Was it the accident-related traffic on the Autobahn?
Were we still on "Amsterdam...." time?
Was it the games and the games of iPhone Scrabble?
Did we slow down that much to watch the hot air balloons?
Was it John's endless dance music mix CD?
In Germany passengers are allowed to drink beer. Maybe it was that.
Soundcheck had come and gone when we pulled up to Schocken, a rock club in the middle of a mall in Stuttgart. The van remained parked across from a window dressed with lederhosen-clad mannequins. Instruments were carried in, sandwiches were wolfed, make up was applied.
I like Stuttgarters. They watched and clapped from the balcony. During the a capella portion of "Grieving" we pointed at the man whose cellphone rang. "Vanilla Bean" gave Esther an opportunity to play piano, prompting comments of "I like when the merch girl played piano." Based on the German crowd's request, we closed with a poppy number about suicide.
Magnolia's set sounded great from the balcony. Intimate and packed. You could hear the off-mic banter. Afterward we lingered as Alan sang at some drunk girls looking for free dressing room food.
Magnolia took us to a bar that garnished bowls of potato chips with gummi cows. Mr. Rogers was discussed and the drunk girls from the dressing room were avoided.
Then it was time to find somewhere to stay. Earlier, several internet attempts and calls to local hotels merited nothing. We hit the road hoping for a roadside motel. With John behind the wheel we saw lots of trees, moonlit mountains, stars...but nowhere to stay. At a rest stop we learned that rural Germany speaks only German. It was getting late.
The hotel wasn't answering the bell. Neither was the next one. Or the motel across from that one. We were in a quaint town vaguely near the Swiss border. It was 4am. John was determined to find a bed. He tried three more hotels. It was evident to all that this was hopeless.
With a reluctant sigh, John parked the van next to a park. Greg and Esther laid out across the back benchseat. Alan slept in the front with John, who remained behind the wheel. Mike and I climbed on top of the gear and suitcases in the wooded off rear. After a few minutes, Mike grabbed a camouflage sleeping bag and went to the park.
"Good night," he said before the cold slam of the van door isolated me from the world. My Rollins Get In the Van fantasy had become a reality.
"Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Realize the strength, move on."
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