#i just got to my hotel after the Dusseldorf show

[vasattope]

~

[timeaftertime-chriscornellfanfic]

Chapter 31 - if I Can’t Have You Right Now, I’ll Wait Dear

Dusseldorf Germany, April 16 1990

(Chris is 25 Andi is 20)

CHRIS: "Shit, no... no, no," I say as I bend down and pick up her clothes from the bus floor. I head out of the back room tossing them onto the couch and up to the front of the bus "We can't leave yet,"

"What?" Kim asks.

"I gotta find Linda... where the hell is Linda?" I start to panic and run down the steps of the bus. Once outside, I look around and see our tour bus driver, Linda talking to our tour manager Jim as the last of our equipment is packed onto the lower storage unit of the bus. I quickly run over to her interrupting their conversation but I didn't care.

"Chris? what's - " Linda starts

"We can't leave yet. We gotta stay here for just a little bit longer," I say trying not to sound panicked but I couldn't help it.

"Chris we gotta get on the road, the next gig is tomorrow and we got a long drive to Berlin," Kim says suddenly appearing behind me.

"Andi slipped," I say turning back to him and his eyebrows raise in disbelief.

"Oh shit," He says.

"Yea, really 'Oh shit'"

"Ok, um... well I can talk with the promoter at the next venue and see if we can push it back a bit, but, I can't make any promises," Jim cuts in.

"Will she come back here, I mean on the bus or...?" Kim asks glancing up at the bus.

"I don't know, she's never slipped while we were travelling before so... I have no idea. I don't want to leave in case she comes back and we're not here and she's here alone in the parking lot, or on the side of the road -" I say feeling my own anxiety creeping up and worrying me about what could happen to her if I wasn't here.

"Chris, hey... it's ok, we'll just chill for a little bit, she'll come back," Kim re-assures me.

****

"Guys, we gotta get on the road... it's 4:00AM. If we don't head out now we won't make Berlin," Jim says as he climbs up onto the bus and sees me on the couch leaning forward resting my arms on my knees, slightly moving back and forth as my silver chain with Andi's diamond ring swings, touching my bare chest every once and a while. I drop my head in my hands, my fingers gripping my roots as I debate in my head just what I should do.

"I can't leave. I can't... I..." I trail off trying to think but I can't.  All I can focus on is hoping she'll come back to me.

"Chris, I hate to say it but we gotta get going, Andi will be fine. She's the one who booked us a hotel for tomorrow night after the show so maybe she'll be there... hell who knows she might already be there right now," Kim says as he sits down beside me. I look up at him for a moment and then straight ahead, and play with the diamond ring in between my fingers. I can see Jim staring at me waiting for an answer but the only answer I want to give him is that I don't want to leave at all.

"Ok, " I reluctantly say quietly and bring the ring up touching it to my lips all the while hoping I didn't just make the biggest mistake.

*****

Seattle Washington, January 23 1990

(Andi is 20 and 20)

ANDI: "I'm sorry... I'm just..." I trail off as I lift myself from my shoulder as we stand in the bathroom of The Moore together, feeling strange as we once again acquire the memory of this moment at the exact same time, only once again I am on the other side of it.

"It's ok," She says and looks at me with those dark eyes of mine.

"I should go before anyone sees us in here," I say and wipe my tears from my cheeks.

"Ok, um... here, take my keys and you can head back to the apartment. I'm assuming you slipped there anyways?" She says glancing at me up and down.

"Yea... thank you," I sniff and flip my curls out of my face as I take the apartment keys from her and make my way to the bathroom door.

"Andrea?" She asks and I turn to face her. "Is Chris ok? I mean are we ok?"

I hesitate for a moment, giving her a gentle smile and glance down at the tattoo etched on my finger. "Yea, we're ok... He's ok," I re-assure her. She smiles back at me and I make my way out of the bathroom, heading down the hallway and out the back entrance.

I thought about maybe trying to catch Andy again but decided against it. Whatever happened between us will be our little secret, but now I understand why he said that he loved me when I found him on the floor the first time he overdosed. Maybe in a different time, had I not met Chris, things would be different.

I arrive back at the old apartment, setting my keys down on the side table in the entryway like I always had done before, slip of my jacket and head down the hall to the bedroom. I wasn't sure what exactly to do since I pretty much feel like I'm just waiting until I slip back to my time. I just hope that when I do, I'm in Berlin at the hotel and not on the side of the highway somewhere naked and alone. That is the most frightening thing about this condition. For the most part I've been pretty lucky.

I exhale and make my way over to my guitars and pick out the one that Chris stole for me all those years ago. The jet black '81 Gibson Les Paul standard. I situate myself down on the floor, my legs stretched out in front of me with my guitar across my lap, leaning against the bed. I flip my curls from my eyes and begin to pluck at the strings while I close my eyes and sing quietly to myself the song I had been working on before we had left for Europe.

"I'm your disappearing one, vanish when you play your song. But I will come again, and you will let me in, and you'll see I never disappear for long..."

*****

"...yea let me get it, it's in the bedroom," I say as Chris slowly lets go of my hand with everyone following in behind us. I slip off my leather jacket and Chris gives takes it from me like the gentleman he is and hangs it up as I take off towards the hallway.

"Drinks anyone?" Xana says as she follows behind me, turning towards the kitchen while the guys all call out which drink they would like. I make my way down the hallway to our bedroom as I continue to hear every ones laughter from the living room, and just as I approach the door, I see my '81 Gibson on the floor with my clothes in a pile underneath. I sigh and pick up the guitar from the floor and set it back down on its stand beside Chris' Cherry Burst, then pick up my clothes from the floor, setting them in the laundry hamper, hoping that I made it back safely to wherever and whenever I was.

[woollyslisterblog]

1834 July Saturday 26th

Much entertained by Anna Choma interview tonight which prompted me to get another daily post up. Did rather like her evidence AL of wearing/giving blue as signifying interest in the ladies. Perhaps this shade could be the modern day signifier? (Makes a change from the lavender ribbons of the nineties -showing my age again)

Q 6:50 11 ½

her bed stock’s creaked so that the people in the adjoining room being up, I put Miss W[alker]s bedding on the floor and we had a good long kiss about three quarters hour with her- packing - breakfast at 9 to after 10 - dressed -

Anne and I out at 11:40 - went to Dérogis bought Bardon’s antique costumes of the Greeks etc two volumes quarto Bailey's histoire de l’astronomie 4 volumes quarto all for 35/. and the Dusseldorf Gallery (fine old engravings) 30/. and the maps to Anacharsis 5/. and for Ann, Michelet’s abridgment of modern history (seems very good) 1 volume broché duodecimo printed at Bruxelles 4/. then little panorama of the lake 2/. and coloured print of Swiss costumes 8/. -

back at the hotel at 12 1/4 - as the carriage came to the door and off at 12:20 from the hotel des Berges - told the master of the house I was very well satisfied - then to the bank (Hentsch’s) sent up for the money for ��50 two circulars exchange 25/ 25, and sat in the carriage while it was brought - got 32 napoleons the rest in silver having still Mount Blanc in my head - delayed 20 minutes - then took up the parcel of books and off from chez Dèsrogis at 12 3/4 - pass through the goodish Ville of Carouge till 1816 belonging to Savoy and capital of the district of the same name – given by the holy alliance to Geneva – at the nice enough little ville of St Julie, now capital of Carouge , at 1:40 and showed my passport to the Sardinian carabinieres who immediately and very civilly let us pass at 2:42 at Frabe said the Postillion and at Feigère according to the Douaniers and the map - the douaniers very civil - said they were obliged to examine something, but would not look into the carriage and only just peeped into one of the Imperials while we changed horses, and we were off in 12 minutes -

excellent road along the foot of the Salève, the high singular calcerous white steppy mountain we looked upon from our windows at the hotel de Berges - the Salève very fine - the Mount de Sion a French lower mountain and all green and cultivated joins the end of it and closes the ampitheatrical valley of Geneva - from the Mount de Sion very fine views of the town Hahe - out to 3:35 began the descent of Mount de Sion and turn left round the foot of the Salève, and fine view down into Savoy - everywhere shut in in the distance by high mountains - white calcerous - the hoary rugged tops of many of them white as if streaked or covered with snow - very picturesque drive -

at Cruiselles at 4:10 picturesque village at the bottom of the valley - no post horses kept here (we left the direct road too Aix and Chambery (right) just out of Saint Julien) but luckily the diligence had arrived a little while before and without stopping to bait the horses properly we were off with them in 18 minutes, driving 3 and letting the 4th follow - we could not have stopt comfortably at the auberge at Cruiselle's - from Cruiselles the white rocky mountains rather approach one and firmly back the green wooded and cultivated hills - very picturesque beautiful drive - narrow though good road - at 5:25 after crossing the little river Fier (probably in winter a large stream) over the new wooden bridge of la Caille, stopt a few minutes at the little village of la Caille to water the horses - fine white rugged mountains seemed at a little distance en face - at 5:50 to 6:00 and afterwards the fine white rugged mountains magnificent - finally standing out like mountain headlands at sea – 6:10 find beautiful magnificent descent up the hill strewed plain, and fine views of Annecy situated at the foot of Mount St Catherine qui fait partie de la chaîne des Bauges but the lake not in sight, but the Lake hid

- at 6:47 view (near) of the nice town of Annecy with its 3 or 4 churches and fine larger castle - at 6:47 first view of the picturesque little finally mountain-locked lake - at the hotel de Genève at Annecy at 7 - walked 1/4 hour along the handsome poplar and platinus shaded Ave along the shallow reedy top of the lake - finely surrounded by mountains -

dinner at 7:05 to 8 1/2 - the public salle le manger but nobody there at first and only two guests at last - man and girl (harp and she singing) came to us at dinner - sat writing in Ann’s room while she got into bed and fell asleep at 9 3/4 and wrote of yesterday and today till 11 - very fine day F 68° at 11:05 pm

[rubecso]

The Insomniacs

I wrote this short story for my fiction writing module at university. Now it’s done and submitted I’d love to hear what people think of it. It was inspired by the real (and surreal) experience I had of being awake in the early hours in a Dusseldorf hotel.

Words: 2178

The Insomniacs

The hotel was like a museum with bedrooms. Every hallway was lined with paintings of misty, continental landscapes or old nobility with jutting chins. Glass display cabinets or sculptures with missing arms or noses lurked in every corner. Thomas’ flight from London to Dusseldorf had been one of the earlier ones, so he’d sat in the lobby and watched a succession of aunts, uncles and cousins gasp in delight as they arrived, before remembering the occasion and reverting to suitably sombre expressions.

He could see why Christoph had picked this place. It was a marvel, in the day at least.

At 4am, it had a different feel. Most places did, in his experience. The succession of dead aristocrats judged him as he passed. The rolling hills and Alpine forests gained a third dimension and beckoned him to fall into them. The sculptures were somehow both more human and less so.

He wandered down to the lobby, the marble tiles cold beneath his socks. Near the entrance was a semi-circle of peculiar chairs. They were red velvet with carved, wooden ornamentations (Baroque or maybe Rococo, he wasn’t sure). Yet they had a strangely modern shape, like something in a university common room. The backrest curved at the sides and overheard, so when he sat down it enveloped him.

He was so blinkered that he didn’t notice the man sitting in the chair next to him until he spoke:

‘Finden Sie auch keinen Schlaf?’

Thomas was startled. He was used to the world being empty at 4am. He looked round to see a pair of dark eyes looking expectantly at him from a wrinkled face.

He blinked, brain digesting the words. He was fairly sure the old man had asked him if he couldn’t sleep.

‘Oh, er, jah,’ he stumbled over the unpractised language, ‘ich bin… um, ich habe…’

He stopped and sighed.

‘Sorry. My German isn’t so good tonight.’

The lines around the old man’s eyes deepened as he smiled kindly.

‘English? English is fine.’

‘Thanks.’ Thomas wore the apologetic smile of the uncomfortably British. ‘I was trying to say I have insomnia.’ He paused, watching for confusion in the old man’s face. ‘You understand?’

He nodded. Then he gestured to himself.

‘Me also.’ He leaned forward in his chair and whispered conspiratorially: ‘I have not slept in three thousand years.’

Thomas chuckled, but the old man did not (he supposed something had been lost in translation). He searched for something to say, but the man got there first:

‘This is your first time here?’

‘The hotel? Yes. My grandfather stayed here, though.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, years back.’

‘Perhaps I met him.’

‘Do you come here a lot?’

He smiled, as if at some joke Thomas had not heard.

‘This is my hotel.’

‘Oh.’ Thomas gestured to their general surroundings. ‘And the artwork �� it’s all yours?’

Another nod.

‘Wow.’ He would never have taken this simply-dressed man for a multimillionaire art collector. ‘It’s an amazing collection. Really it is.’

A spark lit in the owner’s deep, dark eyes. ‘You think so?’

‘Well,’ he gestured inarticulately, ‘of course.’

The old man stood up with surprising speed.

‘Let me show you around.’

***

As listened to the hotel owner speak about each of the artworks, Thomas felt like he should be taking notes. The old man spoke instructively. His accent was hard to place; close to German but with a melodic quality that sounded almost Italian. Thomas wondered if he was Swiss.

He seemed to know the provenance of every piece by heart; this was painted by Herr so-and-so, that was sculpted in such-and-such a century. For all Thomas knew about art history he could have been making it up as he went along, but he spoke with such authority that Thomas found it easier to believe he simply had it memorised. But more than these facts, he was full of odd little details about each piece, especially the portraits.

‘The Countess von Schrattenberg,’ he said at one point, pointing to an oil painting of a middle aged woman in an embroidered bodice with tightly curled, powdered hair and a pair of piercing, green eyes, ‘A very intelligent woman.’

He appeared to expect Thomas to reply.

‘You think so?’ he ventured.

‘I know so.’

Before Thomas could ask him to elaborate, he’d set off again. He walked briskly, hands clasped behind his back, a little bent but not overly so. He was certainly an old man, but not a frail one (or at least it seemed that way).

They carried on like this, Thomas following him up and down the hallways of the hotel and trying to take in the steady flow of facts and anecdotes. After a while, he decided the way the old man spoke about the artists and their subjects must simply be an eccentricity, or perhaps another joke that didn’t translate well. Or maybe Thomas was just too tired to get it.

One of the display cabinets stood out to Thomas. Its contents were a jumble of mismatched artefacts: fragments of pottery; metal objects twisted and bubbled with rust; some kind of carved, bone figurine; and a small, glass bottle. The bottle caught Thomas’ eye. It was green and cloudy, with a delicate handle. When he asked about it, the owner told him it dated back to Roman times. He fished out a set of keys and opened the cabinet to let him hold it. Thomas asked him if he was sure, having visions of it slipping through his fingers and shattering on the marble floor, but the owner insisted.

As Thomas turned the fragile flask over in his hands, the old man explained that it had been pulled out of the Rhine, along with everything else in the display cabinet.

‘The Romans had a fort here,’ he explained, ‘They brought in perfumes or oil in bottles like this, to trade with us Germans.’

(He meant the Germanic tribes, presumably.)

They got to talking about how long people had lived on this spot by the Rhine, how there were parts of the city where you could see the old town, and how before the town it was a village that grew up around the Roman fort, and how before that people settled along the river and lived off fish.

‘Ah,’ the old man sighed, ‘but you go back further than that, it becomes hard to remember.’

‘Hard to know, you mean?’ Thomas asked, ‘Because there aren’t written records?’

The owner regarded him silently for a few moments. Thomas wondered if he’d asked a stupid question or if it had been rude to try and correct him.

Then he shrugged. ‘Yes, perhaps.’ A thought appeared to strike him. ‘Have you walked by the river?’

‘No.’

‘You should.’

‘I might not get time.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well I’m busy tomorrow and then after that I’m leaving.’

‘Ah,’ said the old man, ‘What are you busy with?”’

‘I, er,’ Thomas shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his socks, ‘I’ll be at a funeral. For my granddad, Christoph — the one who stayed here? It’s actually why we’re here. It was one of his requests.’

He glanced up at the owner, worried he was over-sharing. The look on the old man’s face was hard to read.

‘You were lucky,’ he replied.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘To get the rooms, on such short notice. Most of our guests book months in advance.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Thomas opened his mouth to say something more, but instead it widened into a yawn.

The old man smiled and patted him on the shoulder.

‘You should try to sleep, I think.’

***

The next night, when he heard the old man speak from the chair beside him, Thomas wasn’t surprised. Somehow he’d known he’d be waiting for him.

He’d tried to sleep. He’d been sure he would the moment he put his head down. He’d struggled to keep his eyes open all through the funeral service and the meal afterwards. Yet despite the exhaustion seeping into his limbs (nothing like insomnia to teach you the meaning of ‘bone-tired’), he still couldn’t sleep. So he let his feet carry him down to the lobby again, the marble floor somehow less solid than before. When he passed the portrait of the green-eyed Countess, he was sure he saw her move out the corner of his eye. When he sat down in the peculiar chair again, he felt like it had swallowed him whole.

Then the voice came again:

‘Did you get time to walk by the river?’

‘No. Sorry.’ He wasn’t sure why he apologised.

‘Perhaps next time.’

They lapsed into silence, deeper and heavier for the thick, velvet upholstery surrounding Thomas on all sides, muffling even the distant ticking of the grandfather clock in the lobby. Perhaps the hotel owner was comfortable with quiet, but Thomas found himself grasping for something to say. He came upon something he’d almost said last night, and once it was in his mind it was the only thing he could think of. Finally it bubbled up through his lips:

‘We did book in advance. We knew when Christoph was going to die. He did it in Switzerland. Assisted suicide.’

He turned to look at the old man, expecting him to have shrunk back in surprise or disgust. But instead he had leaned in, his dark eyes gleaming and fixed on Thomas as if he were one of the artworks on the walls.

‘Tell me more about this.’

Thomas didn’t know if it was the calm confidence of the old man’s voice, or if sleep deprivation had stripped him of the usual restrictions he put on his speech, or if it was just that for the whole day no one in his family had brought it up, even though they all knew. He didn’t know why he wanted to tell this stranger about his grandfather, but he did. He told him how intelligent he’d been, how even when Thomas was a child he’d wanted to be smart like him. How he’d been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. How even before he’d lost his speech or his ability to dress himself, he’d planned his death in advance. How certain he’d been that he didn’t want to keep going once his memories began to leave him, how he wanted to die while he was still himself…

‘Still himself?’ the hotel owner cut in, ‘What does this mean?’

Thomas blinked; he’d almost forgotten he was talking to another person.

‘While he still had most of his memories.’

‘Ah, so.’ The old man nodded. His eyes were drifting, seeming to search for something Thomas couldn’t see. ‘This is what makes us who we are? Memories. Ah, but I did not know a person could…’ He trailed off, then gestured to Thomas. ‘Please go on.’

So Thomas told him about the clinic in Switzerland, that strange country between other countries where people went to die. He told him about the garden by the clinic, where he and his mother had walked with Christoph in his wheelchair. How it had seemed like he might change his mind at the last minute, but then he’d just stopped and said ‘Now then’, and that was it. How when he went, it was like he’d just fallen asleep.

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

They were quiet again then, and this time Thomas was comfortable in it. He let the hotel owner break it:

‘I have one more item to show you.’

***

It was the bone figurine from the display case, the one Thomas had overlooked in favour of the Roman flask.

‘What do you think that is?’ the old man asked him as Thomas held it, running his thumb over the carved notches.

‘I don’t know.’

He waited for the old man to tell him, but instead he sighed.

‘Neither do I.’ He paused, then seemed to make a decision. ‘But I think it should go back to the river.’

Thomas looked up, frowning.

‘But it looks so old. Isn’t it valuable?’

The old man shrugged.

‘Perhaps. But what good is it if no one remembers what it’s for?’ He caught Thomas’ eye. ‘Even me?’

‘Even…?’ Thomas began, but then the owner reached out and grabbed his arm.

‘Will you do that for me? Give it back to the Rhine?’

‘I don’t…’

‘Please?’ His grip tightened. His dark eyes burned.

Thomas swallowed. Then he nodded.

***

Later, after Thomas returned to the hotel and found the owner was nowhere to be seen, he slept deeply. In his dreams he was by the Rhine again, but the city was gone. A thick, dark forest took its place, thinning out at the marshy ground by the river. The air smelled ancient.

The old man was sat by the water, dressed in animal pelts. He held a knife of flint and was carving something with it. As Thomas approached, he held it up to the light and smiled with understanding. The small, bone figurine.

He looked up at Thomas.

‘Thank you.’

[robertlaskarzewski]

Fifth Week

Hi, my name is Robert Laskarzewski, and I am currently a sophomore at the Darla Moore School of Business studying International Business and Marketing. I’m a part of the International Business Responsible International Leadership (RIL) program and will spend the Spring and Fall semesters at the ESSEC Cergy campus. I was born and raised in California, about an hour away from San Francisco. I chose to attend the University of South Carolina specifically because of the RIL program and the amount of time abroad that was offered. Once I was accepted, it was an easy choice to choose to pursue my studies there.

Saturday the 28th, I woke up early so that I was able to catch my train to Dusseldorf. The two things I wanted to see were the Dusseldorf boat show, one of the world’s largest boat shows, and a soccer game between Bayer Leverkusen and Borussia Dortmund, two renowned German soccer teams.  

My train was due to leave at 10 AM, so I was sure to leave by no later than 8. There ended up being some problems with the Paris metro, so I had to reroute and take a slightly different route into the Gare du Nord.

Once I got to the train station, I patronized the stores inside and settled on a magazine for the train. I boarded my train and settled in for the roughly 4 hour train ride to Dusseldorf, passing through Brussels, Liege, Aachen, and Cologne. I was greeted by aging infrastructure and industry on my way into Dusseldorf (which didn’t fill me with confidence). Once I got out of the train station, I was able to get a good look at the city of Dusseldorf, a rather busy city with lots of history. My first objective was to eat some real German food at a restaurant called Heimwerk Altstadt in the old section of Dusseldorf (Altstadt meaning “old town”). After a filling meal of carbohydrates, I went back to my hotel room and had a good night of sleep.

The following day, I took a train to the convention center where I would see hundreds of boats and boat related products. I was even able to see some larger yachts that I had never previously had the chance to see or step foot on. In total, there were more than 15 buildings that held different exhibitions and seminars. After spending a few hours there, I went back to my room to rest a little before going to the soccer game between Leverkusen and Dortmund. As I stood on my train, I watched as we passed the BayArena stadium – and didn’t stop at the Leverkusen Mitte station, the stop I was supposed to get off at. The train wouldn’t stop for another 5 or 10 minutes leaving me all the way in the next city, Cologne. After spending 30 seconds to admire the huge cathedral in the center of Cologne, I took a cab to the stadium where I was greeted with a thundering chant that could be heard from far outside the stadium.

Monday, I woke up early so that I could catch my train back home into Paris. The journey home was uneventful.

Tuesday, I had my classes online due to train strikes in France. One of these classes is called “People & Organizations” the other was “E-Business”. This day in People & Organizations we discussed how management should operate to ensure their employees are actually motivated and engaged as well as how important these things actually are for a functioning business. In my E-Business class we discussed how IT infrastructure plays its importance in business today as such a large part of business now involves huge amounts of data and internal storage.

Wednesday, I had just my EU history class (European Kaleidoscope), a class that I enjoy thoroughly. We went over the institutions of the European Union as well as how they function to operate in synchrony with one another (ideally). On Thursday, I had my French language and culture classes.

Friday, I had my responsible marketing class where we discussed the dangers of companies “dedicating” their profits to a good cause. For example, a company may declare that they are ���carbon neutral” although this can just be a buzz word which really has no effects. Furthermore, we worked on group work for cases assigned by companies, for example my group has to work on a case about sustainability from Longchamp’s (others include Biotherm, Adidas, and ESSEC itself).

Sheep video on the bank of Rhine river

[beauticate]

18 Hours in Madrid – Sigourney’s Edit

Damien and I have a few days off from the kids and a lot of cities to visit – three in four days, to be exact. Madrid is sandwiched between Milan and Dusseldorf in our itinerary and although it’s a flying visit I’m excited – I’ve heard great things about this city. After the autumnal chill of Milan, stepping off the plane is a welcome relief - we peel off our heavy coats and open the Uber app to book a car from the airport. Let’s do this….

4:30pm

Gran Hotel Inglés appears almost unexpectedly at the side window of our cab. We are squeezing down a narrow cobbled street in Las Letras – Madrid’s literary quarter – and the building emerges, silent and sturdy in grey concrete with a polite terraced façade. It’s new and old at the same time. Grand but somehow understated.

Inside tells a completely different story – it’s warm and cosy, like a whiskey bar in the rain. The bar “LobByto” greets you immediately with dim lighting and ancient Greek tomes lining the wall. The pretty Spanish receptionist checks us in swiftly and sweetly, and sends us to our room care of an equally easy-on-the-eye Italian porter.

4:45pm

As soon as our porter closes the door I take a video of the room (before we mess it up) and run a bath, perusing the mini bar and setting up the mini Bose speaker (seriously the best investment, we take it everywhere). The bath is deep and perfectly poised by a window and Juliet balcony overlooking the quaint street below. I lather and slather the gorgeous L’Occitane Verbena amenities and sip on an aloe water to rehydrate from the flight.

5:15pm

I throw on a white tee, my leopard Par Réalisation skirt and a black turtleneck – enjoying the idea of not taking a big coat with me. Realising that I don’t have an appropriate heel I settle on my Gucci Princetown slippers - not ideal but comfy on the cobbelstones nonetheless. I take my time applying a smoky eye using Chanel Légèrété et Expérience palette, some Diorshow Mascara, and a strip lash, because since my lash extensions fell out recently I’ve been feeling very bereft – and when there are no children to tend to doing my makeup is a glorious indulgence.

6:00pm

We hit the streets and wander through the Old town and up to CentroCentro building to the rooftop bar. It’s pretty chilly up there but we wrap up in the blankets provided, have a glass of wine and FaceTime the kids who are staying with our wonderful friends in Dublin. You can see out over Madrid and it’s the perfect first taste of Madrid. It would be fabulous at sunset but we’re a little late.

7:30pm

The walk to dinner is longer than Damien remembered and I’m getting hangry. The crisps we had with our wine barely touched the sides and I’m getting anxious as the restaurant we’re going to try StreetXO (pronounced “Street Zo”) has a notoriously long wait. We finally arrive at El Corte Inglés – an upscale department store and take a glass-fronted elevator past some stylish looking floors to the top. Sure enough, there’s a long queue already snaking outside the restaurant. It’s being patrolled by a surly looking security guard who nods us to the end curtly.

7:50pm

It’s only been twenty minutes and I’m ready to leave. Damien is calmly dealing with work emails on his phone as I jump from foot to foot anxiously. Why don’t they have a number system so one can go and get a drink at least? I’m even too agitated to go on Instagram. I just stare at the front of the queue as the minutes tick on.

8:55pm

Still waiting. So hungry… So thirsty. This had better be bloody good. No one else seems bothered. They look almost happy to be waiting in line. What kind of craziness is this? I can’t remember. Is this what life is like without children? Frivolous time wasting? Humouring ridiculous establishments with their draconian rules of entry?

9:07pm

The people in front of us just got a drink from the bar next door. I duck under the barrier and am ordering a Mezcal cocktail faster than you can say, “Hello bartender!” It’s my lucky night, my mixologist is clearly very accomplished and treats me to an awe-inspiring show of glass throwing and ice crushing. The result is incredible: a mezcal, chipotle and mango combination that is so good I suddenly forget how hungry I am. Lucky as we are next in line.

9:12pm

Finally – the stern maître d’ (dressed in the standard issue StreetXO staff garb: a bondage-inspired chef’s apron) ushers us into a tightly-packed room and seats us at the bar. The room is all red formica and mirrors with street-fighteresque décor and the sound of people sucking their chopsticks and murmuring in appreciation. Chef David Munoz is three Michelin-starred and this Asian tapas bar is his entry level offering. It’s packed out every night, and as I discover, for very good reason. The Korean lasagna is next level and the steamed Bao club sandwich is totally excellent.

11:29pm

I’m so full but I see a noodle dish go by and decide we have to try it. Somehow we squeeze a fifth dish in and waddle out of the restaurant in a flavour-induced stupor. I’m a few rosés down, too. Hey, when in Madrid. The cab right back to the hotel is swift and hilarious. We hit the pillow pretty quickly as Damo has early meetings.

9:15am

“Was that a SLEEP IN?” I wonder langorously. Stretched out in the most delicious bed – crisp yet silky 500 count Egyptian cotton sheets and a cloud-like topper. I barely know myself. I roll over and doze for another delicious half an hour.

9:45am

I wander down to breakfast at Lobo 8 and am struck by the impressive offering. After barely containing my excitement at the buffet (the jamon and cheese alone would have been sufficient) I spot Laurent Perrier on the menu. I pair my breakfast bubbles with a truffled eggs benedict followed by a dessert of churros. Hey, when in Madrid…

10:45am

I step into the spa a little early for my massage. It’s dim but cosy with just a couple of treatment rooms and a beautiful spa. My therapist Cristina asks me to choose an oil from an arrangement of the elegant French brand Anne Semonin before her. I select the nourishing oil as I’m always drawn to lavender, and lie down to a superbly relaxing massage. I want to cry when it’s over but there’s no time, I have to throw my clothes on and race upstairs where the Uber is waiting to ferry us back to the airport. Hardly an immersion into Spanish culture but I’ve managed some food and beauty fabulousness in the most incredible hotel, so I’m certainly not going to complain. I know that Madrid is somewhere I definitely want to return to – as soon as humanly possible.

Story by Sigourney Cantelo. Photography by Sigourney and Damien Cantelo, and Gran Hotel Inglés.

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[evanziporyn-blog]

long ago, galaxy far away

The recent passing of one of the creative titans of 20thcentury music prompted me to dig through my hard drive and find the following, which I wrote in May 2002, right after returning from a short tour with said Creative Titan…

…waiting for cecil (2002)

Upper level negotiations aside, we're informed that a collaboration with Cecil will, in fact, take place: contract signed, dates set – he’s commissioned to write a 40-minute piece, for him and us, to be premiered in Vienna in May, 2002.  My own experience with Cecil is: somehow conning my way into the Jazz Showcase in Chicago as a teenager, where he poundedthe piano for 90 minutes, after which Joe Segal came out to check for broken strings.  It was probably the only direct contact I had with the legendary Joe – him looking up at me from inside the piano and saying, ‘don’t laugh, last night he broke 3!’  I also remember seeing large sheets of runic notation on the piano after the show.  And I remember in college Robert Moore doing an in-class analysis of Unit Structures- I was 19, and I think I still have the mimeograph.  Finally, I remember Cecil getting his MacArthur a few years back, and hearing from that a friend of [name deleted had had some kind of bad experience with him; I also remember  [same name, again deleted] telling me that Cecil was 'a user.'

At any rate, we wait for Cecil at a rehearsal; then we leave, and then we're informed that he's waiting for us at Tobacco Road, the bar below [the old] Carroll's [41stand 9th]. He's a flamboyant raconteur, many tales of Roger Woodward and Max Roach, lots of cryptic dish, and my own realization that I'll definitely have to remind him of my name every time I see him: we are his audience.  He is extremely interested in our nascent collaboration with Ornette (another story, for another day).

Another rehearsal is set, and Cecil arrives for this one, late as expected, but there.  He has an assistant of amorphously European accent, a stunning outfit (which he changes before the rehearsal), and many sheets of music, but no copies for the band.  We suggest that his assistant make copies, and we then all set up, with Cecil standing in front of us, staring at his own sheets.  Many minutes of silence, after which I ask him if there's anything we might want to work on.  

"I think it might be better to wait for the music."

So we wait, for another 20 minutes or so, until the assistant returns.

The music is in Cecil's own notation: letter names and contours, with various brackets, parentheses with positive or negative numbers, a few other symbols.  This is all eventually deciphered as being melodies and chords, with the numbers indicating distance of the first note from middle C.  None of this is explained at any point: 'let's start at the beginning…'  Some sounds…'no, let's try it again…' eventually, order emerges: comments about phrasing, directions on orchestration, suggested diversions from the score, ways of improvising, etc.  After each pause we start from the beginning.  We are allowed to ask questions about our own playing but not to make any suggestions about the totality or about what others might do. All this is - to me - tedious but absolutely valid: the score is a framework, a jumping-off point, and we're meant to find our own way through it, under his supervision.  This can only emerge slowly and collectively.  It is also unquestionable that Cecil knows exactly what he's written: when he does go to the piano, he plays the exact notes, quickly and forcefully, and it sounds like, um, Cecil Taylor.  (It should also be noted that I'm also aware that Lisa is at the grand piano and Cecil is left with the upright…this seems slightly odd to me but on the other hand Lisa is playing and Cecil is not, and in any case, it's not my position to step in…)

Three hours later, we've gotten through one page, it takes about 7 minutes, but it sounds pretty good, and very different from any of Cecil's music that I've heard.  The assistant tells me as I'm leaving that he's amazed at how quickly we were able to 'realize Cecil's vision.'

Weeks or months go by.  We try to arrange our rehearsals for the spring.  As usual with us, it's difficult to find times when all six people are available, and in the end we can't agree on any extra days to meet with Cecil.  This is reported to [our manager] Kenny, and a cyber dance begins…we hear rumors that Cecil is upset about this, so we make a decision to simply make our entire rehearsal schedule available to him: any time he's able to show up, we'll clear the books and work with him.

We don't see him again until Vienna.

Actually, I see him a little before then, as I board my connection from Paris.  He's sitting in first class, ensconced in a novel, a stylish Stetson straw hat on his head. I greet him, remind him of my name, but he does seem genuinely pleased to see me, excited about the gig.  We are to be met by a 'representative of the Konzerthaus,' or so I'm told, but Cecil informs me as we walk to our luggage that, instead, we'll be met by some 'friends.'

As we walk through the terminal, I ask him if he tours a lot - 'just enough to keep things interesting' he says….

Getting the luggage is benignly indicative: we need carts, which require coins, and Cecil somehow ends up at a Bureau de Change, shoving dollars at the befuddled clerk - 'two please'…that failing, I'm instructed to flag down a porter, and to find his two bags, 'one brown, the other a Gucci.'  Through customs, we're met by Tony O. and his wife Tutta, who've trained in from Dusseldorf, and Cecil decides we need to sit and have a drink before going to the hotel. I should mention that at this point I know nothing about Tony, I don’t say this with any pride, but I don't know that he's a drummer, Cecil's frequent duo partner, or that he's done a lot of the logistical work for these gigs.  The driver is nowhere to be found, so I pay off the porter and unload the bags, at which point the driver emerges, grouses about the lack of luggage carts, and goes off to rent them.  He then spends the next 90 minutes hovering and glowering, while Cecil and Tony catch up with on another - much opaque conversation about code-named friends and enemies, old friend stuff (sample: "well, there is a young man named Jed, who was last seen sleeping on his stomach in my apartment - so I don't know what that was all about - and Jed has given me his phone number, he'd very much like to see me, I can call him at the 'club' - which he seems to think he's going to inherit from the Dragon Lady, but young Jed doesn't seem to realize, regarding the Dragon Lady, that only the good die young!')…also, some interesting conversation about an aborted project in Italy, with the La Scala orchestra, in which Tony continually makes the point that 'they could be the best musicians in the world, but they're not right for you!', until finally my jetlag trumps my sense of decorum, and I ask that we go to the hotel.

On the walk to the car, Tony asks if we'll be rehearsing at 4 as planned, and Cecil replies, 'oh no, I'm far too tired for that, I'll need to rest.'  Tony mentions that we could rehearse without Cecil, and when I say that this is not really possible, as we don't really know how to rehearse Cecil’s material without him, Tony says, 'but you've got that one sheet, don't you?'  This is echoed by 83-year-old Trudy, a free spirit, Sun Ra veteran, and last member of the entourage, who meets us at the hotel. She says we should also rehearse without Cecil, and when I say that we can't really do this, Cecil says that the band should do 'whatever makes them comfortable.'  

For me, that's sleep; for Cecil and Tony, that's sitting at the bar all afternoon, until we all congregate to go to rehearsal, rescheduled for 5:30.  Standing in the driveway, we're informed that Cecil doesn't feel like rehearsing, and the provokes some dissension in the band: Lisa in particular is insulted, but the group comes to a tentative decision to go rehearse our other material anyway, in the hopes the Cecil will show up.  If he doesn't, we'll end early and have dinner.  I go to my room to get my music (I had assumed we were only rehearsing the Cecil material), and when I return, Mark and Lisa are screaming at each other.  Lisa departs, and Mark and David are recruited by Kenny to interface with Cecil at the bar.

15 or 20 minutes later, Mark returns, reporting that Cecil is 'on the warpath' about Kenny…Lisa has returned, and we all proceed to the Konzerthaus, to rehearse the rest of the program.

In fact, Cecil shows up not much later, and we have what in the end turns out to be an extremely productive rehearsal. The first half-hour is pretty annoying, with Cecil posturing and lecturing, acting the auteur, maybe Antonioni or Martha Graham.  The breakthrough is the realization/recollection that the notation is just a jumping off point: as soon as we start doing something interesting, notated or not, Cecil also starts playing, and we end up doing some quite interesting things together, moving seamlessly (when it works) from the notated materials to improvisation, then into the next section.  

We take a break, at which point I notice all of Tony's drum cases sitting in the hall, and when I ask Kenny about this, he tells me that this is just for convenience, as Tony and Cecil are doing some duo gigs between Vienna and London.  Despite this assurance, after the break, Nico the promoter asks Tony (who's in the hall) if he should 'set up the drums now,' to which Tony immediately yells "NO!!!" in a way that I find slightly disconcerting…It's absolutely clear to me that Tony is planning on playing with us, and that for whatever reason this is to be sprung on us at the last minute.  At any rate, the rehearsal continues: we're given syllables to recite - Ka! - and instructed to walk around the hall saying them.  At the end of the rehearsal, Cecil seems very happy, excited, and tells us to bring poetry to the concert as well.

We go to eat, Mark and Lisa get in a fight about the check, business as usual.

The next day is the sound check and the gig, and we arrive to find Cecil and Tony rehearsing on stage.  Tony's drums are in the exact middle of the stage, which actually makes some kind of sense, as it's the biggest area not being used by us, and it would allow us to do our normal set up were it not for a few cymbal stands, which jut into my area, making our normal setup impossible until the drums are moved.  This is not in itself a huge problem, as Andy and I decide that I'll simply set up between Mark and Robert during the second half.  But we can't really figure out what's going on: nothing is said to us one way or another about Tony.  Are they simply rehearsing for the following days?  Are they playing duos on tonight's concert?  Is Tony playing with us?  Impossible to determine.  We begin to rehearse with Cecil and, once again, Tony and Tutta simply sit in the audience, observing.  We do a long, quite successful improvisation, and when we're done, I go up to Tony and say, "So Tony, just wondering - do you know what's going on?  What's the story?"

And here my troubles begin.  Suddenly there's an edge of hostility to everything, annoyance at my asking, picking a fight.

"There's no story - I'm just waiting until you're through, and then Cecil and I will rehearse."

"OK, but you know we also have to rehearse the first half of the concert, including tech-ing a video [for Don Byron’s piece Eugene] - it may take about an hour" "I'm not talking about the bloody first half of the concert, we're talking about the second half - I don't fucking care what you do in the first half of the concert."

I tell him that I'm not trying to make things uncomfortable, just trying to figure out a plan that works for everybody.

"There is no plan - I'm just following orders like you - I realize it's a bit unusual but you just have to go with it.  If you think I like sitting down here all afternoon, waiting for you all to finish, you're out of your mind, but I've got no choice.  Now leave it at that or I promise you things will get a lot worse."

Things get stranger and uglier from there, whatever I say is taken as provocation, and I eventually realize there's no point, and walk away.  Cecil announces that the rehearsal is over, and I ask him if we can rehearse our first half.  He says yes, and I ask him if the drums can be moved so we can do the setup.  Again, he agrees, and tells Andy to 'help Tony move the drums.'  Tony then asks Cecil if they should rehearse again, and Cecil say, 'no, no, let's go get something to eat.'

Now, it's important to understand a few things here: first, we do in fact need to strike the drums for the first half of the show; second, there is nothing inherently insulting or threatening about doing so.  Stage set-ups are just that: people need to be where they need to be, and instruments get moved around all the time.  I assume this is fairly obvious.  I will admit that I was annoyed at Tony's picking a fight with me, and that I decided to go over his head to get the drums moved.  But I did this simply because it needed to be done in order for us to play the first half of the concert.  It also should be clearly stated that no oneever talked to anyone in the band about Tony playing with us, ever- nor was it apparently ever mentioned to Kenny in any of his numerous communications with Tony.  And, of course, Tony didn't try to rehearse with us, in fact insisted that his drums notbe set up during our rehearsal the night before.  If it had been mentioned, we would have had no choice but to agree, and it might not have been a bad thing.  But nothing was said, we were just left in limbo, and my attempt to simply find out what the parameters of possibility were was met with Tony's implied threats.

OK, on with the show, we do the first half (pieces by Hermeto Pascoal and Don Byron), it goes great, we're very on, and in fact it's clear that the work with Cecil has freed up our improvisation in the Pascoal. We go off stage, and Cecil is in fact in his dressing room, so that's good.  Tony meanwhile is on stage, resetting his drums in the center of the stage, while my microphones and music stand get moved - as agreed - to the other side of the stage.  Tony's setup takes about 30 minutes, and when he leaves the stage, the crowd cheers. This is OK, as at this point Cecil is in the middle of changing his clothes, and isn't ready anyway.  Mark has appointed himself emissary to Cecil, he's running in and out of his room, coming out with breathless updates - "Cecil's changing, he does want to play, and he's very excited."  The promoter is freaking out over the long pause, but it seems like business as usual.  Mark, alone with Cecil, asks him if he wants to play with Tony first, or bring Tony on later, or…and Cecil replies, 'no, Tony won't be playing tonight.'

This is news to Tony, who is literally chasing after Cecil on his way to the stage, saying, 'what would you like me to do? Shall I come on with you?'  Cecil replies, softly, 'not yet…'

So off we go, we do it, it's OK, not the best improvising I've ever done, not the worst, and, as I had predicted to Wendy and Lisa, we get many curtain calls and something of a standing ovation.  I feel pretty empty inside, let’s just leave it at that.  We walk off stage, and Cecil says, "I think we've all deserved some champagne."

Backstage, Trudy reports that Cecil is thrilled, and, unlike his normal practice, wants us to join him in his dressing room.  Tony meanwhile is left to take his drums apart on the stage.  The band gets taken to dinner at the Konzerthaus restaurant; Mark stays behind to hang with Cecil.  Halfway through the meal Mark comes into the dining room, and tells Kenny that "Tony and Trudy need to speak to you," and Kenny disappears, until Wendy goes and rescues him 10 minutes later.  Tony and Trudy then join us at the table, Tony sitting next to Kenny, at which point Wendy and Trudy suggest that we change seats.  Mark again is breathless, reporting on Trudy's account of Cecil's happiness, I'm tired, and I leave in a cab with Wendy and Lisa.

Robert stays and parties with Cecil, entranced. Kenny is apparently accosted by Tony at the hotel at 2:30am, at which point he tells him, "the store is closed."  Interpret that as you like.

After this, we go to Graz and our own gig, with the full knowledge that more is in store in London.

Cut to several days later, arrival at the Barbican for our sound check.  Once again the drums are in the center of the stage, and once again I'm set up between Mark and Robert.  This time it's apparently an open rehearsal: there are photographers, press, a large stage crew, all hovering.  As I walk to my instrument, Cecil, speaking more to the crowd than to us, announces the agenda: "All right, for today's rehearsal, I'd like you all to take out your music, and to study it silently.  We will do this for the next 30 minutes."  And there we are, trapped on stage, staring at our music silently, while the public looks on.  To Cecil's credit, he takes his music, stands stock still in the hall, and stares at his music as well.  Every few minutes he takes a step.  We're all caught flat-footed.  It is impossible to not do it: clearly, this would be insubordination and would have absolutely dire consequences.  Also, there's clearly some value in this kind of thing - meditation, silence, clearing oneself out.  As such, it's brilliant psychological manipulation, and good theater as well. Shock therapy, shamanism, yada yada yada.  Having come this far, having put up with no rehearsals and no instruction, and random drummers and nonsense syllables, and having concluded, fairly definitively, that there's no future in this for us as a group or an organization, what's one half-hour out of my life?  So I stand there, I actually take it seriously to the extent that I can, looking at the music while moving through various yoga and tai chi postures, trying to be aware of the silence and the music and myself.  

Not to say that I'm not also occasionally passing glances to those among us who are likely to be aware of the absurdity…and at 15 minutes, Wendy signals me for a time update.  I'm also painfully aware of being watched - not just by Cecil but by the press, the stage crew, and - sitting in the audience - by Tony.

It ends, maybe 20 minutes rather than 30, and we're then instructed to walk silently through the aisles, thinking of the nonsense syllables on the page.  Another 20 minutes, and then we're told to enunciate the words.  Maybe 10 more minutes of this, after which Cecil abruptly shouts, "OK, now forget it all!!  I'll see you tonight."  And he leaves.

I have this odd feeling at this point - having done something healthy but under duress, and for the wrong reasons, with public humiliation thrown in, both for the act itself and for my acquiescence…what is this like…I go backstage, and, just being truthful here, I say to Lisa, "I feel like I've been raped…"

Drum saga part two.  Andy tries to start resetting the stage for the first half, and then informs me that Tony has told him, 'anybody touches my drums, there'll be trouble.'  I'm not interested, I'm still in let's-get-this-fucking-thing-over-with mode, so I tell Andy to forget it, just set me up way over on the side of the stage, separated from the band by the drums.  He does so.  We start our sound check, with Tony on stage, adjusting his drums at a VERY SLOW rate. I'm about twice the distance from the group than I've ever been, it's like there's five of them and one of me. Finally we're ready to play, I count off Pascoal’s Arapua, and Tony immediatelystarts bashing away on his drums loudly. We stop, and Mark offers, demurely, "um, Tony, we're trying to sound check."

"Well you might have bloody well asked me if I'm bloody finished!"  He claims he needs 'two more minutes,' so we wait about five, then finally decide to take a break until he's off the stage.

He leaves, we begin again, and I finally decide that it'd be better to be on the otherside of the drums, that is, wedged up against Mark, blocking the audiences' view of Wendy and Lisa, but nonetheless allowing us to play music together.  To do this, Tony's stool and empty drum case have to be nudged about one foot.  I request that the stage crew do this, and meanwhile Mark goes back to Cecil's dressing room to 'make sure it's OK.'  We're already in the twilight zone here.  Mark comes back, five minutes later, shaken but still standing, waves off requests for explication, and we begin.  Ten minutes later, midway through Lisa and David's cadenza in Tan Dun’s Concerto For Six, Tony roars on stage, screaming about his drums being moved.  We keep playing, and he rushes toward me, at the last second veering away and pushing my music stand over, screaming about 'respect'.  Mark and David rush to my defense - though he doesn't touch me - and we all start screaming at each other, Tony about his drums and about 'no fucking respect - 30 years in the business - I'm glad to see I wasn't wrong about the vibe I'm feeling;' David pointing out that we didn't move his drums, that we came in with respect for him (which is true in David's case, though not in mine, since I didn't know who he was), and Lisa finally telling him to 'piss off - you're not wanted here.'

Tony leaves the stage, goes to Cecil, and Cecil freaks - I don't witness this but apparently he starts with 'they can't disrespect the world's greatest drummer' and proceeds to a very detailed litany of every injustice suffered at the hands of our organization since the collaboration began.  I wasn't there, but the list included the upright piano, the difficulty in scheduling rehearsals and - most significantly - non-silence on the part of Lisa and myself during the silent rehearsal.  He will not perform with Lisa or me.  He is going back to the hotel.  He leaves.

Meeting and talks, the Barbican guys wanting to 'find the Tony Blair solution - a compromise.'  We are adamant - and in unanimity - that we are prepared to fulfill our contract - to perform with Cecil - but that will not perform with Tony under any circumstances, and that we will only perform as a whole group. Robert is dispatched along with the presenter to try to talk to Cecil.  Tutta answers the phone, there is raging in the background, she tells Robert that it's not the time to talk, but that everything will 'work itself out.'

Somehow we manage to play the first half, having gotten the big stage crew guys to promise to keep Tony off the stage at all costs.  At intermission we're informed that Cecil is back, wants to play, but will only go on stage with Tony and without Lisa and me.  Wendy immediately announces that she won't play, packs up, leaves.  Mark is near tears…Barbican is saying that if there's no critical mass of our group, then the public doesn't get its collaboration, could want its money back, and that might have consequences.  Kenny - true mensch - basically says he's not worried about that, we should do what we think is right.  I can see that Mark and Robert want to play.  So I tell them, look, if I were in your shoes I don't think I could play under these circumstances, but then again I'm not being given the choice - people should play or not play based on what theywant to do, what they think is right, not based on whether or not I'll approve.  Mark and Robert immediately decide to play.  So there’s that.  David, having already said that he'd do whatever was called for, decides to play to give the presenters what they want.  So there’s that too.  Mark and Robert go into their dressing room, smoke a bowl, hug either other, and off they go.  Lisa and I go to a pub and wait for the crowd to come out.

They play for 45 minutes, and afterwards I make a point of going backstage, not avoiding anyone.  Mark asks me if I'm mad at him.  Tony breaks down on stage, apparently convinced that he's been mic-ed improperly, and that he won't be heard on 'the recording.'

He later demands that Andy give him the DAT, the only recording of the concert, and Andy does so, so I guess we’ll never know…

[arieltravels]

JULY/AUGUST 2017

This summer I had the incredible opportunity to live on a 40 foot catamaran for 7 days with 9 other people while we sailed, round trip from Sardinia, Italy to Bonifacio, France.  We were one of 6 boats on the St. James Maritima sailing trip.  This week was full of the best Ocean water I have ever seen, delicious Pecorino, fun in the sun and countless memories with new friends.

I was one of only a handful of Americans who joined this group of Europeans, mainly from Italy, France and Spain.  I heard so many beautiful people speak various languages, interchangeably, on a daily basis.  I even practiced a little French and Spanish while learning some Italian!  My new favorite word you ask?  Andiamo!

I paired this trip with a few days in Paris and Cannes.  More about that later…

About a month before departure, I met one of the members of St James Maritima and started researching the logistics.  I would highly recommend planning this excursion further in advance; however, if you are determined and have some airlines miles (or a bigger budget) short term planning is doable.  

St. James Maritima is a club of sorts founded by a few European guys. This trip was NOT an organized excursion through a company or business, just a bunch of friends.  Their goal is to have fun, connect like minded people and make unforgettable memories.

AIRFARE

My first big project was figuring out my roundtrip airfare from NYC to Sardinia. My pre/post travel plans depended on whether I could fly direct or what cities I could have a layover in.  While there really is no way to fly non-stop from the United States to the Italian Island of Sardinia, there are many cities you can chose to fly through.  Flights to Sardinia are available at both international and regional airports in Europe on low cost and regional airlines.  Some of the major hubs were London, Paris, Amsterdam, Berlin, Dusseldorf and Madrid. I opted to use points on an airline part of an Airport Alliance to fly from NYC to Paris and purchased a ticket separately to fly from Paris to Sardinia.  The individual ticket from Paris to Sardinia was the most expensive purchase out of all the flights for my trip at just under $500, one way.  Had I flown from ORY instead of CDG, I would have enjoyed a substantial savings.  

Air France, Air Berlin, Air Canada and British Airways all offer mileage seats from NYC to major European cities starting at just 20-25k miles, one way.  I selected Air France as I could transfer my credit card points into Air France miles, they had a decent point redemption rate and because I liked the overall scheduling of the light options.  If you fly into LHR or CDG check the local regional airports for deals for your flight to Sardinia.  You will most likely have an eight to twelve hour minimum wait between your trans-Atlantic flight and your flight to Sardinia.  This means you will be probably go to a city center before returning to the airport.  I am still kicking myself that I purchased my flight from Paris to Sardinia through CDG instead of ORY.  Both airports are connected to mass transit!

FIRST NIGHT IN SARDINIA

Knowing that I would be starting my vacation mid-work week, I wanted to ensure I had a day or two to unwind before meeting up with the group to board the boat. I knew I would be stopping in Paris on my way to Italy to visit family, so it was important to me to schedule some me-time before meeting the group.

The group was staying at Costa Ruja in Portisco, enjoying quaint accommodations about a 20-30 minute taxi ride from the airport.  The reviews online were not stellar.  Since I was arriving into the city late at night and wanted someplace quiet to sleep, I opted to find a place in the city center just a short bus ride from the airport.

I went on Hotels Tonight and found the perfect place!  A 20 room hotel and spa with bed and breakfast charm, down a quiet street called La Villa Del Conte or Ospitalità Del Conte Hotel e SPA in Italian.

I arrived at OLB (Olbia-airport in Sardinia) around 8:45PM after a short flight from Paris on Meridiana.  The child behind me kicked my seat for most of the journey, free of charge. Immediately I saw lots of signs for various modes of transportation around the island in the baggage claim area.  The group organizers told us about organized shuttles and taxis for about 15 euro plus. However, I had read online that there was a bus for just one euro that could take me to the city center.  

I went to the information desk and asked for directions to the bus.  Google maps made it look like I had to take a 15 minute walk.  The gentlemen at the information desk told me to just walk outside and turn the corner. There was no signage, anywhere, for this bus.  I walked out of the airport as instructed and walked toward the rental cars.  I asked a few people who had no clue what I was talking about.  After walking past the rental car building I saw busses.  A small regional bus was waiting next to a row of coach busses.  I asked the driver where I could catch the bus to the city center and he told me to board his bus.  It was a clean, small bus the size of a sprinter van full of tourists.  As I boarded, I showed the driver my stop and asked him to let me know when to get off. I am so glad I had, otherwise I would have missed my stop.  The euro bus was relatively simple and I can't imagine it took more time than a shared shuttle or taxi.  Out of the buses in foreign countries I have taken after sun down, this felt like one of the safer ones, if not the safest.

I got off the mini bus in the city center.  There was a beautiful old church, many restaurants and bars, with people strolling through the narrow streets with large cobble stones.   I was finally in Italy!  I had downloaded an offline Google Map from the drop off point to my hotel while I had Wifi at the airport.  I knew my ten minute walk would take me through a few different streets. I had to ask directions as the streets converged in a funky way toward the end, near Villa Della Terme.  I was about to back track to gather my bearings when two kind, young gentlemen happened to be walking my way.  Turned out they were staying at the same place, and guided me to my hotel.  Had I not seen them, I would have back tracked and figured it out. 

I arrived at the hotel about two hours before the front desk was closing.  Reception is closed from midnight to 8:00AM.   When I booked on Hotels Tonight, I was warned I may receive a double bed; however, I was given an upgraded room, with, what I am pretty sure was, a queen bed.  At check-in I was told about their Spa promotion and am wishing I would have enjoyed the Spa prior to departure the following day.  Once I checked-in to my room, I went on a walk to the city center.  On my stroll, I found the cutest European restaurant right next to the hotel.  I wanted to keep walking to see the places with music but after a 15 minute meander around town, I realized the best, least touristy spot was the one right next to my hotel.  I am so glad I went back to eat there.  I had an appetizer and an amazing fried cheese dish followed by dessert.  

I highly recommend both the restaurant and the hotel, La Villa Del Conte to anyone visiting Sardinia.  I really want to go back for a romantic get-away. I did not want to check out in the morning and was wishing I could stay longer to indulge in their Spa offerings.  The hotel is definitely in the high three to four star category.  I'm harsh on hotel ratings, so the average person would probably consider this a four star hotel.  The hotel had many amenities of a full service hotel with the benefits of a bed and breakfast.  The rate was a great value and my upgraded room even had a private outdoor space.

SAILING TIME

In the morning I rushed to wake up to enjoy the hotel breakfast and pack to meet the group at the harbor.  I was going to take the bus from the city center to the Club.  By the time I found the correct bus, I would have had to wait almost 45 minutes in the sweltering heat.  In hindsight, I should have just taken a taxi from the hotel.  I took a taxi from the bus stop by my old school taxi driver stopped for gas on the way.  When I arrived at the port, I met the group and we hung out all day waiting for our boat to be ready.  Finally about an hour or two before our welcome dinner, we were able to board our boat.

The following 7 days of sailing were incredible.  The first night we spent on the boat was at a port in Sardinia.  The second night we sailed and spent the night out at sea.  We were near an empty island and watched the sunset.  That night we literally partied on a boat by starlight-it was an absolute dream.  On day three we sailed to Porto Pollo and spent another night at sea.  We took a small boat to the island for a BBQ and dancing. The following day, number four, we joined the group at sea during the afternoon.  We jumped into the water and swam around what seemed like another remote island.  By night we left the group, and docked at Port De Cavallo to refill our water tank and dispose of our trash.  We were the only boat out of the group that needed to refill water throughout the trip. That night, I went into town with the Italians on my boat for a beautiful multi-course dinner with wine pairings at La Ferme.  The views and the food were top notch.  We woke up earlier on day 5 to ensure we could find a place to dock in Bonifacio. By day six we sailed back to Sardinia, spent the night at sea and enjoyed Aperitivo at Phi Beach.  Unfortunately, a mega yacht nearby made the water choppy causing me to get sea sick.  I did not have a chance to fully enjoy Phi Beach but was better by the time we went to Ritual Club.  The last night was enjoyed in Sardinia docked at the port we started on journey on just a week earlier.  Every day was spent enjoying the sunshine and the fresh, clear blue water.  

Out of everything I brought with me, I am glad I had two self drying towels and plenty of swim suits.  We spent most of the time either in the Ocean or drying off coming out of the water. Sometimes we showered in our suits off the back of the boat and sometimes we showered on the boat.  I wish we would have purchased more food and snacks, as the heat made us not want to eat big meals.  We ate a lot of delicious Pecorino cheese, cherry tomatoes and crackers.

POST SAILING ADVENTURE-CANNES AND PARIS

After the sailing excursion I had a few days to enjoy.  I flew to Cannes to stay with a friend I had met on the trip, before heading back to Paris to catch my flight home.  I took a bus from the airport in Nice to Cannes and loved looking out the window.  After spending a week at Sea between Sardinia and Corsica, I was incredibly underwhelmed with the beach at Cannes.  The country side views were also stunning on the almost 6 hour train ride from Cannes to Paris through Marseilles. If you are making the trip to Cannes, I would recommend taking the time to visit Monte Carlo and/or Saint-Tropez.  Due to the heat and rain, my friend and I opted to stay in Cannes.

When I returned to Paris, I made it just in time to enjoy the last day of the Summer Sales.  After an informative tour of The Marais, I went shopping!  Our guide made some recommendations that I did not have a chance to enjoy.  She suggested Breizh cafe for their buckwheat crepes and Cafe de flore.

All and all I had an incredible trip around Italy and Paris.  I cannot wait to sail again and visit that cute little hotel in Sardinia.  Sailing on a small Catamaran with a group of friends really is the best way to enjoy the clean calm water, beaming sun and company of cool people.