats. So the laptop is raring to go. My conversational German, insofar as it pertains to travel, is rapidly becoming second nature. If you can forgive my appalling grandma, I mean grammar, I can ask for all sorts of things. Is the train after this one the Frankfurt train? Which platform do I need? Where is carriage one going to be? Why can’t you get me to the Airport on time? That sort of thing…
Anyway, ”mustn’t grumble” as the neighbour says in The Small Faces’ “Lazy Sunday”, Though I must say this is not really my idea of a lazy Sunday. That would be relaxing in the sun with Miki, eating brioche and curd….
But, as usual, patient and attentive reader, I digress. It was with deceptive ease that I negotiated the changeover between trains in Fulda, I barely broke into a sweat, and found my seat in seconds. German efficiency oiling the wheels of the transport system. Except when they go on strike. Tomorrow.
So, I’m safely on my sixth train, only another two to go, and with any luck, I shall be able to rendezvous with lifelong CHRISTIE fan Reiner in Dusseldorf before boarding the flight to Alicante.
A little bit later still…..
And so it came to be that I made the transition at Frankfurt Station without incident, insinuating myself onto the train amongst the great unwashed. I use the term specifically, because when you are herded into these metal canisters, at close proximity with your fellow man, you are party to intimate knowledge as to whether they are unwashed or not. Thankfully, I had a seat reservation, but all around me, chaos broke out like a rash. A confused American tourist (is there any other kind?) came out with a bewildered, glazed over look when a harried father of three told him his seat was taken.
“Really?” he asked, “where are the unreserved ones?”
“I don’t know!” answered the nonplussed, but clearly fluent in English and reservation-replete German.
And so it continued, from the comfort of my very own seat, I could marvel at my shoulder being used as a butt-rest, large luggage blocking the corridor, hemming me in, and unfeasibly fat German women with bags protruding at obtuse angles, hell-bent on navigating the carriage, and to hell with whoever lost an eye in the process. I have a new take on the acronym for their train service, ICE; Incredibly Cramped Exasperation.
Of course, it being Germany, you might be jostled black and blue or harried out of your seat when you arrive at your destination, but at least you’ll be on time.
15.00 p.m. Dusseldorf Railway station.
Ironically, after a day of impeccable timekeeping, my eighth and final (or so I thought) train of the day was five minutes late. My ironic smile not withstanding, I eventually boarded it for the five minute journey out to Dusseldorf Airport. Upon alighting to the platform, bone-weary, I heard cries of “Kevin! Kevin!” and looked up to see Reiner, number one Christie fan and old friend rushing up to greet me. He gladly took my guitar for me, and I gladly let him, exhausted as I was. We made for check-in. Except I’d forgotten one thing, I had one more train to catch. The Mag-Lev into the airport. Nine today, Fourteen in the space of twenty-five hours!! Am I insane? Probably.
Anyway, check-in out of the way, Reiner and I sat and discussed old times over coffee, he reminding me it was around three years since we’d last met, and he showed me a few photos of him and Jeff Christie, when they’d met up recently at a T.V. show Jeff was filming. He also insisted on phoning a couple of Christie fans so I could say hello!
Sadly, I didn’t have a great deal of time as I had to catch my flight to Alicante, but getting to meet old friends helps the journey a little bit more bearable.
I landed in Alicante on time, my guitar came off the belt reasonably quickly, but then I had to suffer a forty-five minute wait for someone to come and take me to my car. It’s times like this, after 39 hours of almost continuous travel hell, that you really wish you’d paid premium rate in the airport car park. The ability to just get in and go home (I would’ve been nearly there by the time the guy came to take me to my car) is beyond price.
But the most priceless thing is the welcome I get when I pull up outside the gates from Miki. It’s nice to be missed, and it’s nice to come home.
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