After finally seeing Gentleman -- my favorite artist in the world, and one that I had been trying in vain to witness in the flesh for over two years -- with three of my best friends at the very end of their European adventure, and then the three days spent on a man-made island at SummerJam in Cologne less than a month afterwards, I knew that the Reggae Sundance Festival in Eindhoven, NL would be up against some pretty stiff competition in attempting to take me to the I-est of Ites on the very day that my two-month Eurail Pass was set to expire.
It wasn't a lackluster line-up or a slew of disappointing performances that was to blame for the bronze medal that the Sundance received on the podium August 13, when the Trilogy that also included Burg Open Air and SummerJam was complete. In fact, pure music wise, if we're talking overall, I think Jah may have been saving the best for last. Every single group -- Israel Vibration, Don Carlos (formerly of Black Uhuru), Steel Pulse and Alpha Blondy -- is part of the Who's Who Guide to Reggae Music.
But I just didn't get that same feeling as I usually get. Sure, there were moments. Moments when tears literally began to well, when goosebumps could not be controlled, and when I received bursts of energy from a certain one drop bass beat, or a certain soul-touching lyric. But it wasn't consistent. For long periods, due to a reason I could not explain, the inspIration was in short supply.
And it was timing, simply timing, that was the reason why.
I wasn't even wearing shoes, yet they were full of rocks -- deadweights around my feet when I tried to pick them up and move. I didn't have the energy. I didn't feel the same magic. I had a great time, because after all, I was seeing some of the greatest reggae bands ever to grace Jah earth. But from Izzy Vibe, to Don Carlos, to Steel Pulse to Alpha Blondy, I actually found myself kind of hoping that the day would just end -- that I could just be left with the memory, which would be a good one, no doubt. I know this is no way to live life -- I hate travelers who hit hot spots with a checklist, so that they can mathematically quantify how "successful" their trip has been -- but I couldn't help it: The penultimate desire emanating from my corpus was to rest my weary body, mind and spirit.
For a good, long, while.
Chalk it up to the general, cumulative fatigue engendered by seven weeks of dashing about Europe, alone with my lumbering, mondo REI pack and my speedy, miniature Osprey Solo after my friends left me for good to return home: From Holland -- when Hunter and I gave each other one last bear hug, despite the big bags strapped to our backs -- to France to Switzerland to Italy to Switzerland to Spain to France to Germany to Holland to Germany to Denmark to Norway ... and back to Holland.
I get tired just typing something that long, let alone living it for nearly 60 days.
Fittingly, I also got tired simply trying to make it to Sundance. Seeing as Utrecht was only a stone's throw away from Eindhoven, it proved a much more difficult task than I had envisioned. It was as if Jah, or whoever He is, just didn't want to see it happen.
I got up late that morning in the hostel where I was staying -- no worries; none of the good bands would start until at least mid-afternoon, I told myself with crossed fingers.
Then, at the bus stop by my hostel, the dreaded 41 bus simply flew right past me, despite there being about 40 open seats waiting for my butt and my luggage. The blurred faces of the three or four lone passengers on board whizzed by me as the driver sped on, either oblivious to the two of us waiting to get on or just having a really bad day.
"WHAT THE F**K WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?!" I exclaimed, furious, and even more late at this point. I had wanted to have a stress-free day, get to Eindhoven early, figure out where I was going to camp (I needed to make friends; I had no tent), and just enjoy the music without having to deal with the hassle and the bullshit.
"Don't worry, it's a nice day," my temporary companion -- a very weird Italian Brit who thinks the Illuminati is responsible for everything from 9/11 to rising oil prices, just because he "read it on the Internet" -- said. He may have thought that the leather jacket/soul patch thing was hot, and he may have eaten one too many paint chips as a kid, but the man was right.
It was a beautiful day, and I soon calmed down, ready for 40 more minutes of enlightenment.com.
Nearly an hour passes. The next bus had been so kind as to actually pick us up. I am finally at the train station. Feverishly perusing the yellow posterboard of departure times and destinations, I find what I'm looking for: Eindhoven, one minute from now.
"I am making it onto that train." And I begin to sprint.
But in my haste, as I clambered down the already moving escalator (or the d'escalator, as the ones going down should be called), I forgot to do a very important thing: I forgot to make sure that the train I was hopping on -- the one with the doors open and clearly about to depart in about 20 seconds -- was my train. In my head, all that had existed at the time was "Train. Eindhoven. Leaving. Spoor 12. Soon."
I only found out later, when I had arrived in Arnhem -- not Eindhoven -- that I had mistakenly hopped on the train outbound from Spoor 11. The Eindhoven train had either just departed, or there had been a delay.
This could have been a disaster that sent my entire house of cards fluttering to the ground. Instead, it turned out to be a minor nuisance.
Luckily, Arnhem was to the east; Eindhoven was to the southeast. Everything's gonna be all right was right, just like Robert Nesta says. A small delay, nothing more. After my mistake was corrected, and I had hopped on the hour long commute down to Eindhoven, the only thing on my mind was finding a locker in the station, and then heading towards the campground with a change of clothes and a sleeping bag. I'd worry about finding somewhere to put my stuff once I arrived -- making friends at reggae festivals is about as difficult as finding sand on a beach.
But you'll never guess what happened -- the goddamn Eindhoven station lockers only accepted credit cards. Mastercard, to be exact. The kind I don't carry in my wallet.
Priceless.
Seemingly everyone I asked to swipe me in in exchange for the money in coins was mysteriously denied by the electronic reader, as if the machine knew they were trying to do a favor for the Yank standing behind them, peeking over their shoulder as they swiped their card a second, third and fourth time, before giving up.
It looked like I was going to have to bring my entire life with me, packed into that tattered REI backpack.
And then I met Max.
"The lockers don't work?" he asked, observing my attempts to coordinate a coins-for-credit swap that failed time and time again.
"Naw man."
"I really need a locker though, to put my stuff in for the festival," he preached to the choir, which had a membership of one. "Let me call my friends really quick; they are already at the campsite."
Two minutes later, this tall, pale and not too handsome Dutchman had a solution for us.
"My friends said we can just put our stuff in their tent. Let's go."
Was Max a guardian angel? I do not know -- I never saw him again once we got to the campground. He introduced me to his buddy Chris and his hot redhead friend Mirloos (sp?), and then he disappeared. But I had my storage tent, and I had it just in time. I glanced down at my watch: 3:57.
"Can you say PERFECT TIMING?" I rejoiced inside. Izzy Vibe was set to come on at four. I had made it, just in time.
The music was great; I really did enjoy myself, despite the fatigue of mind and body. But once it came time to sleep, I was out in the cold -- literally. While Chris was extremely generous in letting me keep my valuables "locked" away inside his tent, he was not as open about letting me keep my body in there.
"Well, I guess I've been carrying this tarp around with me for a reason." So I laid it across the already wet grass, at about midnight I'd say, and rolled out my sleeping bag. It took about five seconds after my eyelids closed for me to be carried away into Dream Land.
And about an hour for me to be brought back from it.
"Wake up, wake up" is all I remember hearing. It was still pitch black outside. Two figures that I had never seen before were hovering over me. They were wearing uniforms; naturally, I thought, "Cops."
"What the hell did I do this time?" I wondered from a deep haze, my mind fully confused at why I was being woken up in the middle of the night for a crime I (hoped) I had not committed.
"It's too cold outside, come with us to our tent." It took a few more sentences of explanation, but I eventually realized that these uniformed mystery men (and woman) weren't cops at all. Quite the opposite. These were Red Cross employees, summoned by a concerned tent neighbor who worried about the risk of some poor soul sleeping outside in such harsh cold. True, I had put on my hoodie and rain jacket -- in addition to my Carhartts and wool socks -- in an attempt to stay warm through the night. But even with the extra layers, it was still damn cold, and I knew it.
Even so, I was beat. It was late. I wanted to sleep. But the Red Cross people insisted, and well ... they didn't have to twist my arm. The more I thought about it, the more I realized the comparative differences between a cot and the gound. And after about ten seconds, I got up to make the move.
And a good decision it was. My only question is, why does anybody bring their own tent when they could get a cot for free? I'm doing it from here on out.
I missed my bus; I got to experience a beautiful day until the next one came. I got on the wrong train; so I just corrected the mistake and got on the next one. Couldn't get a locker to work; so I just met someone who had a friend with a tent available to store my stuff. And I had nowhere to sleep; so the Red Cross came and saved me. All problems -- and solutions -- provided by this traveling without a plan thing that drives my parents a bit nuts at times.
Not that it always works out that perfectly, but I do think there is a lesson to be learned from this day:
Sometimes, the best plans are the ones that don't exist.
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