The End of the Universe

The previous post wrapped up with "it was exhausting, so you'll have to wait 'til I recover a bit if you want to know more about the trip itself."

Well, it's been over a week and I'm still exhausted.

Going from not traveling nearly enough to suit my tastes to two foreign trips in two consecutive weeks can take it out of you. Follow that up with a pretty busy week (work, marathon eating and drinking events, and more concerts) and you've got a pretty tired boy. Add to that the dangerously low serotonin levels brought upon by devastating travel withdrawal, and you've got yourself a worn-out addict with a case of the DTs.

And all I did was go to two neighboring countries. (Three, if you count a couple of hours grabbing a beer in central Brussels.)

But going to Germany, despite the transit hassles we encountered, may have saved my sanity. Because I needed a fix. I needed an encounter with the unfamiliar. A language I don't quite understand. Social mores different than my own (and those I've grown accustomed to). Food and drink I can't easily get. Figuring out how to get around. Ümlauts över vöwels.

Our arrival in Cologne (Köln if you like the aforementioned umlauts) was unspectacular. You learn after you've gotten off most European trains a number of times that it's the same drill... Find the exit from the platform, go to the main plaza in front of the station, scope the old town center architecture, and try to find some overpriced place to grab a bite. This is made extra de rigueur when you're carting around a wheelie bag over cobblestone for the umpteenth time.

Then you look at the ornate detail of the Dom, its unpolished facade of hundreds of years of rain and grime, its massive size, and you stop thinking of how, yes, it does like every other cathedral in Europe, and actually take in its glory, its unique spot in time and space, that you are indeed miles away from home.

And then you take your first sip of a freshly brewed Kölsch beer, and order another glass, and another, and yet another... You're only a few hours from home but in an entirely different dimension when it comes to beer. And sausage. Bring on the Leberwurst. Bring on the Blutwurst. Bring on anything that's been cured for cryin' out loud. We're in Germany!

That's just the first stop. A few more beers and a Bratwurst later, we were traversing the plaza in front of another train station, in another town center, making a beeline for Düsseldorf's... Japantown. (As mentioned previously, the city is home to Europe's third largest Japanese community.)

I'd handled myself just fine in Köln, mostly squeezing out what little I remembered from my year of German in high school. (Please don't ask how many deca-- er-- years ago that was.) Besides, ordering beers is a matter of holding up the right number of fingers, starting with the thumb, as any fan of Tarantino movies probably knows. After all, how hard is it to hold up your thumb and index finger every five minutes to have two fresh beers brought to you?

Ordering at a Japanese restaurant is another story. The thumb-index finger thing will only go as far as getting you a table for two. I stammered and stuttered and stalled, failing to get out enough German to order two kinds of ramen and a large bottle of still mineral water. Then it hit me: Speak Japanese!

I was relieved I could actually complete my thoughts (despite my 2nd grade-level skills). The very Japanese waiter also seemed relieved not to have to speak German. Alles klar, ウエイターsan! At this point, it officially became one of those days: French in the morning, Dutch (or Flemish if you swing that way) at midday, German in the afternoon, and Japanese in the evening.

(We went back for more German at night by downing a bunch of Altbier at Brauerei Uerige.)

By the time we were making our way to Dortmund late at night – hooray for 24-hour train service – my brain nearly hit language overload whilst overhearing some passersby speaking Farsi.

Beer of the Universe

Our Dortmund-based friends Alex and Thomas were real champs for hosting us, as well as Amanda and Tara who'd come over from California and Canada, respectively. We got a little sleep after a (very) late night chat session – something at one point dubbed a "DM Pajama Party" by one of our motley, sleep-deprived crew.

The next day saw us getting up early (well, noon is early when you get to bed at 5:30 in the morning) so we could get back to Düsseldorf for lunch. The mission: Meet up with more of the Black Swarm for a pre-concert session at the local Brauerei.

The venue was Braueri Im Füchschen, the beer was Alt, and the Leberkloße was pretty damn good. (All the food deets and pix can be found here.) And I never thought I'd say this regarding a trip to Germany, but the service was – at all points during our sojourn in the Rheinland – warm and friendly. Germans have a reputation for brusqueness, and it can definitely come across that way, but I can see right through that facade, dammit. Well, at least *I* think it's funny when you order a Coke and the waiter repeats it back as Amerikaner Champagne. But maybe I've already become a haughty Frenchman at heart.

As most of the group made their way to the concert venue to snag good seats, a handful of us walked through the Aldstadt and to the Rhine, taking in the glorious sunshine and the surprisingly magnificent views.

Before this trip, all I knew of Düsseldorf was that Augustus Gloop, the fat boy in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, was from there. And he's not even real. After strolling the old town, Japantown, the fashion district and the waterfront, I'm now sure I want to come back and explore a little further.

Naturally, the abundance of beer and sausages is a bit alluring, too.

As much as I could've spent all day and all night trying to immerse myself in Düsseldorf, we did have a concert to catch.

The Depeche Mode concert was the focal point of this trip, as it was the raison d'être of pretty much all my non-business travel in the last year. It's something I find a bit shameful. Here I am, a travel junkie living in one of the world's greatest jumping-off points for all kinds of adventure, and what drags me out of my Parisian hermit cave? A freakin' band I've seen a gazillion times since the 10th grade.

But in all, I think it's a good thing. After over two years of being beaten down by French bureaucracy, adjusting to life in a new country and culture, and having little to no "fun money," it was good to have a motivator to get out and do what always brought me so much joy, and to share it with my wife. So what if they practically never change their setlist? Who cares that over the last three tours, we've seen essentially the same show day-in, day-out? My favorite band going on tour gave me the push I needed to get back on the proverbial travel horse again. A show goes on sale, I buy my ticket, then I worry about how I'm getting there.

And it turned out really well. Our first show of the tour was the band's first, too: The warm-up gig in Luxembourg. On the home front, we saw them at the ridiculously huge Stade de France, and then made our first trip to the Alsace region for the show in Nancy with a busload (literally) of French (edit: and South American and English and East European...) fans. The sudden addition of a charity gig in London made for not only the best Depeche Mode show ever (with insane surprises and actual setlist changes), but also helped me fall back in love with London after a few years of discord. And the Düsseldorf trip only happened because the re-scheduled gig became the last one of the entire tour. This made it a special night for the band, the culmination of a tour that at the beginning started to bear the nickname "Tour of the Uni-curse." It was also a very special night for the fans, who were treated to the band's most energetic performance ever, on a stage uncommonly loaded with humor and emotion.

Though it was exhausting (and I only went to a handful of dates!) and though I'd gotten more than my fill, I was, as the picture might indicate, a bit bummed that it was all over. Because as with all the bands I follow religiously and with all travels on which I embark, it's never so much about the activities as it is about the people.

Depeche Mode could break up tomorrow and I'd be upset because it'd mean fewer opportunities to meet and commune with the fans I've come to know, love (and sometimes loathe) over the years. It's like a really big, often dysfunctional family that see each other every few years when a new album comes out and we figure out which shows we can attend, who can crash where, and which will be the "special" must-go gigs. We're like Deadheads, only we have jobs.

It may be the music of Martin, Dave and (I suppose) Fletch that bring us together, but when I play back all the tour experiences in my mind, it's the folks on this side of the stage barrier I think of most. So thanks to the Tour of the Universe, I'll be looking back at memories of Alex, Thomas, David, Robert, Jean-Baptiste, Christian, Jan, Tara, Amanda, Mike, Sandy, Carsten... you get the picture.

Most of all, I'll remember one night at the Royal Albert Hall, hearing an unfamiliar voice, and turning to my left to see my wife. I felt like a proud father. Or perhaps a successful cult recruiter. Because there she was, singing along to every song.

----

Just before the start of the Düsseldorf show, I tweeted this photo and message. I'm not sure if Alannah got how sincerely I meant it. Putting up with my travel jones (and often punishing pace) is one thing. She knew about that coming in. Finding out your husband is an obsessive fanboy and accompanying him to shows, waiting in lines, getting crushed amongst fans, walking home from venues that let out well after public transit has closed... Well, that's just a sign that I've truly found the "Somebody" that Martin Gore sang about (with Alan Wilder on piano, of course).

(My) Metropolis Has Nothing on This

As we hurtled toward our destination, you could hear the thick, icy rain pelting the TGV. This didn't bode well. And although the rain had stopped by the time we hit the terminus, the weather was still bitingly cold and wet when we disembarked at the station.

"I don't understand how it can be so cold and icy here," I said to my wife.

"Paris is south of London, for crying out loud. It should be warmer."

No, really, this is Hyde Park in mid-February

We'd just gotten back from the UK, where it was dryer, sunnier, and – dare I say – the food and drink were better.

Of course, this is all a matter of perspective. Today marks two years that we've been in France, and I've already said many times that it feels like home. As such, you start taking many things for granted, start whining about the things that bother you, and start pining for things that are markedly different. I started noticing this just over a year ago, when I wrote the unimaginable – postulating that beer is cheap in London. Good beer, at that.

My previous trip to the UK was also part of a trip to France, all while still living in San Francisco. Afterward, I wrote a post trying to quantitatively compare the two rivals. It all seems so naïve now, but at the time, I didn't know I'd be living in Paris, just a hop skip and 180km/h jump away.

So I know that I say the following with no authority or consistency whatsoever, and that my perspective will likely change again in less than a year: Food and drink are now better in England.

Warning: Foodie Talk. Skip down to the following heading if you don't care.

The Countless Feasts Laid At My Feet
Now before you get out the torches and pitchforks, I don't buy into the current Michelin brouhaha fueled by Chef Alain Ducasse's statements that London is now the world's fine dining capital. Ducasse is no longer a chef but a businessman, and he likely makes far better margins promoting his UK joints. And Michelin sells more books whenever it stirs the pot. Besides, I can't afford to eat at places like that, so these gastronomic titles are moot.

I furthermore don't believe Michael Steinberger's doomsaying in Au Revoir to All That, a book claiming that French gastronomy is all but dead. There are plenty of innovators on this side of the Channel. It's just that, again, their stuff falls in the budget of Sarkozy-voting suits who don't even live in Paris proper: The suburban nouveau-riche whose kids, ironically, eat at McDonald's and make American-style consumerism appear chic.

So I'll repeat, from the perspective of someone who loves to eat, travel, go out and fully enjoy life, yet also has to deal with a severely limited household income: Eating and drinking is better in London.

Part of this has to do with the near-parity of the Euro and the Pound Sterling. When Alannah and I first came to France on vacation (and wound up really liking it, so much that it was a no-brainer to move here) it was because we knew we could stretch our dollar farther than in the UK. But beyond exchange rates, my newfound appreciation for London has to do with the quality of what's accessible to the common traveler. Or resident.

Two towers of afternoon tea

For less than the price of a barely passable, likely-made-of-frozen-ingredients two-course "meal" at a typical Parisian shithole of a brasserie (a misnomer if ever there was one, as I don't see any beer being brewed locally), we were able to have a fairly regal afternoon tea at the swanky St. Pancras Grand.

Even if we'd thrown in a couple of flutes of champagne, it would've cost less than what passes for a decent lunch at a typical Parisian resto. And St. Pancras Grand is on the high end.

In Paris, if I want to have lunch for less than 8€ ($11), my choices are fast food, pathetic "wok" fare, cockroach-infested Chinese take-out that's been sitting under a sneezeguard for three days, hygenically questionable kebabs, or some inauthentic crêpe made with industrial ham and cheese. Granted, there are some tastier options like boulangerie sandwiches or falafels, but I'm talking about a hot meal that fills you up.

For £7 in London, while you won't eat like a king, you can pick up a best-in-class Fish & Chips or enormously satisfying Pie & Mash, all made freshly with proper ingredients. Maybe even a drink or two. (For a full run-down of what we ate in London, see our food blog Hungry Amateurs: Eating London Out.)

While you can't beat Paris' multitude of outdoor markets – many featuring excellent products – the supermarket is starting to rule the roost, filled with industrial, processed garbage from across the world. London, on the other hand, seems to be having a food renaissance not only in its gastronomic scenes, but even its supermarkets are now replete with a dazzling variety of organic fruit and veg, locally sourced convenience foods (!) and information on responsible consumption. My local Picard, on the other hand, recently patted itself on the back for carrying frozen sushi.

Chugging ale at St. John. The hulking
figure in blue partially behind me is chef
Fergus Henderson.

The real coup de grace, though, was having lunch at St. John. While the maitre d' apologetically informed us that there were no tables available in the dining room for lunch, we were more than happy to order a few pints from the cavernous bar, where the menu overlaps that of the restaurant and comes from the same cooks in the same kitchen. For the same price as mediocre tapas in Paris, Alannah and I shared a few plates of fantastic, beautifully interpreted, and – yes – Michelin-starred renditions of classic British food. (Again, I don't hang out in that strata, but why not grab it when you can?)

I oohed and ahhed and licked my fingers and sucked the marrow out of bones and savored slices of ox heart and enjoyed the housemade whole wheat bread, vowing that we'd come back each time we're back in London.

All that and we were able to wash down our lunch with multiple pints of hand-pumped real ale, with no silly fancypants markup or that-doesn't-pair-with-your-meal scowling from the waitstaff.

And as much as I love a good wine (I'm polishing off a bottle of Gaillac as I write this), it's refreshing to go somewhere it's not frowned upon to have beer with your sit-down meal.

This is More Than a Party
While the English may be known for binge-drinking, it's also obvious that the wide availability of good drink makes for a more convivial atmosphere in general. Even if you're not a drinker, there's a happy vibe to a warm pub, a cozy booth, or a concert where they're not gouging you at the door or jostling you on the floor.

Happy just to be here!

When it was announced that Depeche Mode would be headlining this year's Teenage Cancer Trust charity show at the Royal Albert Hall, I told Alannah I'd sacrifice going to their Paris shows to come to this one – if I could score tickets. I did, it coincided with our wedding anniversary, and we agreed that a smaller, more historical venue like the RAH would be more romantic than a giant box like the Palais Omnisports de Bercy anyway. Score another for London.

Needless to say, the show was Depeche Mode's best in decades, notably due to the brief but triumphant return of Alan Wilder. (HD video of the best moment of the show here.) Throw in a string section, an intimate venue, and all of it being done for a very good cause, and it made for a special night indeed.

There's no point to comparing this to any night out in our homebase, but overall, I haven't been incredibly happy with the live music scene in Paris. Poor ticketing services/alerts, overpriced tickets, overpriced drinks, overcrowded venues, and an over-coked-up crowd (probably because drinks cost so much) make for lousy nights out, which is painful for a music junkie. While London concerts aren't immune to these problems, I simply find it easier to have a big night out over there.

Another Hole to Feed
Besides eating and drinking, one of the things I've learned to love in London is shopping. Despite my anti-consumerist leanings, I still like... stuff. And thanks to France's boutique culture of highly curated items, shopping can be a bit frustrating here.

Alannah made the Martin Gore style hat.
I made the giant scarf. All in my fave color.

For example, I recently got into knitting. This is actually good for my anti-consumerism, because it means I've started on the path to creating my own clothes. To some extent. It's bad, though, in that I now obsess over finding the right yarn for a project. (I can thank Alannah for turning me on to this neurosis... Thanks, honey.) Unfortunately, yarn stores in Paris – even the highly-touted Droguerie right in our neighborhood – carry a limited selection of what they find appealing or is trendy enough to sell. And because no one likes taking risks in this culture, every damn mercerie carries the same limited yarns. What's the fucking point? Who's dick do I have to suck to get a skein of Debbie Bliss "Como" cashmere-merino yarn?

So yeah, thanks to being turned on to knitting, I'm now one of those assholes who goes to London to shop. I couldn't believe I was telling the lady at the fantastic and charming Loop (Islington) that we were going to come back from Paris more often to shop there. She even gave me a loyalty card.

Again, I'm not loaded. But when I do choose to shop, I'm going to go where there's good pricing and variety and quality of product. (And before you get on my case about buying locally, most of the textiles at the grands magasins are Made in China synthetic blends.)

We even did a huge duffel bag's worth of grocery shopping in London, since not even the hippy organic stores here carry certain vegetables like kale. (Which grows like a weed in continental Europe... WTF, man?)

Feels Like Home – I Should Have Known From the First Breath
With that cold blast of the icy Paris air filling my nostrils on the Eurostar platform at Gare du Nord, I smelled that I was home. Paris has a particular scent to it – a moistness mingling with the faint scent of baking bread and stale cigarette smoke. It's "the Paris scent" as far as I'm concerned, and I find I long for it whenever I've been away for too long.

As much as I complain and always see the grass being greener on the other side, it's magnificent living somewhere that not only everyone wants to visit (for very good reason), but that I actually do love on a daily basis. Whose smells I love. Whose sounds I love. Whose irritating idiosyncracies I love, much like the quirks of any loved one.

Even being away for only four days, I missed baguettes. I missed being able to blindly pick a wine and pretty much never go wrong. I missed our local market people (even if they don't have kale). I even missed, believe it or not, the Métro. (Though not the craptacular Ligne 13. Nique la motherfucking Ligne 13!)

We've become so Parisian, in fact, that everywhere we went in London, we were surrounded by French speakers. At our B&B, at nearly every pub, at half the restaurants. Then Alannah had an epiphany: "We now are French tourists!"

Now that both of us have our residency cards, root for the French rugby team, and feign indifference with the best of them, we've become pretty integrated. But as I went to yet another mediocre lunch during work today, walking past the skinny undersized cans of fizzy yellow Kronenbourg in the beverage section, I really missed the chippie and the pub. And the gigantic serving of Welsh rarebit at St. John. *sigh*


Side note: Yes, all the headings in this post are Depeche Mode lyrics, as I still can't get over how awesome that show was. And yes, I did take my wife to see my favorite band during our anniversary holiday. And she sang along to every song. Except for the kinda boring ones where we went and chugged Old Speckled Hen. For less than the price of a soda in Paris, naturally.

Lost in Luxembourg

I've been back from a short trip to Luxembourg for a couple of days now, but it's taken me a while to recover enough to write about it. I've been wearing my baggiest pants, hiking socks, and some highly unfashionable sandals while I recuperate, looking so hideous that I don't want to venture outside for fear of being deported. I'm tired. I'm bloated. My feet are destroyed.

Our mission was twofold: To meet up with my friend and fellow fan Alex – who now lives in Germany with her husband Thomas – so we can go see the very first stop of Depeche Mode's "Tour of the Universe"... And to drink beer. We were successful on both counts.

While in my hardcore-fan-for-whom-nothing-is-ever-good-enough, the concert was fairly decent (I was hoping for better for Alannah's first!) and just to be at the first show of the tour at a smaller venue was a distinct pleasure. Tickets had sold out in mere seconds, so we knew we were among the privileged few at Luxembourg's Rockhal.


In this same venue, home to Luxembourg's biggest concerts, the beers - as in big drafts in pint cups - were only 2 euro each. I'll say it again: Pints of real (i.e. Luxembourgish pilsner, not Bud or Miller) beer for only 2 euro.

Luxembourg, being a world financial capital, is one of the most affluent places on Earth. Yet we found that - like at the Rockhal - everything is cheap. Not just beer.

With it being Octave, the Luxembourgish Catholic period observed after Easter, the Place Guillaume II was turned into a special fair, with stands featuring everything from cotton candy to nougat to carnival games. And, of course, plentiful beer and food on the cheap.

One thing we've missed since moving to France is street food. As much as people may mention kebabs and crêpes, there really is no street food in Paris. Occasionally, you can buy a grilled ear of corn from a Pakistani immigrant roasting it over a can full of charcoal in a shopping cart – and believe me, it's some seriously sublime stuff – but in general, you're unlikely to see Parisians munching on the street.

Scratch that for Luxembourg. Even at 10:30 in the morning, it wasn't unusual to see a local tucking into a giant sausage sandwich and several beers. Personally, I opted for the speck/lard sammich to go with my brews.


We also sampled grompere kichelcher (potato pancakes, German style) with apfelmüs, Luxringer (barbecued bratwurst), Currywurst, and anything else they'd hand us for just a few euro coins at the stands.

Vegetables seemed to be few and far in between, so in order to stay regular, we figured we'd try the uniquely Luxembourgish specialty of gezwickelte beer. This is an unfiltered brew available exclusively at Mousel's Cantine, downhill from Luxembourg City in the Clausen/Grund area, and well worth the hike. I complemented our waiter on the simple but remarkably delicious, smooth beer (I was expecting something more hoppy, tangy, or even gritty) and he proudly boasted that this is the only place you can get it - because they make it out back. (The big Mousel brewery itself has long moved to another city.)


After putting down litres of the stuff (4 euro a Stein, not bad), we thought it might be a good idea to find our way back toward our hotel and get some dinner before Alex and Thomas arrived in the evening.

Easier said than done.

Much of Luxembourg is – thanks to the Pétrusse river cutting a winding swath through it – hilly and zig-zaggy. There are very few straight lines from one place to another. So although we had followed our waiter's instructions to get back, we wound up somewhere in an ancient neighborhood in the Grund, without much of an idea where we really were. Not a big deal, considering the area is really quite charming and cute.

"Hey, there's a bar!" Alannah said, noticing the skulls in the window of the Aula Cafe. "Let's go inside," I replied.

And that's how we ended up having a liquid dinner.


We'd intended to have a quick beer and a pee-break and make our way to a restaurant for our first proper meal, but the Bofferdings went down too smoothly and the bartender and locals were too friendly. We ended up camping out for several hours, downing the aforementioned beers, as well as house specialties of honey and banana liqueurs. They even put on a ton of Depeche Mode on the sound system when they found out we were in town for the show. Class all the way.

Finally peeling ourselves off the barstools, we again took directions and made our way toward what we thought was the center of town. Somehow we ended up walking alongside what seemed like a highway. Night had fallen, and I went into a service station to ask for directions. They seemed a bit taken aback that we were on foot, telling me we had to go two kilometers in the direction from which we'd just come. Shit!

That one wrong turn cost us our intended dinner. We'd made it to the restaurant just as they'd decided to stop serving, the smell of steak and what had to be the best garlic sauce ever wafting through the air. I grumbled all the way back to the Gare part of town. At least the timing was right and we were able to meet up with our friends who'd just gotten in from Germany.

Luxembourg, despite speaking French and having a lot in common with France, does not keep French dining hours. So our only choice for dinner was... McDonald's. This isn't so awful, as I have this weird quirk about wanting to try the Golden Arches in every country I visit. (Verdict: Nothing to write home about.) But also because this was the same McDonald's that Alannah had come to on her very first trip to Europe. In fact, at this McDonald's, oh so many years ago, she had eaten her very first meal in Europe.

I'm still laughing at her about that.

But I shouldn't. I fully understand. After all, she could've arrived after 9-freakin-P.M.

At bedtime, we both realized that - despite it having been only a year since leaving the US - we've already become French. Dinner before 10:00pm just seems sort of... abnormal.

The Agony of Da-Feet
I awoke early the next morning. Not because I was excited to see my favorite band at an exclusive show in a small-ish venue. But because of serious pain in my right foot. All the hiking, climbing, and generally being lost had taken its toll – I'd either strained or hyperextended my foot. And the steady diet of fat, nitrites, and beer probably didn't help.

So we made it the morning's goal to hit the farmer's market, to see if this country does actually consume anything that grows on plants that wasn't once a hop or barley.

After a nice sit-down petit déjeuner of coffee, croissants, and orange juice (4€ as opposed to 9€ in Paris), I painfully soldiered on to the market, which had been displaced farther away from the center of town because of the Octave fair.

It was sorely disappointing, with few stands and most of them selling the same stuff as you'd find at the more run-of-the-mill Parisian markets. Alannah did find, however, some treviso, a particular kind of radicchio she'd picked up and fell in love with in Italy last year.

The four of us marched back toward the old town to hit up the Octave fair once again for some munchies, loading up once again on sausage-type-goods. If you can't beat 'em...

As midday approached, we headed back toward the train station to make our way to Oberkorn, just a few stops past where the evening's concert would be. There's no reason for any person to go to Oberkorn unless A) you live there, or B) you're a Depeche Mode fan.

The band played their only other Luxembourg show there back in 1982 or so, and wound up naming a B-side after it - "Oberkorn (It's a Small Town)"

It is, indeed, a small town. The train station is maybe about 50 metres long, has no gates or fences or anything to keep you from just walking across the tracks to get to the other "platform" (read: sidewalk), and their claim to fame appears to be a community swimming pool that has a waterslide.


On the other hand, their gleaming, modern local buses put most public transit in the US to shame. (Not that it takes much.) And they have the most perfect pavements on the face of the Earth. No joke. I wonder how much beers cost here...

Our incredibly trivial, deadhead-like pilgrimage over and done with, we got back on the train to go to Rockhal. (Their tickets are good for all public transit in the country of Luxembourg on the day of shows. Sweet.) We were among the handful that had arrived insanely early to be the first ones in, wanting to be right up front, after all.

Unfortunately, I had to return to Luxembourg to put my photography gear away at the hotel (the No-Cameras rule applies only to SLRs, apparently) which meant coming back later with a bigger crowd to find the others and regain my position in line. This meant a lot of "Excuse me," "Pardonnez-moi," and other niceties while stepping on the toes of people who surely thought we were just trying to cut in line.

And that was the case - not because I wasn't polite, nor that I couldn't say in several languages that I'd been there earlier and was rejoining my friends... But because there was the (I hate to say typical, but that's how it is at these shows) Eastern European contingent who had indeed cut in line to go be at the front. In fact, one fine example of such post-Iron Curtain louts was right in front of Alex and Thomas, a gargantuan couple who had absolutely no consideration for anyone else.

As luck would have it, when we made our way to the front of the stage once the gates opened, so did these two jackholes, who despite being in a great spot right by us, had to make a show of trying to push even farther. (As though they could get through the one person and steel bars separating them and the stage.) Further into the evening, there were a few more denizens of countries-that-should-never-have-been-let-into-the-EU trying to shove and muscle their way to the front, earning a few elbows in the ribs from yours-truly.

I finally understood why so many European fans - despite the wide availability of general admission floor tickets - prefer to buy seats a bit off the floor. While the crowds here are generally incredibly polite and respectful of personal space, there are always a brutish few who try to take advantage of the politesse and forcefully jockey for better position. I noticed at a show in Paris - in a much similar situation - that Alannah and I were among the few who resisted and fought back.

Make your own WWII analogies.

The show itself was pretty good. It had its high highs (some decades-old songs being dusted off, Martin Gore giving the performance of a lifetime), its low lows ("Peace" is the worst live Depeche Mode song ever, Dave Gahan still tries too hard on stage, Peter Gordeno should simply be hanged until dead), and as-expected parts (can we drop certain "standards" from the setlist yet, guys?). But again, it was the privilege of being there, and taking Alannah to her first DM show, that made it worthwhile.

Despite the irritating dickhead quotient.

Best of all, despite continuing to be on my feet non-stop since early in the morning (and with exception for time spent on the train), my right foot did not fall off. In fact, by the night's end, I couldn't even feel my feet anymore.

Home
This was our third train trip outside of the country since moving to France. But for me, at least, the trip home actually, really, truly felt like we were going home. Back to our city. To our neighborhood. To our apartment. Our little nest. Where we actually, honest to god think of when we say "our home."


The night before leaving on this trip, I booked us our tickets to go back to the US for vacation this summer.

And for the first time in ages, I'm not looking forward to it.

Don't get me wrong.

I want to see my friends. My family. My old colleagues.

I want to have a hoppy Seattle microbrew, California wine, and Crunchy Cheetos.

I want to see the Pacific Ocean, the Sierra Mountains, and the Puget Sound.

You know - all those things people vacationing on the West Coast get to do. Before going home.

Entire photo set at Flickr