On the rails

Everybody says “It’ll be fun!” They don’t know. So I’ll tell you and save you the trouble of envying me my freewheelin’ travels: Traveling through unfamiliar countries/cities with a loaded suitcase and precious guitar in a molded flight-worthy hard case can not be called “fun.” It wasn’t fun when I was in my early to mid forties, or now at 66.

Maybe it doesn’t help that I’ve been suffering with a painfully sore elbow, call it tendonitis or tennis elbow for almost three months now. The doctor said “you won’t want to hear this but the only way to heal is…rest.” How do you rest your right arm? It’s basically the fulcrum of life. Playing guitar is the only activity that doesn’t hurt. All the things I have to do in order to play that guitar —lifting, carrying, plugging, unplugging…sleeping; combing my hair. Yep those are all agony right now.

Looking plucky. A friend called me fearless. I said “No, just naive.”

But—three gigs and then no more for the next month and a half. I can tough it out! But it’s not helping, not ramping up the fun quotient.

There’s a romance about trains: once you’re in your seat, the world spools past you like a film strip. That part lives up to the fantasy. But navigating the stations, the stairs, the signage is a trial. Especially when you don’t know the geography and don’t speak the language.

Things were close to fun when I was back in England, sipping a Bucks Fizz and nibbling a panini at the Crown Rivers bistro in Heathrow Terminal 5. The ordering was all through the app so there was no awkward negotating with a server. I was left in peace (I know last post I said what a pleasure it was back in the US but…it rarely is, it’s usually someone frantically working the tip, providing service when it’d probably be better to just hook everyone up to a feed bag as we look for a place to charge devices, fill water bottles and spritz with facial refreshing tonic before hustling along to the gate. )

I did enjoy my Heathrow dining experience as a moment of calm, so much that I realized as I headed towards my gate that they were on final boarding. Thankfully the gate wasn’t a mile away, and I cruised right onto the flight which was maybe better than my usual milling around with Boarding Groups 1, 2, 3 and 4 before my bottom of the barrel crowd gets let on.

The flight from London to Copehagen was pleasant enough. It was only when we landed that it kicked in: oh my god I’m in a foreign land. I need to find the train station, get a ticket, get to Malmo, call me friend Mats who was going to meet me at Malmo Central.

So I’m juggling my guitar, bag and phone, trying to get a signal from one of my SIM cards, UK or US, and then do I call or text—wait does he do WhatsApp? The train’s up out of the tunnel crossing a body of water—yeah yeah guess we’re in Denmark or is it Sweden now…goddamn it maybe I should just message him through Facebook. All the things that make travel so much easier now also mean we are relying on these things to function at all times or we’re stuck. Throw in a pair of glasses I’m either fumbling to put on or whipping off my face in frustration cause it’s easier to see where I’m going without them.

Malmo was enjoyable, I stayed with friends and another pal was in town for the gig. Medley is a nice club, the food was good and there were people! I got a little fragile on stage in the second set, thinking about Jill Sobule, I’ve thought about her so much since she died tragically a few weeks ago in a house fire while out on tour—all her talent and energy and how she constantly put herself out there. To be vulnerable like that night after night, yet she was masterful at going with whatever situation came at her on stage, I just don’t understand why she had to die that way, I know life is unfair but…she really was a special artist.

Mats took me by taxi to the train in Malmo and then I was heading to—Stade in Germany. A young guy dressed in a suit rolled an upright bass onto the train and sat next to me. I found myself constrained even though pretty much everyone I’ve encountered in Sweden speaks English. I wanted to ask him where he was playing; what kind of gig.

My guitar was safely on the shelf right at eye level so I wouldn’t forget it. At the next stop two more young men dressed in suits carrying instruments boarded. “Hello handsome,” one of them said to the upright bass player. They were clearly friends, a band even, and all riding to a gig together. I envied them the camaraderie of a band, that “we’re all in this together” feeling, that no matter what the gig you’ve got each other. There was something about traveling alone on this trip that made me very conscious of being alone out in the world. I never felt it in California or even England where I’ve played dozens of times and know loads of people. Even when I’m alone in a hotel or cafe, or behind the wheel of the car, I feel connected. Here I was on the train plunging into new territory and I felt alien.

Changing trains at the huge Copenhagen central station amplified the feeling. Escalators broken and couldn’t find the lift so I hauled my bags up stairs with everyone else, only to realize I had no idea where I was going. I finally just turned and asked a woman behind me in the corridor how to get to the main hall. She looked irritated and I apologized. She then took the time to guide me down one escalator and up another at the far end of the station and then walk with me to the main hall where all the platforms connect from. This —not the part where I’m standing alone and helpless, but the part where a stranger goes out of their way to help—this is where I have to stop myself from breaking down sobbing. Most people are kind; most people are good.

The train ride to Hamburg was four or five hours. Thankfully my friends had warned me there’s no cafe on board the train to Germany and I’d brought a few provisions. We traveled a long way south through Denmark, I tried to get a sense of the place, thinking “remember this is it, the adventure” but I mostly just felt tired. I fell asleep against the window on my wadded-up jacket.

I woke to a woman sitting next to me. She apologized for disturbing me, and was very nice—pretty with white and grey hair, red lipstick, cool glasses. We ended up chatting. She was traveling for business, sounded Danish but was Australian. She asked how so many Americans could vote for Donald Trump, which is a question I get asked a lot and struggle to find an answer for. “It’s complicated…”

When I told her I was traveling to play some gigs, she said it was nice when your hobby lets you travel and make money too. I probably looked like one of those cartoons where a mouse suddenly turns into a roaring lion: “Hobby? HOBBY? A hobby is not something you risk and struggle and wish you could do something, anything else—something saner, easier. A hobby is gardening, or needlepoint! “

“Easy, easy okay, I get it,” she said. I turned the focus onto her job, involving wind turbines, a job that paid well and kept her traveling. I mentioned the wind farms off the coast of Norfolk and I could see she was used to defending them just like I had defended myself. Everyone has their cross to bear.

I changed trains in Hamburg which I’ve played in twice with Eric but never had a chance to explore. I always want to, it’s compelling. I found myself wishing I’d booked a hotel here for the night but felt overwhelmed needing to carry all my stuff and keep my wits about me for the festival in Stade the next day, it’s Hamburg after all and getting into it feels like falling down a rabbit hole if such a thing were still possible. So on to Stade, on a train full of Friday evening commuters, heading west out of the city into the pretty German countryside.

By the time we reached Stade the train was nearly empty. I exited and tried to remember the word for “exit”, immediately heading in the wrong direction from the taxi stand. Some things I’ve come to rely on in England – help with information at the train stations and plentiful taxis—seem non-existent in Germany. When I finally got to the right side of the station and spotted a taxi at the stand, he shouted “Nein!” when I asked as politely as I could if he spoke English. Same, when I asked if he could take me to my hotel, just one kilometer away.

I was having a realization as he grumbled at me and probably said “Now piss off!” in German—wow, it’s harder asking for help when you’re older because when you’re young and cute people (men—the world is still many many men) are nice to you because…you’re young and cute. When older they see you as a problem. I hear women talk about that wonderful cloak of invisibility that makes travel so much easier as you get older but you must be completely self-contained and not need anything from anyone. Note to self, never travel to gigs by train again because the nature of touring as a musician is you always need something from someone, it’s not a fun adventure or an exploration, you have a job to do and can’t expend your energy being lost, wandering, going here or there by chance.

My phone was not working, I tried to map out the route to the hotel on the train station map, it was getting dark and the thought of walking along a river path at dusk with that damn guitar in its hard case, rolling suitcase, backpack—argh. I considered taking the next train if there was one back to Hamburg, spending the night there and flying home. But I’d come all this way to play. I found a small patch of wifi in a corner of the train station where the cafe and newsstand were both closed. Tried Uber, nonexistent here. Pulled up Maps, took a screenshot of the route to the hotel for when the wifi faded out…then found the hotel phone number and was able to call and have them send me a cab. Thank god. The driver was really nice, not like the other guy.

Not a bad walk from the venue

The hotel was cute, and clean, very European moderne. I found food, crashed and woke up early to walk and wander through Stade, a very old charming town. In the afternoon I spent a few hours trying to learn to speak German—my few times here I’ve been confounded by even the simplest phrases, but I’ve always had Eric to prop me up. He spent a lot of time in this country, had a German girlfriend, always seemed at ease in the place.

When it was time for soundcheck I tried once again to find a taxi. Gave up and had dinner around the corner, knowing if I had to walk to the venue I could do it, just —my arm was screaming and I needed it to play guitar. Vowed once again to never take trains to gigs. Finally found a taxi by phone and when it arrived, the driver was the same nice guy from the day before.

Everything went well with the gig—I felt a real connection to the audience, enough that it made coming here feel worthwhile. Job done, I was fine walking back to the hotel.

Next day to Gottingen. I messed up and got on the wrong train switching at Hamburg, sweating and crying trying to park my bag of merch (books, LPs etc so heavy) and guitar somewhere on a train crowded with cranky passengers, most of them looking hungover. It turns out I was supposed to be on the ICE train instead but what American would willingly get on a train marked “ICE”? When a kind train driver finally guided me to the right one, I was so overwhelmed with emotion and gratitude I almost collapsed in his arms weeping.

On the correct train, I huddled in a corner of the cafe car, straddling my guitar case, suitcase etc listening to the sounds of soldiers and guys in sporting clothes around me enjoying their beers and conversations. I was overcome with loneliness. In retrospect it feels like a moment of beauty, exquisite and pure—yes you are alive and this is what it means to be human. Without connection, what are we? At the time though it was just choking down bites of a cold falafel sandwich and guzzling a sparking apple juice, and miracle of all miracles, a text came through from my daughter who all the way in California must’ve known I was at a low point. I thanked God for my daughter.

Why aren’t I writing about the fun of playing in Los Angeles, hanging out there with her eating good food, driving the hills and freeways? Or my sold out show in Santa Cruz? Maybe cause I’m half Irish and only feel good and honest when I’m telling a story about pain?

Outside the club in Gottingen, waiting for them to open up, I set my guitar case a distance away, almost willing someone to come along and steal it. Then I wouldn’t have to play for what I imagined correctly would be a very small audience, if there was an audience at all. I reminded myself of legendary Townes van Zandt shows in this country, with a small number in attendance. What did it feel like for Townes, I wondered?

It’s tempting, alone in a small hotel room in Germany, to look at the sum total of your life working and creating adding up to an audience of three in a small basement club, while you look at Instagram celebrations of fellow musicians, on big stages, playing with bandmates to massive adoring audiences singing along to their every word. You might even cry yourself to sleep, wondering what it’s all been for, and maybe it’s time to hang it all up.

But the next day, you wake up, enjoy breakfast. Catch the right train to a massive city train station in the center of Hamburg, where you find yourself eating wurst and fries and drinking a small beer in noisy bar full of football revelers trying to prolong Sunday’s match into Monday afternoon. The barman smiles at you, carries your tray to a table. You try not to panic as you search for the right train to the airport, grasping for the few phrases of German that’ve managed to stick in your brain, the most important one being “Excuse me”…or “pardon me” and the second being “thank you”. The train is on time, the ride to the airport is easy, they let you check your second bag for free.

Lunch in Hamburg Hauptbahnhoff

And then you fall asleep on the plane for a minute, lulled by the English people behind you, saying magical words like “weekend” and “holiday” and when the plane starts descending over the gorgeous countryside, rivers and streams undulating, sheep grazing, small villages looking as cozy as a postcard; traffic backed up on the M25; your heart lifts, you think “I’m swooning! I’m back to where I LIVE now. And I LOVE IT HERE.”

And you load your bag and guitar on the free trolley and trundle down to the train where a guy in Rail uniform helps you through the turnstile and you stand up all the way to Liverpool Street and ride the lifts and catch your train to Norwich and when you get off two hours later, it’s nighttime and the platform is pretty much empty but your husband’s there waiting at the other side of the barricade.

And he understands, and rather than doing a play by play you just say “you know what, fuck it.” And there are roses outside the house when you pull up, and you eat birthday cake his family saved for you and drink tea.

And next morning when you wake up, you pull the Ten of Wands card from the tarot deck: completion of a cycle; assess goals —where to spend time, what to drop. It makes sense. My arm is starting to feel a little bit better. I think I want to spend time in the garden.

Think I’ll stay here for a while