Here’s what happened:
On April 22nd 2023, I received a flurry of texts from my good friend John Coyne. I first met John at Neptune Oyster in 2005, where I worked as a server and where John was a semi-regular. John really deserves (and will no doubt receive) an entire novel/documentary/Netflix series dedicated to him as he is far and away the most interesting person I have encountered in my lifetime. He was born in Revere, MA way back when and makes his living climbing flagpoles that can often be found atop 50 story buildings. Say the flag on the roof of the Prudential Center gets all snarled up. John is the guy you’d call to climb up there and unsnarl it. He also handles all of the signs, flags, and banners at Fenway Park, his main account. In addition to his extraordinarily unusual day job, John has also traveled to every corner of the planet and has the receipts to prove it. During my Neptune tenure (2005-2011), John would often arrive at the opening bell and stay at the bar for around six hours, eating heartily, drinking minimally, and holding forth compellingly. We instantly bonded over our shared love of music and independent cinema…a bond that continued long after I left the Tune. In all my years on the gig…over, say, 1800 hours worth of lunching…I don’t think I ever heard John tell the same story twice. Brilliant raconteur, gutter renaissance man, and all around badass, John is the cat you want on your side when they kick out your front door. This April volley of texts featured screenshots of a touring itinerary that I recognized as dates from the upcoming European leg of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band’s 2023 tour. Despite having no experience in the music business whatsoever, John had been hired to work as substitute tour manager for the biggest production running that wasn’t Taylor Swift. It made perfect sense after all: the number of things John cannot do is zero. I sent a hearty congratulations. And then…my wheels start spinning. I hadn’t been abroad since 2008. I’d also been trying to schedule a dinner date with John since around 2016. It felt like a divine invitation (note: John did not actually invite me anywhere in any way. This was all in my head). I told him I was envious of his travel and would pop over if I got the chance. His response; “kid…you come…I got you.” Good enough for me!
Problem was..my passport expired in 2014…and the current expedited wait times were posted at 7-9 weeks. If it took a full 9 weeks for my passport to arrive, it’d be hitting my mailbox when John would be back at Fenway gearing up for the July 4th flag drop. I went ahead and filled out the proper forms in proper black ink, got my glamour snaps at CVS, and dropped off my bundle at the West Roxbury post office, where the folks behind the counter could not have been more discouraging. “Whaddya crazy? You ain’t goin’ nowhere till at least August, hon!” I set about making fantasy plans anyway: plugging dates into Expedia…searching flights and hotels for random cities. Maybe I could make it to Scotland for a gig and crush some haggis. Or maybe Paris?? I acknowledge that it all seemed extremely unlikely to happen. My application was accepted on 5/3. The clock was officially ticking. As spring rolled on, John continued to blow up my phone with amazing day-off shots from heavy locales in France, Italy, and Switzerland, as well as backstage shots of celebrity callers: everyone from Sting to Chris Rock to Nick Cave (Nick Cave!!). Before I fell asleep at night, I would scan passport-related Reddit’s and learned that my passport was at processing center #69…which is in New Hampshire…and allegedly the fastest center in the entire country. Live free and get ya passport wicked quick, kid! . I put together a comprehensive itinerary for the Werchter Classic gig near Brussels on Sunday, June 18th. I’d fly in the previous Friday, catch some tunes, spend a few days drinking high octane Belgian beers, and call it a trip. I considered purchasing a plane ticket without a passport and then decided it was a damn fool move. In fact…as the weeks ticked by this endeavor seemed more and more ridicuous. My passport status was listed as “in process” throughout early June. And I would know ‘cuz I checked the motherfucker 8 times a day and 16 times on Sundays. There were more aggressive avenues to explore: writing to my US Senator (Liz Warren) or requesting an emergency appointment at the Boston Passport Office (“Help! If I don’t hear Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out Live I’ll fuckin’ DIE!). By the time the week of June 12th rolled around I decided to give it up and stopped checking my status. My passport would arrive eventually and I could go to Europe another time….provided the planet doesn’t burn itself to death by 2024.
Two events occurred on the afternoon of Thursday, June 15th that changed everything. First: my passport unexpectedly showed up in my mailbox. And it was GLISTENING! Brand ass new and sharp around the edges. You could slice butter with that thing. Second: Caitlin, my live-in partner of 10 years, and I unexpectedly (but not that unexpectedly) decided to end our relationship. My thoughts instantly turned to the Boss (Note: Bruce Springsteen, not the folks who own the restaurant I work at). My fantasy plans had me flying out on Friday 6/16…the next morning. This was obviously not going to happen. After Belgium, John only had one more show on his schedule: in Düsseldorf, Germany, a place I had never considered visiting. In fact–the amount of time I’ve spent thinking about Dusseldorf in my life is zero minutes. At this late stage of the game, flights to Germany were not inexpensive…but still survivable. I could fly out Monday night…arrive Tuesday morning…see and do all the baller things…and be back home in time for Saturday supper. It was still roughly three times as expensive as it would’ve been had I booked the Belgium leg back in May. I decided to sleep on it. At the close of my Friday evening shift, I received a video text from John offering me a full tour of the E Street Band’s private jet. Looked like a real sweet spread, too–lots of fresh fruit laid on in a common area, 10 feet worth of legroom in front of every leather seat, British music magazines that all seemed to have Metallica’s Kirk Hammett on the cover available to thumb through. This video had to be yet anothersign! I polled my co-workers…who all told me I’d be crazy not to book the trip. I texted John to say I might end up in Germany and his response was the same: “kid…I got you.” I tapped my phone a couple of times and $2000 disappeared from my bank account. I was suddenly traveling to Germany in less than 72 hours. I feel born to run…slash curl up in a ball and die.
Over the next few days, Caitlin and I continued our regularly scheduled programming, which included a Cure concert at Great Woods on the evening of Sunday the 18th. I hadn’t had any alcohol in two full months and had been hitting the gym 4 times a week. But boy do I love to tail some gate! I ate an entire large cheese pizza and drank 7 beers before even entering the show, where I ordered something called a “shaker cocktail,” which cost $22 and tasted like it was full of Bacardi 151 and strawberry KoolAid. (Note: Why did I drink so much before THE CURE?? It’s not like “The Same Deep Water as You” sounds better when you’re shitfaced). I woke up 50 shades of hungover the next morning and had to scramble to get my shit together for my 7 PM flight. I realized I forgot to check to see if my cell phone would work overseas (it wouldn’t…unless I paid AT&T hundreds of dollars because my phone plan was “antiquated.” Not the phone, folks–the phone PLAN. Antiquated). When I called my bank to inform them I’d be traveling abroad, the lady said “that’s fine, sir–now I’m going to get quiet for a while but ask you to please stay on the line.” What happened next was–she started to do some whispery ASMR shit….for THIRTY MINUTES! I took my phone call into my car…drove 2 miles to CVS to purchase a travel toothbrush and various sundries…and was still on hold when I returned to my house. I finally asked her, you know, what the fuck she was doing and why I needed to stay on hold. She told me she was still waiting for the managers to sign off on my trip…so I could access my own money. Pshhhshhshhshh. Back at my apartment, I searched the basement for my shitty maroon suitcase that I took from an estate sale. I discovered that it had sustained water damage during one of the 15 basement floods from the previous summer. It smelled like a wet ham sandwich and was covered in green mold. Too late to do nothin’ about it!! I wiped it out with Clorox wipes as best I could, dumped a can of Febreeze into it, and started filling it with clothes. I packed 4 (FOUR!) hardcover books into my backpack along with a travel guide and various minimally helpful medications. When I finished packing I told Caitlin I no longer wanted to go and started unpacking. I felt nervous, nauseous, hungover, panicky, and tired. I listed off all the reasons I shouldn’t go: it’s too expensive, there’s no guarantee I’ll get to see the show, the plane will crash, etc. She told me I was insane and stuffed me into an Uber.
The first thing I did upon arriving at Logan Airport was have a complete nervous breakdown. I booked my flight with a new budget airline called Fly Play (or simply “Play?” There’s a lot that’s fuzzy about this airline) with a homebase in Reykjavik, Iceland. They had no dedicated desk at the international terminal and appeared to be a spiritual European cousin to the much-reviled Spirit Airlines. In fact, the people at the help desk didn’t even know if/when someone from the airline would be showing up. “Oh those guys? Well…your flight is at 7. Hopefully someone will be here by 5!” That HAD to be a sign that I should jump on the Blue Line and return to my apartment. I called John to tell him I was officially coming and he didn’t answer (Sign #2). I called my mother and my boss, Kristen, and they both encouraged me to bail. I walked outside to see if there was an MBTA shuttle bus waiting. I texted Catlin to tell her I’d be home in an hour. She told me I was still insane. She asked if my flight was refundable…which was a GOOD QUESTION (it wasn’t). She asked if my hotel was refundable. I told her that I had yet to book a hotel. She sent a shrugging emoji. I walked back inside and saw that a red Fly Play logo had appeared above one the counters. I approached and let them scan my passport, hoping that it’d be too new to fly with or some shit. The passport was fine, but my moldy ass suitcase, which I’d carried on at least four domestic flights before, was too large to carry on by Fly Play measurements. They offered to stow it under the plane for me for a cool buck and a half. $150…for one suitcase (sign #3). “You pay now…it’s ok?” they asked. Or what? Dump it in the fuckin’ trash and buy a new wardrobe in Germany? I paid the toll and walked through security.
After I passed the body scan, I sat on a bench with my bulky blue Herschel backpack at my feet and started to panic again. I realized I could still simply exit the airport and go home but my bag might end up in Iceland. Enjoy the geysers, new Uniqlo button down shirt I bought just for this trip! (Wait: or do they pull your bag off the plane if you don’t board? Or was that post 9/11 thing? Isn’t it still post 9/11?? Won’t it be post 9/11…FOREVER??). I called my friend Abby, whom I’m not sure I can refer to as a friend as we hadn’t spoken or seen each other in 27 years. We’ve TALKED about talking though…and this seemed like the perfect time to reconnect. She also told me to abort the mission. Typically, this was when I’d go to the bar and get shitfaced but I’m “not drinking” so I opt for a $20 plate of the most shameful dumplings ever served by a human person. After I choked those down, I purchased one bottle of water, a bag of pretzels, and some sort of dried fruit snack that was inexplicably $19. Hudson News, man–you could buy a roll of Life Savers there and it’d still come to twenty fuckin’ dollars. So now–after buying a plane ticket…traveling to the airport...going through security…and calling multiple friends (5-1 in favor of canceling) I somehow decided I would indeed take the trip. Huzzah.
People were already lining up by the time I located the proper gate. And then ... when boarding time arrived…some dude walked out of a tunnel…yelled “ICELAND!””...and beckoned all 300 of us forward. No “attention passengers flying to Keflavik Airport…we’ll begin boarding rows 25-45 and those who need special assistance in just a few moments.” They didn’t even have access to a public address system! Just a “YO! This boat’s rollin’!” The plane looked like…a plane. Brand-y new with no first or business class and no bells and whistles of any kind. The first thing I (and everyone else) noticed was that it was hot as BALLS on the aircraft. People sighed and fanned themselves loudly with the plastic emergency instruction card that lived in the seat backs. The flight attendants (Women–in fire engine red rompers. Men–in whatever the fuck they felt like) scurried up and down the aisles and shrugged when asked (repeatedly) if someone could turn the motherfucking AC on already. I checked my seat pouch and found a menu (nothing was free on this flight…not even a cup of warm water). If the MBTA’s Orange Line could fly, it would be this plane. There was also what appeared to be the world’s tiniest barf bag that couldn’t possibly hold more than 4 oz. worth of barf. I’d already had 24 oz.of water and already needed to pee. Why I chose the window when I have to take a leak every 30 minutes even when I’m not chugging alcohol we do not know. I was sitting next to a friendly older couple from Paris, who looked like they wouldn't mind letting me get up every 60 minutes (they didn’t!). When the pilot announced that we were waiting for two passengers to board before they could close the cabin, the lady in the row across from us sprang to life. She’s Thelma. She’s 65 years old and from Tiverton, RI. She just retired after 40 years as a high school teacher and she’s flying to Ireland to party with her family. And this Thelma? She is NOT pleased with the service here at Fly Play. “Sorry everyone! We are waitin’ for my nephew! My nephew is late because you’re screwin’ him on his bags! This is the lahhhhhst time we ever fly this airline! WAIT! I should say…if we don’t crash we’ll never fly this airline again!” Thanks a lot, Thelma–like I’m not keyed up enough already! Her nephew finally shows (50ish…Celtics Jersey…tribal tattoos…drunk as shit ). “Hundred and fifty bucks, Auntie Thelma! Un-fuckin’-REAL!” They continued loudly complaining to no one in particular long after the plane had pushed back. When a male flight attendant passed by, they stopped him and said “this is extortion, ya know! We should report you to the bettuh business bureau!” His response…delivered in his icelandic/German/French accent: “Yes…very good, ma’am.” This did not help matters. The young, long-haired twentysomething bro traveling with his girlfriend in the row in front of me quipped “Pssh….Fly Play with my NUTS is more like it.” Everyone nods in agreement.
The plane departed on time and I settled in and read Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus from cover to cover. Barnes & Noble called it the best book of the new century. I didn't find it to be as such. (Maybe it was their bestselling book of the century? Even then…ehhhh). The flight lasted about 6 hours and hit very little turbulence. Since we were flying straight north to Iceland we never saw darkness. We were constantly outrunning the sunset on one side of the plane and approaching dawn on the other. Pretty pretty cool. Several hours into the flight I spotted what appeared to be a massive field of Star Wars ice monsters on the ground below (would this be the planet Hoth? I don’t fuck with Star Wars). And these ice monsters appeared CLOSE…like we might descend into a cannibalistic Uruguayan rugby team situation at any moment. I’m eating those people from Rhode Island first…just to piss them off even more. The pilot got on the mic and said “ladies and sirs…we are flying over the eastern part of Greenland. Quite impressive as you can see.” I could see…and it WAS impressive. Now I could brag to people that I've “been to Greenland.” As the plane descended into Reykjavik, I surveyed the landscape, which looked extreme, not unlike the last 7 Bjork albums. It was gray and wintery (just 40 degrees) and there were tufts of steam poking out of the earth all across the terrain. Based on this brief flyover my desire to visit Iceland went from strong to not all that strong. While we’re patiently waiting to exit the plane (it landed…did I need to mention that?) The nice couple next to me struck up a conversation with the Rhode Islanders about driving in European countries. “Ahh…you are driving in Ireland,” the old man says, “very brave!” “Can’t be worse than driving on I-95 in Providence!” says Celtics jersey. The bro in front of me, to whom no one is speaking, says “ummm…try driving in Malta!” Celtics Jersey says he’s driven in Italy. Old Man is impressed. Bro says “I’ve driven in malta...try that!” Old Man says that Paris is probably the toughest city to drive in. “Not tougher than Malta,” says Bro, who continues to be completely ignored. No one cares about your goddamn fucking Malta driving, Bro.
The plane that will carry me onto Germany is ever newer, and somehow, shittier. The seats and seat backs are paper thin and feel like they’re made out of Saltines. I’ve sat on iron park benches with a better ass feel. I have the entire row to myself and manage to sleep for 30 minutes. The plane hit a fair amount of turbulence but the 10 year-old boy behind me said not to worry about it…so I didn’t. Later he fell asleep spread across 3 seats with his hand stuck fully down the front of his pants.
We touched down in Dusseldorf at 1 PM, where the current temperature was 86 degrees fahrenheit. The airport was only a few miles outside of the city. I collected my suitcase and hailed a cab to the Clayton Hotel, which I booked on the Hotel’s Tonight app while my plane was taxiing down the runway back in Boston a few hours earlier. The hotel was located on the easy to remember Immermannstrasse (strasse means “street” I guess but it's actually spelled straBe with a weird “B” character that my computer won’t make. Sorry doodz). It was on a strip called Little Japan, which was full of boba tea shops, ramen joints, and anime shops. The folks at reception told me I booked a “junior suite” and I shrugged. I just booked whichever place was under 200 Euros a night and had a swimming pool. When I inquired as to the pool’s whereabouts, I was informed that there was no pool. The hotel had just changed ownership to the Clayton from whatever it was before (they were literally tearing the old sign down as my cab pulled up) and new ownership decided to shitcan the pool. My junior suite consisted of the following: a standard king-size bed with no sheets but one large comforter, your basic flatscreen TV, coffee machine, empty mini fridge, and safe….and around a corner…a conference area featuring a boardroom table with seating for 8 and a sideboard filled with nothing at all. How I, or anyone else, would utilize this area, I do not know. I wanted to immediately plant myself into this giant sheetless bed and take a 4 hour nap but I realized my phone battery was low and that I forgot to ask for one of those charger converters at the front desk. I dragged myself back down to the lobby, where I was informed that they only had one converter and that another guest was already borrowing it (note: this hotel is around 14 stories tall and has over 700 rooms). I asked the front desk clerk where one might find such a converter in the city of Düsseldorf and she drew me a map to a store called Saturn, which is a European Best Buy of sorts. She assured me it was only a 15 minute walk so I hit the heel-toe express. Outside, the temp was hovering around 90 degrees and the fact that it was 8 AM back home and I was running on a 30 minute nap was starting to hit me hard. The low battery warning sounded on my phone as I tried to map my way to this Saturn. When I reached the Saturn neighborhood, which sits on a canal, I found every single high-end luxury store imaginable: Prada, Gucci, Hermes, etc. And the stores were all HUGE (there was also a Uniqlo and some of your more affordable fare…maybe a Gap?). If the rich people mall in Copley Square had a canal flowing through it…it would look like this neighborhood. I finally located Saturn on the 7the floor of an indoor mall/arcade building and escalatored my way up. Here’s where I learned that Germans are either extremely kind and helpful…or extremely unkind and unhelpful. Most of the clerks appeared to be occupied selling people expensive MacBooks and had little interest in helping me find a 5 euro phone adapter. I showed my charger to the lady at the help desk and she pointed me toward a wall of adapters, all of which had fallen off the display and formed a messy heap in the bin below.
Me: ok Thank you…do you know which one I’ll need?
Lady: Ach! (Walks away angrily)
Nothing in the bin looked right so I gathered up the two adapters with US flag icons on them and tried to approach a different clerk.
Me: I’m sorry…do these convert to European outlets?
Clerk: Ahh…sorry…I think the one you need is sold out.
Me: (sweating…panicking) Ahh…ok…but do you know of anywhere else in town that might sell one??
Clerk: (removes his phone) I think here you go find one…at Bauhaus!
(He shows me a photo of a large brown building that looks like a bowling alley from the 1970’s)
Me: ok…is it close?
Clerk: 15 minutes
Me: walking?
Clerk: driving!
Me: Fuhhhh…ok…and the store is Bauhaus?
Clerk: Bauhaus
Me: Is it a neighborhood?
Clerk: Bauhaus
Me: Hah?
Clerk: Bauhaus
Me: Bela Lugosi’s Dead??
I ran outside and jumped into the first taxi I could find. My battery sinks below 15%. I showed the driver…who spoke very little English…where I needed to go based on the address given to me by the Saturn clerk. He looked confused.
Driver: eh..why go to Bauhaus?
Me: Is it a store or a neighborhood?
Driver: ehhh
Me: I need to get an adapter for my phone. Please!
Driver: in Bauhaus?
Me: why…is it a bad area or something??
Driver: we go.
Three minutes into the drive he asks me why I need to go to Bauhaus….again! I showed him my charger and tried to explain.
Driver: Ahh…I think…Bauhaus is not for you.
Me: I’ve always been more of a power pop man myself…but what makes you say that??
Driver: Bauhaus is….lamps? You know lamps? Washing machine?
Me: I do know lamps! So it’s an electronics store??
Driver: Yes! Lamps!
(He gestures to a store up ahead)
Driver: we stop here…I think they have! I wait!
At this point I will do absolutely anything this man tells me. My battery was now at 10%. I pictured a week of trying to contact people from payphones and looking up directions on a fold-out paper map (note: which I did when I was in Amsterdam in 2008 and which was TOTALLY FINE!) I ran inside and found a relatively small shop that mostly sold PlayStations and other gaming consoles. The clerks were busy selling big-ticket items and were not interested in helping this sweat-drenched, red-eyed, frenzied American. I cut the line and all but thrusted my charger at the young fella jockeying the register. I screamed “PLEASE….HALLLLP!!! The clerk said sorry…they didn’t sell that sort of apparatus. I started to tear up and considered asking my cabbie to drive me straight back to the airport so I could fly home. Finally, a couple of kids at the next register pointed to a swivel display of adapters that was right in front of all of us. “Sir—we think you need IZ ZIS! Stick and stick, ya?” It DID look like it might work with my charger. Stick and stick is exactly what I needed! It’s the last US to Europe iPhone adapter in all of Düsseldorf...and it’s only 3 euros. I made my purchase and darted back to the waiting taxi. I thanked the driver profusely.
Driver: I told you…you no like Bauhaus
Me: I really don’t.
I returned to my room, plugged the adapter into the wall, and attached it to my phone. I had to wait an interminable 5 seconds but eventually my phone buzzed and the charging icon appeared. It was 4 PM….10AM my time and I’d been awake for 25 hours. I collapsed onto the bed and napped ferociously for the next 90 minutes.
When I awoke there was finally a text from John. He was fresh off a chartered flight from Belgium and needed to deliver the E Street Band’s luggage to their rooms at the swanky Breidenbacher Hof hotel, which sits on that little canal with all those fancy stores. (or is putting “hof” after ‘Hotel” redundant??). We planned to meet for dinner at 7 PM. I had some time to kill before I met John so I strolled through the neighborhood just beyond his hotel. It was called the Altstadt and it’s on the banks of the Rhine River and, according to my travel guide, is home to the world’s largest bar. That's right, y’all—the day before I flew out I went ahead and purchased a good old fashioned, hold-it-in-your-hands travel guide because I am a Luddite. Unfortunately, the once-sprawling international travel section at the North Smithfield, RI Barnes & Noble was down to one tiny shelf. The most recent Lonely Planet Guide on Germany was from 2021 and listed most businesses as “likely closed for Covid.” I walked through several blocks of shawarma shops and hacky looking Italian restaurants in search of this infamous longest bar. Personally, I have a tough time juggling the clientele at my own bar, which seats just six people. I can’t imagine how many tenders you’d need to staff a bar that’s the world’s longest! Just think of all that glassware! Eventually I realized that it’s just a euphemism: they just mean that the Altstadt is a neighborhood with a shitload of bars. My brain is dumb and tired.
Back at the Breid Hof,I found two expectant fans clutching copies of Springsteen’s autobiography Born to Run, hoping to score an autograph from the big man (meaning Springsteen. Clarence Clemons is long dead). John emerged from the hotel at 7 sharp wearing black jeans and a homemade Peaky Blinders t-shirt…looking not one day older than he did when I met him 18 years earlier. We hugged and I noted his roughly 6, 1” frame was entirely sandpaper and muscle. He looked like he could snatch a Piper Saratoga out of the sky while hanging from the flagpole on top of the old John Hancock tower…because he could. As we walked into the Altstadt in search of sustenance, John laid some unfortunate news on me: upper management had recently issued a moratorium on backstage passes for the remainder of the European tour. His lovely life Jenn had been visiting Belgium the previous weekend and was shut out. What about a good old fashioned spot on the guest list, I asked? John told me that new Live Nation rules were making guest lists obsolete: you are either with the band or you are not. “Kid—I told you I got you. I’ll buy you a ticket…we can go look at Ticketmaster in my room after dinner.” I pondered this for a second. In March I had an obscene stroke of good luck when I landed a single seat that was 5 rows from the stage for Springsteen’s show at the Boston Garden. The only way I could have been closer would have been if I was somehow in the band. I also realized that the venue for tomorrow’s show was a stadium that held 50000 people and was 15 miles outside of town. I pictured a taxi sitting in traffic while the meter crept toward 100 euros. Trains packed with the fervent faithful. On one hand…I flew to Germany to see Springsteen. On the other hand…I flew to Germany to see Germany. On yet another hand (who the fuck has 3 hands??) I flew to Germany to hang out with John. On the fourth hand…I am not the world’s biggest Springsteen fan. I mean…I LIKE him and all…but he’s not my guy. I know that a 3 hour dinner with John would provide the sort of priceless memories that watching Bruce play the same 28 songs I saw him play 3 months earlier couldn’t possibly provide. I told him I’d think about it.
We continued to walk around the Altstadt but found nothing but poxy. John suggested we try the restaurant at his hotel. It’s called the Duchy and it’s just fucked up expensive. I could smell the wealth the instant the revolving door deposited me into the Breid Hof’s tony lobby. It’s the sort of marble-laden joint where even the sound of a squeaking door hinge sounds like angels singing in 5-part harmony. John had a keycard that accessed a private lobby with a 24-hour concierge who was coiled and ready to spring into action should a member of the E Street Band need something/anything. This private lobby looked like the study from the movie Clue: lots of mahogany, chandeliers and light fixtures that cost in the high five figures, shelves lined with random first edition hardcovers, just for shits and giggles. The concierge jumped out of his skin as soon as he saw us enter. “Ahhh…gentlemen! May I bring you something!? Anything! Some sparkling water, perhaps?? Oh! A glass of champagne!?” Had I asked this motherfucker for a slice of pepperoni from Papa Gino’s he would’ve had it delivered to John’s room THAT NIGHT!!! John told the concierge we were interested in dinner. “Ahh! At The Duchy??....do you have a reservat….OH! YES YES YES!!! Right this way!” We were whimseyed up to the dining room, which was mostly empty, and given menus printed in English. The wines by the glass seemed to run from 14 euros to around 75 euros. The entrees started at 65 Euros. We decided to just order a bunch of random shit and take it as it laid: lobster stew, crudo and ceviche, ravioli (a real steal at 2 ravioli for 45 euros), a sirloin, and a plate of schnitzel. Our order really threw the servers, who were trained in militaristic style of fine dining, into chaos. We were like…just throw the shit on the table and give us some side plates, bruh! They seemed over-eager to please…to the point where they didn’t actually give us good service. Dirty plates lingered for an eternity. Requested wine refills were ignored outright. I informed the server that I have a nut allergy…but heard an unmistakable crunch when I bit into my ravioli. “Excuse me–are there nuts in this dish?” I asked. The server said he had to check with the kitchen. He returned: “Ahh yes…just a bit of hazelnut! Izz ok, yes sir?” No sir…iz not ok. Sigh. We could’ve been eating sidewalk gum though ‘cuz the conversation flowed.John gave me a top to bottom on the inner workings and behind the scenes dramas of the E Street Band (And I ain’t saying SHIT!). We talked about Bowie (always), the early days of Neptune Oyster, Fenway Park, Gang of Four, Rumble Fish, Eyeless in Gaza (the band), Oedipus (the DJ), The Communist Manifesto, Happiness (the Todd Solondz movie), Gil-Scott Heron, gang violence, The Boston Garden circa 1972, the unbelievable shittiness of the song “Start Me Up,” and everything in between. Halfway through dinner, E Street skinsman and onetime Conan O’Brien bandleader Max Weinberg wandered in and dined alone. “He’s probably flipping real estate, kid–that’s his thing,” John tells me. I figured I could now go home with at least one brag, having eaten overpriced beef 20 feet away from a bona fide OG-ish member of the E Street Band. I declared my trip a success and immediately returned to the airport. JK…JK. John and I ordered dessert and a couple of glasses of Montenegro Amaro. I realized that the sun had yet to set and it was already 10 PM. “Oh yeah, kid—that’s a thing over here.” So it was. I stumbled back to my hotel half buzzed and cross-eyed tired. I chose the “english” setting on my TV but the programs continued to play in German anyway. I fell asleep fully clothed with the remote control in my hand pointed at the TV.
Day 2:
I woke up with a sudden start at 7 AM…profoundly confused and not at all rested. My fitbit told me I slept only 6 hours and 23 minutes…and shittily at that (40 minutes of deep…a bit of REM…lots of light) I had 7 new texts from John, who had already climbed to the top of the 789 foot Rhine Tower, which looks like Duddeldorf’s version of the Space Needle. Included in his texts are breathtaking sunrise panoramas of the entire city. He highlighted a pic of a building that looked like it was melting into the earth and asked me if I thought it was designed by Frank Ghery. As I’m reading this text I walked into the bathroom and noticed that there’s a picture of this very same building hanging behind my toilet. I mean–why bother leaving my room?? I told myself that I should throw on my trainers and climb the tower, but instead just stared at my television for an hour…which was not turned on. I roused myself in time to catch breakfast in the hotel, which was all-you-can-eat and grievously overpriced at 30 Euros. The other diners seemed to be breakfasting on cold cuts of salami and ham but I opted for your basic scrambled eggs scooped from a too-hot, steamy trough. I drank all the beverages (coffee, tea, water, juice, and other juice) and filled my pockets with bananas and bottles of room temperature water on the way back to my room because 30 Euros! I laid in my bed from 9 till 11 thinking about sleeping but then not sleeping. John texted that he was at breakfast with E Street guitarist Nils Lofgren, who was celebrating his 72nd birthday. He promised to inquire about a backstage pass for me but said the chances are dim to quite dim. I downloaded an app called Omio and started looking for places I could take a train trip to for the afternoon. Berlin was 7 hours away…so that was too far. I wasn’t previously aware of this...but Germany is quite large! I looked at Munich, Bavaria, Leipzig, Luxembourg, Paris, Amsterdam, Rotterdam, the fuckin’ moon. I saw that Brussels was a two hour ride with Bruges just one more hour down the track with a quick train switch. My original itinerary involved Belgium so I figured I could mess around in Brussels and then spend the night in Bruges, a place I have wanted to visit ever since I saw Martin McDonough’s 2007 film, erm, In Bruges, which starred Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson as two doomed hitmen hiding out…agh…In Bruges. I briefly considered the massive financial irresponsibility of holding two hotel rooms in two different European cities in the same night…but decided to purchase train tickets and make hotel reservations anyway. When I file for bankruptcy next year, please read this last sentence back to me over and over again. I also saw that Cologne was just a 25 minute train ride away and decided to spend the afternoon there doing something or other. I booked myself a 6 hour stay…from 2 PM until just after 6. I tapped a few buttons on my phone and headed out to lunch $500 lighter in the bank account area.
It was pushing 90 degrees at 11 AM and the line for the boba tea place next to my hotel was already 40 deep. I made a note to order myself a beverage there once the line died down…and then promptly forget. The Lonely Planet Germany book I bought, with the 1.5 page section on Dusseldorf, featured only 5 restaurants, one of which was a ramen shop across the street from Clayton called Restaurant Takumi that opened at noon. It apparently had the best noodles in all of Deutchland…which was music to my eyes as I crush noods like it's my JOB! I had some time to kill so I sightsaw my way around the block, where I located a bookstore with a wide array of German philosophy books (in German, natch). I considered looking for a new book to read and then considered that the books were all in German and decided to walk on. I was pretty positive I’d learned that “strasse” means “street” so that was enough German for me. I walked back to the ramen shop and queued up with the other queuers. I spotted a sign that said that Takumi had a satellite shop down the street called Takumi 6th Spicy Tan Tan Men that exclusively featured spicy dishes. Had I been half the man I was 5 years earlier, I would have made a beeline for the spicy shop and asked them to murder my insides. A recent endoscopy revealed that my spicy days are/should be behind me, lest I want to spend the rest of my life dealing with ulcers and various irreversible digestive issues. The doors swung open at noon on the dot and this compact noodle shop, with mabe 20 inside seats and another 30 on the patio, was instantly flat sat. I was 5th in line and scored a seat facing the kitchen, where an all male cast with a median age of 19 furiously prepared for the day’s deluge. I ordered the tonkotsu ramen and it was hands down the 3rd best bowl of ramen I’ve ever sipped: a hearty broth with thick noodles and tons of cabbage, crispy shallots, and melt in your mouth shoyu pork. I left deliriously satisfied and fiendishly sleepy. I needed to make my way to the train station, though, as Cologne beckoned.
Dusseldorf Hauptbahnhof was really the first true European train station I’d ever visited, not counting the Tube rides in London and whatnot. And it’s HUGE. It features a sprawling food court (did I see a Sbarro??) with elevated railways and signs that are impossible to read if you are me and didn’t bother to learn any German besides “danke” before my trip. My Omio app was unhelpful as well. I think I’m supposed to be on Ice 519 at 1:24 PM, whatever that means. The 4th person I asked finally pointed me in the right direction and I made it to the proper platform with minutes to spare. The train was well air conditioned and featured several bar cars, all of which were surprisingly bustling for an early Wednesday afternoon. A steady stream of passengers kept emerging from the bar with either cans of pilsner or tiny bottles of wine. I searched up and down the aisles for someone to show my ticket to but no one ever materialized. In fact, I didn’t see a railway employee the entire time. Maybe it was one of those new self-driving trains?
John had told me that the Cologne Cathedral was the only thing worth seeing /climbing in Cologne (or Kohln as it’s known to the locals). The church’s dramatic spires are the first sight that’s visible as the train approaches the city. In fact, the train station is directly in front of the cathedral. I pulled up the church’s Wikipedia page and learned that the construction was started in 1248 and completed in 1880, which is a mad long time to finish a building. 632 years if my math is correct. Like, the dude who laid the first brick was dead for five centuries by the time the opening ceremony rolled around (no champagne toast for that dude!). I also read that much of the cathedral was destroyed in WWII and started to think about how I was in a place where some people did some horrible shit. ANYWAY— I exited the train and walked straight to the cathedral, which was packed with tourists from all over the globe. I took 199 selfies in front of its breathtaking facade before settling on one where I still looked like hammered horse shit. I posted it on Facebook anyway. There were groups of 20-30 people roaming about inside of the church but it didn’t matter ‘cuz the joint is massive. Certain stained glass windows were installed in the 1200’s, making them the oldest individual items I have ever seen in person. I thought about how John told me the cathedral was worth climbing but did not see any part of the church with stairs that go up. I started to wonder if maybe that crazy motherfucker just wandered down there in the middle of the night and scaled the building with his own bare hands. Really, I wouldn’t put it past him.
When I exited the church I attempted 626 more selfies and then plugged a record shop that was 1.5 miles away into my phone. I took out my scarcely used Beats headphones and cued up a track called, em, “Cologne” by Ben Folds, late of Ben Folds Five. It’s from his 2008 album Way to Normal, which isn’t particularly good. You see, folks—in the summer of ‘08 Folds anticipated that the album would leak ahead of its October release, so he gathered his band, went back into the studio, and banged out an entire album of new songs with the same tiles as the songs on the actual official album as a sort of decoy for people trying to rip the album from the internet. The only problem(s) with this were: A–The new “fake” songs were somehow WAY better than the songs form the real album and…B–Folds decided to ignore his formidable catalog on the Way to Normal tour and simply alternate between the real and fake songs, which required a lot of explaining to a crowd that had no fucking idea/interest in what he was talking about. I saw it…in person…and it was not good. He’d be like “alright y’all…we’re gonna play Free Coffee…the REAL Free Coffee…and next we’re gonna play the FAKE Free Coffee.” Fuckin’ A, dude–just play Annie Waits and let us all go home! I can’t remember if there’s a fake version of Cologne, but the real one is the best song on the album by a wide margin. I queued it up and pressed play…and was quickly and brutally reminded that it’s a song about a guy who is in Cologne as his relationship is ending ...not unlike myself…who is/was in Cologne while my relationship was ending.. It’s a song, I assume, about the dissolution of Folds’ third marriage (he’s on #5 now so it's cool). The lyrics go like this:
Here in Cologne
I know I said it wrong
I walked you to the train
And back across alone
To my hotel room
And ordered me some food
And now I'm wondering
Why the floor has suddenly become a moving target?
Four, three, two, one
I'm letting you go
I will let go if you will let go
Four, three, two
Says here an astronaut
Put on a pair of diapers
Drove eighteen hours
To kill her boyfriend
In my hotel room
I'm wondering if you read that story too
And if we both might
Be having the same imaginary conversation
Four, three, two, one
I'm letting you go
I will let go if you will let go
Four, three, two
Oh why?
Weightless as I close my eyes
Oh why?
The ceiling opens in disguise
Such a painful trip
To find out this is it
And as I go to sleep
You'll be waking up
Four, three, two, one
I'm letting you go
I will let go if you will let go
Oh why? Oh why?
Oh why? Oh why?
When the song ended, I leaned against a wall and cried for a bit. I had only listened to one song since i`d been abroad and it had to be one that narrated my life with stunning clarity?? I thought about the awkward throwaway verse about the astronaut who wore diapers on a cross country drive to attempt to kill her boyfriend (her name was Lisa Mowak and she did not succeed in killing anything except her NASA career) and how it mirrored the current top worldwide news story about a group of people who were missing from a submersible they’d attempted to tour the wreckage of the Titanic in (note: they were all dead). Caitlin and I had been texting about it frequently to avoid more pressing topics, like what the fahhhhhh?? I pulled out my notebook and rewrote this verse for no reason in particular. In fact, it’s the only thing I would write in my notebook the entire week. Glad I brought it along! I sent her a text, realizing it was only 8 AM back home, and heard nothing back. She could be asleep…or anywhere with anyone really. I continued on my way.
When I told my overbearing record-collecting friend Andy Maddox I was traveling to Germany, he told me I was going to find endless German-pressing Afghan Whigs 45’s I’d never seen before there. The moment I set foot in a shop called Parallel Schallplatten I found endless German pressing Afghan Whigs 45’s I’d never seen before. In fact…this record store featured an embarrassment of holy grails. Everything from a 1996 pressing of the Lemonheads’ Car Button Cloth (for 190 Euros) to a 1996 pressing of Weezer’s Pinkerton (I really like 1996...what can I say??). I realized that, even if I COULD afford these records, there was no way I could safely transport them back in my porky maroon suitcase. I wondered why I was bothering to shop for records…and then immediately plugged the address for another record store into my phone and hit the trail. Shouldn’t I have gone to a museum or taken in some other important historical sites instead of bouncing between record stores where I have no intention of buying anything? At 4 PM I finally got a text from Caitlin: she had to work at Vee Vee that night because both our chef and his fiancee, whom we had just clinked $22 shaker cocktail cups with at The Cure 72 hours earlier, had both tested positive for covid. I sat on a park bench and started to hyperventilate. I knew that I was one week out from my bivalent booster…but it was supposed to take 2 full weeks to reach full bloom. I googled tons of medical things. I started to feel feverish. I called my boss. I thought about how sick I was when I had covid and how absolutely fucking miserable it would be to have to relive that experience alone on in bummy hotel room in Germany. Would I even be able to shop for Tylenol? Would the ramen place across the street deliver a bowl of noodles up to my room?? I started to walk/run up and down the street looking for a place that sold covid tests and sweat all the way through my shirt in the process. I found what appeared to be a pharmacy but nothing inside looked vaguely familiar. The person working there politely asked if they could help me but I just yelled “HAAANGHHH” and ran out the door. I wanted to go home… immediately. I got on Expedia and searched for flights to Boston for later that evening, all which all started at $4000. I tried to breathe…and breathe…and breathe some more. I was in Cologne, Germany….by myself! I made it…I did it. I was a cool dude! It was 90 degrees. It was Europe in the summertime. 5 days earlier I didn’t even have a passport a week ago and now I’m here….doin’ it! If I get Covid I’ll just ignore it and go out in public without a mask like everyone else does. I dusted myself off and carried on.
The next record shop I visited was called The Underdog Recordstore. It was tiny yet featured loads of rare-ish vinyl by American bands (Nada Surf, Jawbreaker, Mercury Rev…all my favorite shit). In Times New Roman, the new jam from Queens of the Stone Age was prominently featured in all of the shops, leading me to believe they are even more popular in Europe than they are in the states. Their lead singer being a scary, casual racist and homophobe who kicks women in the head is apparently not a huge deal over there. It was around 5 PM now and the streets had started to fill with people who had knocked off work for the day and were walking around the streets drinking beer (or maybe they just walk the streets and drink beer all day and don’t go to work. No judgments here!). . Earlier I had spotted someone drinking what looked like an iced coffee so I entered the first cafe I saw to order the German version of a medium regular. Inside, I encountered the following scene: A long bar with some alcohol but mostly set up to serve coffee: a giant Italian-looking espresso machine, etc. Two pretty young ladies were working the bar. A young guy, about their age, was sitting at the end of the bar, drinking a beer. This conversations followed:
Me: Hey! Hi…yeah…do you make an iced coffee?
Girl: Iced….Coffee?
Me: Iced coffee?
Girl: Coffee with ice?
Me: Yes!
Girl: You want coffee and ice?
Me: If that’s ok…
Girl: Ok…I make it for you.
(she brews a cup of coffee and pours it into a cardboard coffee cup and then dumps about 5 ice cubes into it)
Girl (laughing): Coffee ice….3 euros!
Guy at the Bar (also laughing): Ich bin ein auslander?
Me: What’s that?
Guy at the Bar (deliberately): Have…a nice…day…SIR!
I walked outside and took a sip of my “iced coffee.” The ice cubes have already melted and the coffee is hotter n’ Georgia asphalt ... .but also delicious. So…you know…fuck ‘em.
I still had 2 hours to kill until my train back to the DUS. I considered going to a bar or restaurant but I was neither thirsty nor hungry. I walked by a movie theater that was showing Asteroid City, the new Wes Anderson joint, which wouldn’t be out in the States for another week. I started to check the showtimes and then realized that the movie was probably going to be dubbed in German. I mean….right?? But oh shit—this theater was also showing a Leonard Cohen documentary! And Purple Rain!! Purple Rain!? My favorite movie of all time that is also terrible! I strongly considered going to see it anyway just to see how Prince’s craptastic acting sounded in a different language. How do you say “You need to purify yourself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka” in German??” Lila Regen…Lila Regan. They were also bizarrely showing the 1992 film The Bodyguard because HUH!? Don’t tell me Germany is just getting The Bodyguard 31 years late!? I have some bad news for you, folks…and well….some even worse news: Whitney Houston dies in the end. Not of the movie, though. I continued on. I thought about how I should’ve been watching Bruce Springsteen soundcheck from the wings right about then and am medium disappointed. I hucked the rest of my hot iced coffee in the trash and made my way to the train station. When I climbed up to the same platform I had arrived on hours earlier, I saw a train heading north to Dusseldorf pulling into the station. I went ahead and boarded it…even though it was not the train I’d purchased a ticket for. I saw an employee and showed her my ticket and asked if I was on the right train. She shrugged and walked away. Does anyone scan railway tickets in Europe??
I reached the Clayton at 6: 30 and napped like a motherfucker for 90 minutes. When I woke up I checked setlist.fm and saw that Springsteen was already 6 songs into his set (the same 6 songs he played at every other date on this tour so far.) I showered and checked the Lonely Planet Guide for dinner recommendations (look, Dusseldorf doesn’t have an Eater. I know it’s lame). According to the guide, the best place for classic German cuisine was a beer hall called Brauerei im Fuchschen, which was in the Altstadt…just past the Breid Hof and a 15 minute walk from my hotel. I hadn’t eaten a morsel in 8 hours and was ready to get to the gettin’. This restaurant, like most places I encountered in Germany, had a large dining room and plenty of patio seating but very little in the way of bar seating. In fact…there’s none…pretty much anywhere. Bellying up to a bar and dining solo seems like it just isn’t a thing in this town. There’s a few high tops across from the bar so I sat myself. A waiter walked over and said “beer?” and then slammed an 8 oz glass of pilsner in front of me before I could answer in the affirmative. The beer had a copper hue but was definitely light with a low ABV. I could see myself drinking 20-30 of these beers. While I was sipping my beverage I saw plates piled higher than high with wiener schnitzel and sauerkraut and the restaurant's signature roast pork leg being whisked past me. I could also see into the kitchen, where someone appeared to be mopping the floor, which was not a good sign for the hungry. I tried to make eye contact with the waiter for a good 10 minutes before he finally acknowledged me.
Me: Hey…can I see a menu for food?
Waiter: Food?? We close in 5 minutes.
Me: Ahh really?
Waiter: Yes…what you want?
Me: (I look at my watch. It’s 8:33 PM): Ahh Ok…never mind then.
Waiter: Great.
I frantically searched my phone and found that almost every restaurant in Dusseldorf closed at 9PM. I feel like I’ve spent the last 25 years waiting on Germans who are appalled that the restaurants I’ve worked in generally stop serving food by 10 PM. I guess that must be Berlin then? I drained what was left of my beer and started to make “I‘d like to pay my tab” eyes ...but no one would acknowledge me. The waiter who denied my dinner request was seated on the patio…drinking beer. Twenty interminable minutes went by until another kindly waiter noticed my impatient state.
Kindly Waiter: Yes?
Me: Yeah…can I just pay for this one beer…I need to get out of here.
Kindly Waiter: You are leaving so soon? But why?
Me: I’m really hungry…I need to get some food.
Kindly Waiter: (looks at watch) But it’s 8:55…you still have 5 minutes to order food.
So….that’s the truth of the matter: the kitchen closed at 9 and the first waiter douched me out and left me to dangle for almost 30 valuable minutes when I could've been ordering/eating. I want to get angry about this but I realize that I've probably/definitely acted like the first waiter all throughout my entire service career, regularly turning people away up to 30 minutes before the kitchen closes. I tell the kindly waiter that I’m not that kind of prick…pay the 2 euros for my beer…and move along.
I hustled to every other “late night” spot listed on the interwebs and they are all shut for the evening. The sun had yet to set. I finally spotted a falafel shop that was about to close and begged them to scrape the remaining chicken shavings in the steam table pan onto a plate with some burnt white rice and let me pay them 10 Euros for it. I sat outside on the patio and washed down my thoroughly unappetizing gruel with a bottle of warm Warsteiner. Germany: 3, Tebo: zero. After “dinner” I walked out to the Rhine to watch the sun set and noticed that the streets had started to thicken with gangs of wealthy white Americans wearing freshly purchased Springsteen merch. I overheard “oh! We’re from Manalapan, New Jersey…the BAWSSS grew up in awww back YAWD!” When this tour went on sale in late 2022 or whenever a lot of people groused that it was cheaper to fly to Europe to see Springsteen than pay to to see him in the States (the average resale ticket price for his March gig at the Garden was around $1000…for ONE seat….in the NOSEBLEEDS). It appeared that a lot of folks did just that. John had mentioned that the band and their entourage were police-escorted away from the venue approximately 15 minutes after they left the stage…so I figured he’d be back at the hotel already. I gave him a ring and he answered immediately. He told me to be out in front of the Bried Hof with the quickness so I sprinted the 3 minutes to the hotel, where I found John conversing with a fan. When we walked into the lobby John told me that the kid had a birthday present for Nils Lofgren and wanted to know if he should pass it along to him. I told him no. Fuck no! You take that kid’s gift, you gotta take gifts from 50000 other fans. I felt kind of bad saying this as it was probably something really sweet…like homemade artwork. Or a severed thumb.
John keycard’d me up to a private lounge that was being held open late for the band. JC gave me the rundown: The Boss had left the building for parts unknown. The rest of the crew, sans Stevie Van Zandt and a few other heads, were gathered to celebrate Nils Lofgren’s birthday…and we were going to join them. You know…fine with me, man! I’ll take a rock star hang any day! In the lounge we found the birthday boy (looking like a 5 foot 2 rock n’ roll pirate) sitting at the end of a long table with Max Weinberg (built like a brick shithouse. Looks like he could play another 3 hour set and not break a seat), Roy Bittan (seemed ... .professorial) , percussionist Anthony Almonte, backup singers Ada Dyer and Lisa Lowell. There were a few other top flight crew members, including SVZ’s body man and Bruce’s personal masseuse, who was celebrating a birthday as well. There were also four civilians in the bar who, I guess, spent enough dough at the hotel to be able to access the private E Street Lounge. John was famished but I was full of burnt chicken ends. We summoned a menu and the same best/worst service dance with the waitstaff began anew. They told us we could have anything we wanted…but when John asked for schnitzel…they’re like “ahhh yes….from the kitchen! It is closed but they make it for you anyway?” I mean, isn’t this the whole point of the “rock stars buying up 2 entire floors of a luxury hotel” dance?? You can get a plate of schnitzel with the snap of a finger (or a Papa Gino’s pizza??). John asked for a double order of schnitzel and I tried to order glasses of wine and was met with more confusion. John is a spare drinker who enjoys a hearty Italian red. I tried to order a chianti (which is not particularly hearty but the list, again, goes from 15 euros a glass up to 75). “Ahh yes…Italian wine….we have that in the restaurant. Shall we get it for you??” Hey man–wherever you gotta go! This was my one chance in life to act like a true baller…you’d think I could conjure up a couple of glasses of vino from a bottle that retails for $7.99!?
The wine arrived and John and I continued our repartee. He told me that most of his day was consumed with luggage-related errands and that he wasn’t onstage for the gig anyway. He’ll be flying on to Gothenburg the following morning in the private jet (he still has a few call sheets to slip under the doors with the next day’s itinerary)...but he’ll be flying back home to Boston before the next gig. In the middle of our meal we hear Ada call out “JC! You and your friend gotta come join us!” And suddenly I have a seat at the table with 1/3rd of the E Street Band. These folks…they LOVE John…because of course they do. Anyone who doesn’t love John is no one I wanna know! They tell him they’re sad he’s leaving the tour and John promises to turn them onto Neptune Oyster when they’re in town to play Gillette in August. “I’ll walk you right in, kid—no waiting! Neptune will get your shit twisted!” At some point one of the civvies approaches the table and gives a halting speech about what a big fan she is and how the concert changed her life. The band members have probably heard this speech every day for the last 50 years and are skilled in the art of polite deflection. Max Weinberg assures her that they will return to play Dusseldorf again, even though it’s widely assumed (but not confirmed) that the band will retire after this tour. The E Street bigs talk about other gigs they’ve played outside of the E Street sphere…and what they were paid for it. Nils says something about Rick Rubin but I don’t hear/don’t want to look like I’m eavesdropping, which was exactly what I was doing. Nils begged off first, making his way down the table to shake hands and say his thank you’s. “Here’s my cake…I’m not gonna eat it,” he says before sliding his sad hotel chocolate one-plate cake onto our end of the table. And then the hand that played guitar on Neil Young’s Trans slid across mine. Tebo: 1000, Germany: 3.
Eventually I realized it was after midnight and I had a train to Brussels at 8 AM but then again what also is sleep? I would ride out this situation until 5 AM if that’s what was called for! We ordered a round of amaro’s and John ordered a dessert (after more confusion) that was missing about 85% of the ingredients listed on the menu. Ada and Lisa discussed having another cocktail since they had a day off ahead of them but no server ever returned to the table. Max Weinberg had to walk up to the bar to have his glass of red wine refilled. John generously picked up the tab around 1 AM and asked me to stop by his room to check out some vinyl he picked up for his nephew. When we entered his room I noticed a stack of about 14 suitcases piled up in the entryway. “What’s all this?” I ask. “Kid, that’s the Boss’s shit. He likes to travel light when he splits off to do his thing.” There it is: John Coyne has 14 pieces of Bruce Springsteen’s luggage in his hotel room. And they’re….just suitcases No Louis Vuitton or Prada. Just your average all- black samsonite wheely suitcases. My head was on fire trying to imagine what could be in these bags: the red bandanna from the Born in the USA album cover!?? Handwritten lyrics to every song on Nebraska!?? Julianne Phillips?? Socks and undies and red leather shoe polish for his red leather Doc Martens? I’m thinking the latter. John walked me back down to the lobby and we harangued the overnight front desk clerk into taking a picture of us. His reaction: I’m sorry it is OH!! YES YES YES!!! I Take all the pictures!” Gotta work on your red carpet game there, Breid Hof.
I purchased two bottles of pilsner from the bodega next to my hotel, chugged them on the way back to my room, and hit the pillow at 2 AM for 5 hours of lousy, alcohol-induced sleep.
Day 3: My alarm went off at 7:30 AM and I shot bolt upright and started scurrying around my room trying to throw shit together for my trip within a trip. My train departed at 8:58 and the station was only a 5 minute walk from my hotel but I’m a paranoid lunatic and wanted to make sure I was on the platform with hours to spare. I placed my backup credit card, driver’s license, and car keys in my punch code safe, reasoning that if I was murdered they’d still be able to make a positive ID from my passport photo. Or, you know, my dental records. I stuffed one change of clothes, a copy of the non-fiction Native American massacre book Killers of the Flower Moon, and my headphones into my blue backpack. I threw on the Armani blazer that I took from an estate sale for the very reasonable price of $0 (I used to work estate sales…I wasn’t just stealing shit from them. Or…I guess maybe I was??) and was out the door by 7:55. I arrived at the train station at 8:01 and started searching for the proper train platform, which I located in about 30 seconds. All around me, morning commuters were shoveling delicious-looking croissants into their faces. I saw people queuing up at a wide variety of grab-and-go type places. There was even a Pret-a-Manger that had a menu posted in English. I reckoned a mediocre pastry and a strong cup of coffee would really help fuel my 3 hour train journey. Instead I opted for: nothing to eat or drink. I climbed up to the platform and paced with my arms folded for the next 55 minutes. The train arrived on time…but I needed to switch trains in Cologne and the layover was a tight 15 minutes. Instead of reading or listening to music or catching a few winks I decided to spend the 25 minute ride to Cologne worrying about missing my connection to Brussels. Halfway through this short hop, the train unexpectedly stopped and a voice announced that we were going to be delayed two minutes. No big deal, right? NOT FOR THIS GUY! I gripped my armrest and started to sweat. I stood up and paced the aisle, looking out the window to see if I couldn’t what’s causing the holdup…like I’m stuck on a donkey ass MBTA Green Line trolley and not on a super profesh Euro rail. After approximately 120 seconds, the train slowly lurched forward. I made it to Cologne with 13 minutes to spare. Once again…no one checked to see if I’d purchased a ticket.
As I boarded the train to Brussels, I started to wonder how they’d be handling the border crossing. I pictured an old timey booth from the 1940’s with a stamper guy and a mechanical arm that raised to let each new vehicle pass though. I figured we’d probably stop at the border and an agent would walk down the aisle checking passports. Then I thought about how the train is like 30 cars long and how checking each individual passport would probably take all fucking day and how you can probably just cross certain borders no fuss no muss (note: you can). I am American and dangerously dumb. As soon as I boarded the train I noticed a lot of people were checking their tickets for their assigned seat numbers. I opened the Omio app and pulled up a refresher on how to read your virtual ticket. I looked at the area where my seat number was supposed to be…and there was just nothing there. I figured a train employee would be able to help me out so I went looking for one through the next car…then the next…then the next…then a bar car ...then a few more cars…then another bar car (more fresh croissants!). It was longer than that goddamn Snowpiercer train! I still didn’t see anyone working in any official capacity and the train had almost reached cruising altitude of 80 MPH. I desperately wanted to sit somewhere and get unconscious. I found a random empty aisle seat and gave the lady in the window seat a look that said “eh?....Eh?”...and she looked back at me like “meh” so I parked myself, lowered the footrest, and shut my eyes. The verdant countryside was racing by outside but it was overcast and would eventually start raining quite heavily. I decided I’d window sightsee on the way back once I was properly rested-ish.
My sleep lasted 7 minutes. A lady who looked like Glenn Close circa-Air Force One boarded the train at the next stop. And her seat? I’m sleeping in it. She started to yell at me in German, making shooing motions with her arms. “OH! I’m so sorry,” I say, “I’m not sure where I’m supposed to be sitting!” She continued to yell at me in German, even though I vacated my ill gotten seat immediately. “Actually,” I say, pulling out my phone, “maybe you can help me find my seat!” More yelling in German, This lady was not going to help me find my seat. At all. I stumbled away and found another aisle seat on the other side of the train…but facing in the opposite direction. I asked THIS aisle lady if I could sit with her and she shrugged. I sank down into my seat apologetically and saw that Angry German Lady was still not over the minor seat fracas from a minute earlier. In fact, she would continue to mean mug me the entire way to Brussels. At one point she would go to the beverage car and return with a tiny bottle of champagne (note: it is 10:30 AM) and shoot me eye daggers in between sips. I tried to get some shuteye but I was too tired to eat and too hungry to sleep. I pulled out my book but couldn’t even make it through the dedication page. I played that Ben Folds song in my head a few times and teared up a little. I wrote Caitlin an email telling her I missed her. She responded when she woke up, but made no mention of any missing of any sort. At some stop…maybe Antwerp…a man entered the train wearing a shirt with the words “Fake News' ' crossed out on the front and ohhhhh shit I forgot the far right isn’t an exclusively American phenomenon. I figured he was just some asshole in an asshole shirt…but no…he was there to actively asshole his way up and down my train car. First he located a lady wearing a mask and yelled at her in what might have been German. I was too tired to tell by that point. Then he homed in on a pair of dark-skinned teenage girls whose bags were blocking the aisle ever so slightly. He started yelling at them to put their suitcases in the luggage rack (even though they were clearly too big to fit up there) and tried to rally some of the other passengers to support his cause. The whole encounter was clearly racially fueled. I kind of wanted to get off the train at the next stop and just start a new life wherever I landed.
I exited the train at Bruxelles Station at 11:35 AM…and….drum roll….NOBODY checked my ticket! Is this just how it is in Europe? Tickets suggested but not necessary?? I had four hours to explore Brussels before continuing on to Bruges. I exited the station, where I found the city hot…pissing rain…and reeking of hot piss. I decided I had already seen enough of Brussels and asked the (far friendlier) Belgian train folk where I could catch a lift to Bruges. There appeared to be a train heading out thattaway every 20 minutes so I figured I’d just hop on the next one even though I lacked the proper credentials. Before I boarded the next train I asked a group of businessy-looking men if the train stopped in Bruges. Their response: “Oy! I ope so, mate! Dass where wer fookin’ goin.” I was so relieved to hear their Manchester accents. I imagined we’d spend the hour-long train ride palling down, talking about Factory Records and the Happy Mondays or whatever bullshit. Instead, they talked about money and banking the entire time. Lame.
When I disembarked at the Bruges station…wait for it…wait for it…no one checked my ticket. Are these train tickets what? Souvenirs?? My map showed a 20 minute walk to the center of Bruges and what little adrenaline I had left in my body propelled me on my way. The sky was completely overcast but the day was dry and warm and the air tasted like powdered sugar. It was pindrop quiet and it felt like I was the only person on the streets. As I got closer to town, I heard the sound of horse hooves marching my way. I wound down the narrow cobblestone streets and saw a couple taking a nice early afternoon horse drawn carriage ride. The couple smiled and waved and the driver doffed his cap at me. Or maybe I imagined the doffed cap? I was starting to hallucinate at this point. John had said walking into Bruges is “like walking into a postcard” In the film In Bruges, Brandan Gleeson’s character says “It’s really like a fairy tale, innit?” It really, truly is. I lack the words to describe it so I won’t try. Suffice to say it’s the most beautiful place I’ve seen (I haven’t seen a lot…but it’s quite stunning). I mean…it’s a Unesco World Heritage Site and all…and those motherfuckers know what’s up. Block after block…canal after canal…ancient cathedral after ancient cathedral….the beauty is relentless. I remarked on the architecture…and then remarked on how wherever I remark on a city’s architecture (“ohhh…the architecture in Chicago is really stunning”)...what I’m really saying is “they got a lot of really cool fuckin’ buildings there.” I know fuck all about architecture. I guess I know Frank Ghery. And I.M. Pei? I always get those questions right on Jeopardy! And what’s his name? Andrew Lloyd Wright? He had some good ones. I reached the town’s Market Square and took a reverential pause in front of the towering Belfry of Bruges, which I would 100% possibly maybe probably not be climbing once I was properly rested. I took a deep breath and allowed myself to finally feel a brief sense of accomplishment for making it all the way to Bruges via Germany. Then I looked to my left and saw a massive line for a Dunkin’ Fuckin’ Donuts. All the way across the world just for a medium regular. And next to the Dunks? A Burger King. Because of course.
I still had an hour to kill before I checked into the Hotel Aragon and realized I hadn’t had a bite of food since the sad sidewalk shawarma the previous evening, which already felt like it was at least 2 years in the past. My phone told me that the Otto Waffle Atelier served the best waffle in town…and when in Belgium, right? On the walk there I dipped into a few beer stores with walls lined with hundreds upon hundreds of different bottles of Belgian brew. Stuff we’d kill for in the states (and also, weirdly enough, a few bottles of Spencer Trappist ale, the now-defunct trappist ale that was the only certified trappist in the US…and was also in the same town where I went to summer camp before folding in 2021). The waffle shop is a small takeout counter and it smells like the musk of the gods. I asked the lady at the counter if the waffle served with strawberries, whipped cream, cacao, and pomegranate was nut free and she assured me that all of the waffles were nut free if served without nuts. Finally an answer I could get behind! I purchased a waffle and 3 bottles of water and waited patiently for my number to be called. I had waffle in hand in less than 5 minutes…and THAT’S when I heard it.
Rude American: Umm…excuse me? I was wondering, like, what’s going on with my waffle?
Shop Owner: Sorry? What’s going on with your waffle?
Rude American: Yeah ‘cuz like…I ordered before HE did (points at me) and he already got his and I’ve been waiting a long time sooooo….
Shop Owner: Ok Miss…you have ordered the vegan waffle which takes longer to make. As you can see…it will be ready in (points at waffle machine with digital timer) one minute…35 seconds…good?
Rude American: (sighs loudly)
And there it was: I’m a 9 hour flight and 3 hour train ride from home…hearing the same shit I hear every day back in rude ass Boston (note: it’s possible that I’ve been hearing people act like pricks to service people in German the entire time…but how the hell would I know that??).
I enjoyed my waffles thoroughly. As soon as I consumed the last bite I was filled with the overwhelming urge to vomit. I began to believe that I was actually suffering from actual exhaustion and quickly made my way to my hotel, which was just a few blocks north of the square. Hotel Aragon is located in a slim, nondescript building on a quiet residential street (note: are there actual residents in Bruges or is it one giant tourist attraction? Feels like the latter). The front desk attendant was suspicious and not particularly friendly.
Hotel Clerk: Sorry Mr Tibbbo…there is no room for you here.
Me: Ahg…I have a confirmation email somewhere…let me pull it up.
Hotel Clerk: Are you sure it is Hotel Aragon?
Me: Yes (showing phone confirmation) here it is here…
Hotel Clerk: Ahh! I see. We have you listed as Tebo Daniel….not Daniel Tebo!
Me:...............
Hotel Clerk: But you see, Mr Tibbo…it is 2 PM and check in is not guaranteed until 3 PM
Me: (in my head) that’s cool….is there a lounge where I can park myself until the room is ready? (What actually comes out) Waaaaaanghhhh……tsssssaahhhhhhh…..ullllllllll….
Hotel Clerk: But Mr Tibbo the your room is ready now so you may check in if you’d like.
Me: Oh praise da sweet christ and all 12 of the apostles!
He handed me a map of Bruges and showed me two walking routes that would guarantee I’d get to take in all the city has to show. Each route would take about 90 minutes to walk. I wordlessly snatched the map out of his hand and took the elevator up to my room on the second floor. It was small, the room was, but richly appointed. There was a king-sized bed that had sheets on it…an open floor shower…and all the usual swag. It made sense as a hotel room…unlike my room in Germany…which I am still paying for but not occupying. I collapsed onto the bed and planned to nap as hard as possible until around 6 PM, which seemed like a huge chunk of time where I could be out seeing the city. But I was literally starting to hallucinate from exhaustion. I saw bookshelves on the hotel walls where there were no bookshelves. Before I pulled the covers up I made the mistake of checking my email…where I found a message from my friends at Omio, purveyors of unused train tickets.
The email read:” We are contacting you regarding the weather disruption that is affecting a number of Deutsche Bahn Services. Services will be impacted on 22nd June-23rd of June 2023, causing severe restrictions on long-distance and regional trains.In the likely event that your train is canceled, please complete this form in order to claim your refund.
Well fuck my life sideways! How the hell else would I be able to get back to Germany if not on a train?? I checked the buses: all sold out for the next few days. I could fly from Brussels to Duddeldorf for a tidy $1200….or take an Uber for 500 Euros. Now I’m out of bed, pacing and trying to control my heart from stutter-stepping off into Afib. “Not good…not good,” I said out loud, in between gulps of warm hotel water poured from the bathroom sink. I checked the weather and saw that a thunderstorm warning was in effect across southern Germany…for just one more hour. After that the forecast called for clear skies and temps in the 80’s for the foreseeable future. I concluded that this alert was a bullshit alert and tried to go back to sleep, which wasn’t quite so easy after a panic attack. Every time I started to drift, my entire body started to shudder and I shot up in bed. It was not unlike trying to fall asleep after ingesting massive amounts of amphetamines (not that i’d know anything about that, obvi). Finally, though, it happened: I fell asleep and remained that way until my alarm sounded at 6. And I felt like a brand new human: relaxed, refreshed, and only mildly panicky. I felt (in fact, I KNOW) that I'd struck out with food so far on this trip and wanted to make sure I had a proper Belgian dinner in Bruges. Lots of moules frites and whatever else it is they eat there. I pulled out my phone to research restaurants and found that, unlike the wursthauses in Germany, which shut at 9, the restaurants in Bruges all appeared to stop serving food at 7. SEVEN!! I saw myself sitting on the ground in the town square, eating a royale with cheese and a side of fries swimming in mayo from Burger King. I COULD NOT let that happen. I showered, dressed in my evening best, and was out the door by 6:15.
I set my sights on a place called the Belgian Pigeon House and prepared to chow some serious street bird and what do you know…it’s fuckin’ 6:30 and they’re done seating for the night. I pulled up another place called ‘T walpoortje that was a 15 minute walk that would take me back through the square. I passed the restaurant where Colin Farrell and Clemence Poesy were dining when Brendan Gleason’s body fell from the belfry (sorry if I just ruined In Bruges for you. Or…I guess it has been 15 years soooo…). It’s still bustling but the menu looks shite. Burgers and dogs for American hogs. ‘T walpoortje is tiny…maybe 8 outdoor tables, most of which are completely covered in dirty dishes and glasses. Not necessarily a good sign. I checked the time: 6:55 PM. I walked into the empty restaurant and called out. “Hello? Is it still possible to get some food.” A server emerged, sat me on the patio, and gave me a menu. Dinner was SO ON! I ordered an app of garlic shrimp, a Flemish beef stew with a side of fries, and a bottle of Brugse Dubbel. Even though I realize you can find Chimay at any corner store bodega in the entire US, I went ahead and made my second beverage a Chimay Bleue because I had heard that it tasted better in Belgium. And you know? It tasted better in Belgium!
About halfway through my meal I noticed that the couple sitting next to me (early to mid 40’s…pink polos and white pants on both of ‘em…clean skin and soft hands) were A—American and…and B—assholes. They mostly argued about steak temps and what outlandish vacation to take next. Sample dialogue:
Husband: I don’t understand it—when she goes out she makes zero effort to make herself look nice.
Wife: I think she has a lot of natural beauty.
Husband: Pssh….I guess I don’t know what beauty is then.
When the husband got up to “drain the lizard” (his words), the wife leaned over and struck up a convo.
Her: I can tell from your accent you’re from the states…where ya from?
Me: Indeed! I’m from Boston
Her: oh! We’re from the suburbs of Atlanta.
Me: of course you are (note: of course they are).
Her: I saw you had the beef stew? Doesn’t it taste just like stew from back home?
Me: ahhh…I guess so. Maybe a little!
Her: it’s so hard to find food that tastes like back home when you’re traveling!
Me: why the fuck would you want that?? There’s a fuckin’ Burger King a few blocks away…why not just go there??
What I actually say:
Me: yep
At around 8:35 a solo lady diner rolls up and inquires about dinner. “Sorry ma’am…we close in a minute,” the server and only restaurant employee tells her. They close at 8:36? Weird! She begs the server and reminds him that she had been in several times already that week. “Matilda from Wales, darling—don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!” The server relents. She sits there draining glass after glass of white wine and chuffing endless butts. She continues to shower the server with unnecessary compliments that fail to stanch his annoyance.
Matilda: YEEEES darling…you remember me from last night! You give the best service I’ve ever had!
Server: Yes
Matilda: I should talk to your bosses and tell them what a GREAT job you do!
Server: This is my restaurant.
Matilda: (quacking sounds)
After dinner I took an extremely buzzed self-guided sunset tour around the city. John recommended I check out the window that Colin Farrell leapt through in the flick and…well…there it was! I planned on pouring myself into a local pub and striking up a conversation with some friendly friendlies and having myself a proper night. I’ve sampled just two Belgian beers thus far and, judging by the shelves at the local convenience stores, there’s another 400 beers I will need to try before my train departs at 2 PM Friday afternoon. The first bar on my agenda is called Herberg Vlissinghe and it has been serving pints since the year 1515. And it stopped serving pints at 7 PM because that’s when it closes for the evening. A bar. Shut for the night at 7 PM. Wild! I also dropped by ‘T Zwart Huis, which is the pub where Farrell/Gleasson do drugs with hookers and that midget in the film (note: Yes…I realize this is offensive. I didn’t write the fuckin’movie!). It’s only 9:45. I finally found a bar called Whatever Whatever Not Important that was two blocks from my hotel that had an actual BAR…with actual bar stools! I popped a spot and ordered a Flanders Red on tap. The severs kept skating into the restaurant with trays full of empty glasses (like HUNDREDS of empty glasses), which the bartender then promptly fingered and gave a halfhearted wash in a brackish sink. Most of the people around me, again, were American…and wasted. About 2.7 minutes after my arrival, a DJ ascends to his perch in his DJ booth and starts “spinning” music on his iPad that’s go-fuck-yourself loud. I tried ordering a Tripel Karmeliet but the bartenders couldn’t hear me over the ear piercing sounds of Sublime’s “Santeria.” An evening of friendship and merriment did not appear to await me at this particular establishment…so I moved on. I ambled back across the square and up a side street, where I found a compact, charming wine bar with a 12 seat stick, a few high tops, and a patio. The bar was mostly empty and the two lady bartenders immediately gave me a bowl of the most inedible popcorn I’ve ever had the misfortune to munch on. I ordered a beer and swirled my finger through my bowl of stale, rancid, black pepper-crusted corn. I started to wonder if I wouldn’t be better off just drinking alone in my hotel room when a group of my countrymen wandered in and made my decision for me. The exchange between the bar staff and this collection of 9 dudes from, say, Nyack, NY, went like this:
Bartender: Yes gentlemen….may I help you?
Head Dude: Yeah…I think we’re just gonna grab a drink.
Bartender: How many are you?
Head Dude: (Hold up 9 fingers)
Bartender: I’m sorry…we do not have seating for a group of 9 here.
Head Dude: That’s cool…we’re just gonna stand.
Bartender: I’m sorry sir..this is not a place where you can just stand.
Head Dude: Oh REALLY!? And why is that?? Did you make that rule or can I speak to your boss?
I threw 5 euros on the bar and split.
I stopped at the bodega by my hotel and purchased the only 3 Belgian beers I could find under 8 percent, an “I Love Belgium” keychain with a bottle opener, a bag of pizza-flavored Cheetos, and 4 bottles of water. Before I returned to my room I walked four blocks north of my hotel looking for action that was not taking place. I paused in a few deserted doorways and tried to take selfies of, erm, myself looking like a slick world traveler (as opposed to a sleep-deprived ball of anxiety, which is what I was/am). It wasn't midnight yet when I returned to my room. I reckoned I could sleep a full 8 hours…wake up at 8…climb the tower…and peep some sights. Of course, I was suddenly not tired in any way, so I ate my disgusting snacks, drank all 3 beers, and stayed up until 2 reading the first 100 pages of Flower Moon. After watching the trailer for the upcoming Martin Scorsese film adaptation of said book, I drifted to sleep with a hearty buzz. Can you find the wolves in this picture?
Day 4
The alarm went off at 8 AM and I promptly decided that I would NOT be climbing anything but back into bed until at least 8:30. According to my fitbit I had slept for 6 hours and 13 minutes, and shittily yet again. My resting heart rate, which was 66 when I left Boston, was now up to 81, no doubt thanks to a steady diet of booze/stress/no sleep. Instead of typing “Bruges breakfast” into my phone, I threw on clothes, shuffled down to the lobby, and asked where I could find their overpriced, mediocre breakfast buffet. The same chastising gentlemen who checked me in stiffly informed me that breakfast was not included in my hotel rate but then I waved 30 Euros in his face and everything was cool. It was pretty much the same spread as the hotel back in DE: bananas, pancakes, loads of weird cold cuts, steaming hot scrambled eggs in steaming hot hotel pans. I asked for coffee 3 different times and coffee failed to materialize. I finally made myself a cup of tea. After I finished breakfast, 30 minutes later, my coffee arrived. I took my tea, the coffee, and a pocketful of bananas back to my room…’cuz fuck ‘em.
I showered and checked out at 10, giving myself plenty of time to see the remaining sights before my train to Brussels. The first thing I noticed when I hit the streets was that they are fucking beyond packed. Like…shoulder to shoulder in the market square. A 100X increase in foot traffic from the previous day. I guess it was Friday and all but godDAMN. I swung it to the west and walked a less crowded path to a church called Sint-Walburgarek, where I paid some respects. I entered the Church of Our Lady, which was stuffed with tourists taking selfies and videos despite signs everywhere that say “please refrain from taking selfies and videos and maybe just shove your cell phone up your stupid ass.” Ok, so it didn't say that last part. After more respect paying, I walked to yet another record store called Cherry Picker, which was full of amazing Radiohead bootlegs on wax. 4XLP sets from legendary concerts in the early 00’s and whatnot. And once again… I could neither afford them nor afford to transport them. I exited the shop and walked on to the Basilica of the Holy Blood, which claims to have a vial containing the actual blood of the actual Christ. That shit is HEAVY, yo! (Not the vial…but the fact that they have mad old Jesus blood. Or…I guess I don’t know if the vial is heavy or not). I climbed the stairs to the church and sat in a pew and took in my surroundings. The blood was in a canister on an elevated altar and was being watched over by a stern looking priest of some persuasion. There’s stairs leading up to the altar. Below the stairs there’s a sign that reads “Ok…you seriously CANNOT whip out your phone and take pictures of this shit. This priest looks old but he will FUCK…YOU…UP.” (Note: not verbatim). I watched as people climbed the stairs and gently wept in front of the blood before receiving a blessing from the Priest and moving on. I figured “when in Bruges' ' so I went loping up the stairs and knelt in front of the blood of Christ. And all I could think of was: isn’t it funny that I was just looking at a 90 Euro bootleg of a Radiohead show from the summer of 2001 and now I’m looking at the blood of Jesus Christ?? Weird sightseeing itinerary! I gazed down at the canister, which looked like a bunch of bloody tissues stuffed into an 8 inch tube of transparent PVC pipe. I thought…if this is the real thing…that’s a real thing! I looked up at the Priest and blessed myself. He nodded his head dickishly…like he knew I’m a smug prick who hasn’t been to church since I made my first communion. Then I saw that I was supposed to leave a donation to receive a blessing…but had nothing smaller than a 20 Euro note. “Hey padre—can y’all swipe a debit card in this piece?” I didn’t actually say this. I moved along.
I walked back to the square and spent 30 minutes trying to find the statue of Micheleangelo’s Madonna with Child statue… and was just completely unable to. Sorry, Mickey A! I walked back to the tower and lamented that I was not going to climb it. I decided to wander through the front gates anyway and was ejaculated into a courtyard. Above me were stairs leading up to the belfry, where a good 50 people were queued up awaiting their entry times. Ahead of me, something far more alluring–a pay-to-play shitter! It was 2 euros but it was CLEAN and they even took debit cards (or just waved folks through). I took full advantage so at least I could say I did some business in the belfry. Before I headed to the train station, I returned to the Otto Waffle Atelier and ordered the same waffle I ordered 24 hours earlier…and it ruled all over again. I bought a refrigerator magnet for my 88 year-old grandma and one bar of Belgian chocolate for my sure-to-be-disappointed co-workers, and made my way back to the train station. Definitely dug you, Bruges–hope to be in you again someday soon.
I arrived at the train station and hopped the next train to Brussels, which was not the train I was ticketed for. I stepped off the train at 1:35 and NO ONE CHECKED MY TICKETS. For those of y’all still reading, that's SIX train rides and zero tickets redeemed. I may as well have just set that money on fucking fire. I gave myself 5 hours to explore Brussels before boarding a 7:25 PM train that would’ve had me back in Germany at around 9:30. But for some reason I still had no interest in exploring that city. I was also anxious from that weird, alarmist message about canceled trains…and was bizarrely worried about my other hotel room…which I was SURE was just fine. I checked the boards and saw there was a train leaving for Dusseldorf in 10 minutes so I quickly made my way to that platform. When the train pulled in, I attempted to step on and a train employee blocked my way:
Train Guy: Sir…may I see your ticket?
Me: BWAH HAH HAHA DUDE….where you been all my life?? (walks onto train)
Tran Guy: Sir…I need to see your ticket.
(I open Omio and show him my ticket)
Train Guy: Sorry please…your train does not leave till 7:25.
Me: Right but I can just get on this one right? It’s all good, baby baby………RIGHT??
Train Guy: Sir…this ticket is non-transferrable. You may not board. Please step aside.
Holy harshing my vibe, Batgirl! Fuck is this, all of a sudden?? I just douched 500 euros on train tickets and they can’t give me a lift back to the Dorf?? I lined up at the ticket office and asked the next available agent when/how I could get to Dusseldorf on the pronto tip. He told me that there’s another train leaving in less than 15 minutes. I asked him how much it’ll run me. Answer: 95 euros. I showed him my ticket for the 7:25 train…and he explained that I can definitely use that ticket on the 7:25 train…and at no other time. I hemmed and hawed for about 30 seconds before plunking down my credit card and (horribly…unwisely) buying the train ticket. I raced to the platform and found a completely different train vibe. This one was furry and brown from nose to ass, not unlike a 1977 Ford Econoline van. But I could see my seat number clearly printed on my ticket and would be back in Germany in time for schnitzel. I quickly located my seat and informed the German lady in the window position, who looked like Glenn Close circa-Jagged Edge, that I was going to be sitting next to her. She started yelling at me and gestured to see my ticket. I showed her the paper copy, motherfuckers. She “acked” several times and then curled into a fetal position facing away from me and went to sleep. Man, I’m polite and well-showered–I can’t understand why German ladies don’t want to sit next to me on the goddamned train! We got groovin’ right away and I settled into my Native American massacre book. Twenty minutes into the ride the train jerked to a stop and the conductor announced that there’d been a terrible accident somewhere. The train would have to take a detour that would add one hour to our journey. But hey–they knew a way around! A detour on the RAIL! If this was Amtrak I’d have been stuck on that train until Halloween.
It was almost 5 PM by the time I got back to Dusseldorf. I sprinted back to my hotel to make sure my room was still intact and, what do you know, it was! With fresh towels and awkwardly folded comforters and the whole nine. My belongings in the safe were unmolested. It’s my last night of vacation and I want to have that proper German dinner that continues to elude me. I had a bit of time before the restaurants shut so I decided to walk 1.5 miles to the “hipster enclave” of Flingern to survey the scene . I strapped on my kicks and trucked it over to a neighborhood that looked a lot like….Brighton, MA?? There were a lot of bars and cafes but no concentrated “city center” or main strip (that I found, anyway) and there was very little activity at 5:45 PM. What did I end up doing? Walking into ONE record store, of course! This one was called Minty Vinyl and it was just a tiny room tucked away behind a gallery. The shopkeeper told me that her husband ran the record store and that he’d be back soon should I need to make a purchase. I should've just been upfront and told her that this was the 75th record store I’d been to in 4 days and that I was just wasting everyone’s time…including my own. Sure enough, they had loads of Kraftwerk and Tangerine Dream and a rare copy of that Joy Division album from when they were called Warsaw. The husband popped his head in and I complimented him on his collection and apologized that I wouldn’t be able to bring anything back to the states. He offered to ship any purchase I might make…even a 45…free of charge…but I awkwardly exited the room and started walking back to my hotel. On my way back, I passed by a long-abandoned storefront of what appeared to be a shop that sold musical instruments. By “long abandoned” I mean this store closed in 1989. In the window there was a sun-baked poster of heavy metal drummers. They were all AquaNet 80’s dudes with teased up bangs, leather pants, and frilly pirate shirts. There’s Wild Mick Brown from Dokken…and Gil Moore from Triumph. In the center I spotted Steve Riley, Revere native and one time drummer for L.A. Guns. I snapped a pic and sent it to John, who texted back a string of bold HA’S. Apparently John and Riley knew each other back in the day…and John even has a story about L.A. Guns beating the shit out of Billy Squier that I’m sure he’d love to tell you if you asked him. John tells me he’s at a Midsommar party in Gothenburg chatting with E Street bassist Garry Tellent’s photographer wife Nicki Germaine, who has published several Springsteen-related photo books. I wonder if this party will involve dressing someone in a bear costume and then burning them to death. Hopefully not.
After a quick refresh at my hotel, I headed to the Altstadt for that elusive plate of wienerschnitzel and sauerkraut. It’s only 7 and every joint is bursting at the seams. The place from the other night has a line, as do most restaurants on the strip. I pulled out my phone and did a quick search for Italian, a cuisine that seems to satisfy no matter where you are in the world (I guess? I haven’t been to many places. I had really solid Italian in Aruba once when I was 14). Turns out there’s a joint called Rossini with 4.5 out of 5 stars on whatever whatever site that’s a 20 minute walk through a park called Dusseldorf Hofgarten. I freshen my step as there’s no guarantee they'll still be serving dinner after 8 despite posted hours of 5-10 PM. I hustled through the park, which was full of afterwork couples out enjoying a picture perfect early summer evening: 75 degrees…not a cloud in the sky. I started to think about how insanely lucky I was to be in Germany. Then I started to think about my breakup and about how I was probably going to lose my home and my beloved cats and what’s left of my sanity. I started furiously texting Caitlin but she did not respond.
I arrived at Rossini and sat on the patio. Since I’d spent way under budget (with the cash I’d brought, anyway), I decided to order heartily. I selected a glass of Sardinian Vermentino, an app of burrata with prosciutto and balsamic, and housemade pasta fra diavolo with a 1/2lb lobster tail for an entree. I told the server that I was allergic to all nuts and he just dismissed me with a wave of the hand and a “ack…no nuts.” Caitlin finally responded before the first course arrived. She told me she had just woken up. It was 2 PM there (I don’t ask). We made small talk about small things. When my app arrived I saw the following: a mound of burrata surrounded by an inordinate amount of prosciutto swimming in what was clearly pesto. You know–pesto? The green herb paste that almost always contains pine nuts and that wasn’t listed on the menu? I started with the prosciutto and then cautiously sampled the burrata, which was soaked in pesto. I felt my throat start to tighten immediately. I summoned the server and asked him if the pesto contained pine nuts. He told me he’d have to ask the chef. Answer: yes it does. And also–is that a problem?? I explain that yes….yes it is very much a problem. I felt like the only human person alive in Germany with a motherfucking nut allergy. He spirited the dish away and offered to remake it but I told him I was good. I’d already consumed a Babe-sized pig’s worth of prosciutto and was starting to break out into pork sweats. He returned 5 minutes later with the same dish sans pesto and I continued to stuff my face with wads of cured meat. I ordered a glass of red to accompany my entree, which arrived approximately 45 minutes later. I was only fleetingly aware of how insanely fucking long it was taking as i was busy texting, picking at the app plate I didn’t want and that they refused to clear, and taking notes for this article that you’re reading right now. The server apologized and said my entree required extra time to prepare. Whatever, dude. I was finally presented with a plate of house-made linguine (decent enough) in a tomato sauce that is neither fra nor diavolo. In fact, the sauce tasted like it came from a jar. The biggest offender, though, was the lobster tail…which appeared to have been crazy glued into its shell. I had to get saucy from finger to elbow just to extract the meat. When I finally took a bite my nasal passage flared up with the unmistakable scent of ammonia, the #1 tell your seafood is about as fresh as a Rachel Dolezal joke in 2023. I considered sending it back…but then I started to chuckle at the fact that I….New England native and longtime hustler of seafood-releated cuisine…ordered lobster in FUCKING GERMANY! I mean…what was I expecting?? It ain’t exactly Bath, Maine…Dusseldorf. I choked down what I could and asked for the check…and of course…the nutty app was still on there. The dinner came to 85 euros. I asked the server if he meant to hold good to his promise to comp my app. He huffily carried the check to the wait station and returned it 25 euros cheaper. I’m not sure what else he comped and I didn’t really care to ask. Y’all are a chop shop, Rossini. A chop shop!
After dinner, I was still holding out a sliver of hope that an evening of German pilsner and mild revelry was within my reach. I walked back down to the banks of the Rhine, which was about 1000 deep with tourists. I tried to snap a few pics of the setting sun (even though I’m pretty sure I was facing East….right??) Below me, parked on the banks of the river, was a boat/bar that looked like it sailed up from Daytona Beach. The 1000 or so passengers were wilding out to a cover band that was playing “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon…who are very much not from Germany. I gazed off at the crimson sky as “YOOOOO HOOOO….YERSEXISON FIYYAAAHHH!!!” inflamed my tinnitus. I wandered back through the Altstadt and it was abundantly clear that the night I was looking for would not be happening. The strip looked like Bourbon Street vomited itself onto Faneuil Hall. Pint glasses were being smashed all around me. I accidentally bumped shoulders with a member of a fully uniformed rugby team, who turned and spat “OY! Watch wer yer fookin’ goin’...or I’ll fookin’ GO YOU rate now!” I raised my hands like someone with a shotgun pointed at them and apologetically slunk away. His 35 rugby brothers all got a peek at me and returned to their pints. I turned to see a group of young ladies in 18 inch heels and white dresses too tight and short to take full strides in about to enter the fray with huge smiles on their faces. I was out of my element, Donny–way out. The world’s largest bar on a Friday night ain’t no place for a poor boy like me.
I returned to my friendly local bodega for the last time, horny to spend my remaining Euros, of which I had 30 of. I bought loads of unimpressive German candy for my international candy loving co-workers, one bag of Doritos, a pack of Camel Lights with a picture of a father of 2 about to expire from lung cancer on the box for Caitlin…who does not smoke cigarettes but requested them nonetheless, 4 different bottles of pilsner (because I’m clearly drinking again), and 7 bottles of water. I returned to my room with my bundle and started to pack aggressively. I wanted to make it so I could stand up at alarm time, grab my shit, and walk out the door. My flight wasn’t until 12:30 PM but I wanted to get to the airport by 7…because I’m me. By the time I drank two beers and packed it was already midnight so I decided to throw on the TV and drink the last two beers. I still couldn’t get the English to work but I found a channel that was showing the 2013 George Clooney/Sandra Bullock film Gravity…which I reckoned would still look visually impressive without the words. I watched the final hour of the film while chowing Doritos, slugging beer, and texting with Caitlin, who was cleaning our apartment in anticipation of an unprecedented overnight visit from her older sister. At some point in the conversation she texted “I thought you were going to bed early??” and I realized it’s already 1:30 AM. I looked up at the TV, where Gravity has ended and given way to….PORN! No full pen or anything….but lots of bare breasts and vaginas. Could just be that Gravity was being shown on the German equivalent of Cinemax or whatever. I said goodnight to Caitlin and pulled off my sneakers. The soles of my feet felt like they’d been beaten with a meat tenderizer. I opened my fitbit app and did a little math and learned that I’d walked 42 miles in 4 days (29.373 steps JUST THAT DAY)…and slept just 21 hours. No wonder I felt like I was about to tip over and fucking die. Sweet dreams, everyone.
Day 5
As promised (to myself), I shot out of bed at 7, grabbed my suitcase, and hightailed it to checkout. Fitbit told me I’d slept 4 hours and 44 minutes, which helps explain the public meltdown I’m about to have. I checked out (no incidental charges…word!)....hailed a taxi…and was at the airport by 7:30, a full 90 minutes early. The Dusseldorf Airport features one giant terminal with airline desks numbered from 1 to, I want to say, 170. There’s hella desks, none of which bear the red FLYPLAY logo. My flight to Keflavik is shown as “on time” on the screen but no other information is available. Anywhere. I asked the service desk where I might find this elusive airline and they told me it might be somewhere in the 70’s. I’m desperately hungover and hungry but can’t stomach more than a bottle of water. I hovered around counters 73-75, which had no airline listed. I try asking strangers if FlyPlay might eventually turn up there but no one knows/speaks English. I wheeled my shit suitcase around, sat myself on it, and stared at the empty marquee for a full hour, hoping it would somehow crackle to life with information about my flight. Around 9 AM a kid who looked to be barely 18 years of age appeared and waved me forward (there’s a few other people in line behind me now but not many. Maybe 25.). I’m simultaneously amped up and half asleep at this point..
Me: Yeah…IS THIS FLYPLAY!??? Where were you guys!?? I wanna go home?!
Flight Guy: Yes Dear Passenger…is that a suitcase? It will cost 150 Euros.
Me: I know!!!!!!
I got my boarding pass and attempted to walk through security. They flagged my backpack and shunted me into a tiny vestibule, where they dumped the contents of the bag on a table. They stood me up and made me take off my belt. They pulled down my jeans and said “I need to get in here” and explored under my balls and inside my ass crack…but not ALL THE WAY inside, you dig?? I had all the same books I arrived with in my bag and they seemed to zero in on them. They kept rubbing the books down with white swabs that looked like post it notes and then holding the post it notes under an infrared light. What, did someone snort coke off my books while I was in Belgium?? They finally told me to pull up my drawers and shuttled me out just as fast as they shuttled me in. No nothing sorry see you later or anything like that. Rude.
I browsed the Duty Free shop, where everything was twice as expensive as I remembered it being. One of those suitcases full of Marlboro Reds is 400 euros. Sorry smokin’ buddies. I had a ”breakfast” of a chef’s salad with chicken egg that was hard boiled and left to die weeks earlier. When I arrived at my assigned gate, shortly after 10 AM, I noticed that the plane that was supposed to fly me to Iceland had not yet arrived. Having flown, I don’t know, 5 dozen times in my 44 years, I SHOULD have known that this wasn’t a big deal. The board still showed an On Time departure…and I’d watched endless planes arrive, empty of passengers, and reboard within 45 minutes. But I don’t fucking trust this shmoopy fucking airline…and am shocked to see my Iclandic layover time is just one hour and ten minutes. What happens next is I have the worst panic attack I have ever had in my adult life. Instead of sitting down, opening a book, and hoping for the best, I started to pace wildly. I walked back and forth between the board (to see if there was a delay) and the window (to see if the plane had arrived). Over and over and over again. I pound bottle after bottle of water but my mouth will not moisturize. I’m literally walking in circles, talking to myself. This is obsessive compulsive disorder on full public display. I worry that I’m so out of sorts that I’m going to end up in a German mental facility. I wonder if they’ll take my insurance. I walked in circles for a full 90 minutes,,,,silently weeping and muttering under my breath. I walked to the men’s room and locked myself in a stall and practiced useless breathing exercises for 10 minutes but mostly breathed in the fumes of the dude next to me’s dump. I returned from the restroom at 11:30 and there’s a fucking FlyPlay plane parked at the gate. I cried harder. I bought more water and a cup of coffee.. The passengers disembarked uneventfully…but when the clock struck 11:50…the scheduled boarding time…nothing happened. There was one young lady behind the desk and she appeared to be having computer issues of epic proportions. She was FaceTiming with someone from customer service on her cell phone. Every time they appeared to have fixed the problem, she’d slam her fist on the desk and dial up FaceTime again. She made no announcement of any kind. There’s no “Ladies and gentlemen with non-stop service to Keflavik..we will begin boarding shortly!” It’s 12…then 12:05…12:10….12:15…and finally 12:20, our scheduled departure time. It’s a foregone conclusion that I will now miss my connection to Boston. I started to search for Icelandair flights back home…which start at around $5000. At 12:30 she started trying to scan boarding passes and was still unable to. I’m thisclose to walking up to the counter and asking her if I can help…but I realize this is not rational behavior. A fifth FaceTime call is placed. Finally…amazingly…miraculously…a boarding pass is successfully scanned. The flight started to board and I was fifth onto the aircraft. I took my seat and dug my nails into my knees. I tried to make the flight board faster with my eyes and mind. After 20 minutes the pilot announced that they were waiting for one more passenger. It’s 12:50. I started to imagine what my life will be like in Iceland. Then it slowly dawned on me like a fart wafting over a crowd: Iceland might be in a different time zone and I actually have a TWO HOUR layover…not one…in which case I would still get to Iceland with an hour to spare, provided they find this passenger and we don’t crash. Seconds after I confirmed my suspicions about the time in Iceland, a voice announced “boarding is complete” and we pushed back from the gate. I’m wound tighter than a rat’s asshole.
When the plane reached cruising altitude, the flight attendants fanned out through the cabin and told us they had a very important announcement coming soon. Are we going to crash into Greenland?? Sweet Christ I hoped so. The pilot came on the mic:
Pilot: Yes Dear Passengers…today you are flying a very special day! Today is the two year anniversary of FlyPlay airlines!!! (At this point the flight attendants started to put on pointy party hats). Let’s hear applause applause! And hope please for 200 more years of FlyPlay”! A halfhearted round of applause went up. I wondered if there would be a free glass of prosecco or complimentary cup of hot water to mark the occasion. Instead, the flight attendants quietly removed their party caps and started offering beverage service with a mild candy bar upsell.
We arrived in Reykjavik without incident. I hustled off the plane and searched for a snack to fortify myself for the 7 hour flight to Boston. We were dealing in Kronas now so I had to google calculate any purchase I might make. Turns out a yogurt and banana at a forbidding sounding 30000 Krona is only like 8 friggin’ bucks…so I went with it. There were loads of Americans lined up for the flight to Boston (natch). I took seat 25F, an aisle seat, and was beyond delighted to see I had the aisle with no middle passenger. The middle-aged man in the window seat had already pulled the shade shut, slipped on his sleep mask, and was sawing logs before takeoff. I was still trying to unwind from the panic attack but figured getting home today was a certainty. The couple behind me lived in Cambridge and obnoxiously speculated whether they’d have a third seat mate throughout boarding. “Oh….look at his fuckin’ guy? Not him…please not him…OH OH…he’s sitting…YES!!!” I figure I'll be in Boston in time for a steak dinner at Vee Vee until…
Pilot: Ahh yes…Dear Passengers…this is your Captain Hans Zichlseznberg….with me is my first mate Deef Rebilla…yes…Captain Hans…or as I’m better known…THE COUGAR! Yes that is right, passengers…you are flying with THE COUGAR! As you may not know…today marks TWO YEARS of FlyPlay Airlines…and we are going to party all day long! In the cabin is Johan, Kristina, and Singe. Ahh yes..Singe the belly dancer! So sexy, dear passengers, don’t you agree. Maybe Signe will belly dance for us a bit later! Maybe I will try my belly dancing too with her too, Dear Passengers!
Right…so this guy was shitfaced and we’re all going to die. Cool cool cool. The plane took off on time and the flight proved uneventful. I finished reading Killers of the Flower Moon and wondered how Leo DiCaprio was gonna headline the film when his character is barely in the book. Friggin’ white people ruin everything, man.
The Cantabridgians behind me slept the entire 6.5 hours but perked up as the plane began its descent.
Him (surveying the landscape): Oh look…there’s Hampton Beach…I know it. There’s Ipswich…and Hull (note: these areas are not that close to each other).
Her: How are you so good at this??
Him: I’m kind of a topographical genius. LOOK! There’s the harbor islands! There’s Montauk!
Her: Sooooo sexy!
Him: Mmmmm…..
Her: Should we join the mile high club??
Him: It’s probably too late. Besides…I have dead ass.
Her: Huh?
Him: I’ve been sleeping on my ass…and it’s dead. Dead ass. Doubt I’d be very good.
(they kiss loudly and disgustingly)
All throughout this exchange I kept craning my neck to look out the window to try to fact check this so-called topographical genius. Finally my seat mate…who had not spoken or looked in my direction the entire time…sat up and looked me straight in the eye. He says the following:
Seat Mate (in a Boston accent): Hey pal–if you wanted to look out the fuckin’ window…you shoulda bought a fuckin’ window seat! (slams window shade shut).
And with that motion…I knew I was home.
The end.