I’ve been writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is the final installment.

The Long Way Home

Great adventures always seem to come with great costs, and with a day and a half left in our trip we were about to settle our debts. Payment would come in the form of travel—an extensive day and a half journey to Paris, where an Air France 777 would be waiting to take us home.

First, we hopped a train in Rimini for a 4-hour express trip back to the central station in Milan. Still gun shy from our ride on the curséd train number 785, I decided to pony up the extra Euros for a first class cabin. At the ticket window, I discovered that the difference in price between first class and general seating was minimal, and I cursed my luck for not having learned that helpful fact until the end of our travels. Holly and I had a six-person cabin to ourselves and we took full advantage of the extra space, stretching out our long legs to give them a much-needed break. We passed through Modena, and I watched our home base in Italy zip by us to the right. The sun was setting behind the mountains that just a few days prior had served as our welcome wagon to this wonderful country.

We arrived in Milan as the last minutes of daylight were retiring for the day and settled in for a two-hour wait for our next train. We were bound for Dijon Ville, France, and while fellow international traveler and compadre Matt Skinner told me that the trip was a scenic one, we would be making the journey under cover of darkness. Our train pulled up to its platform, and we boarded car 86. Since this was an overnight train, we found our compartment to be a departure from those on any of the trains we had previously taken. 6 beds, stacked 3 to a side extended from the walls to the left and right. The set up was not too different from what you would find on your average tour bus, minus the handy privacy curtains that surround each self-contained bunk… That, and the fact that on a tour bus one usually has the luxury of traveling with familiar people. Holly and I took our assigned bunks on the second level of each side and spread out the neatly wrapped sheets and pillow provided for our comfort. 4 complete strangers took their assigned bunks in the tiny space with us (the compartment was no bigger than a large walk in closet) and the lights went out as the train pulled away from the station.

I found sleeping difficult– we were on a tight schedule and I was afraid of missing our stop. I stared out of the large picture window at my feet with bleary eyes and watched the lights of the countryside pass by us. Three hours passed, and I began to see boats moored to docks along the southern edge of Lake Geneva 30 or 40 feet below the tracks. Rain started to fall, welcoming us to Switzerland. We arrived in Dijon at 6:30 AM and waited for our connecting train to Charles De Gaulle. The sun began to rise behind the thick cloud cover as the rain subsided. France was exactly as I had imagined it as a high school kid sitting in a classroom taking lessons in the language—rainy and overcast. The 7:00 AM train took us directly to the airport, and we checked our luggage and hustled to the gate just in time to board the Houston bound jet. We found our seats and prepared for the final leg of our journey back home to the United States.

With the help of friends both new and old, we had somehow managed to complete a 12-day whirlwind trip through Germany, Italy, San Marino, Switzerland, and now France. As I settled in for the 10-hour flight, I thought of everyone who made our trip memorable. Nina, who had opened her apartment to Holly, Rodney, and I, and who had sacrificed the last remaining days of her vacation to show us around her home city and take us to and from our show in Gottingen. Sebastian and his father, who took a train all the way from Berlin to catch our show. The kind strangers who helped us find our first gig in Hamburg. The couple that made it out to our second show in Hamburg and gave us a ride back to our hotel. The talented musicians with whom we shared the stages in Germany. Christian, Simona, and Max in Italy. Gianluca and Francesca. The countless fans who came to our shows. And of course, the dreaded train number 785. All of the people, places, and things that had made this trip so memorable—for better or for worse (in the case of that damned train)—danced through my head. We were truly blessed, and in more ways than I could count.

The plane taxied down the runway, and with Holly already fast asleep, I hoped that once again Bernoulli wouldn’t let us down.

My Summer Home in San Marino

We arrived at the train station in Rimini at 3 PM and met with Francesca and Gianluca, part of the crew responsible for the show that night, and with our gear loaded into Francesca’s car we took off towards San Marino. The streets of Rimini were cluttered with bicycles and motorcycles, and I was glad that I wasn’t the one driving. Dodging two-wheeled travelers was best left to the experts, and Francesca was definitely an expert. She explained to us that San Marino was not a city in Italy, but an independent country with a population of around 30,000 people. It sits close to the coastline, yet it’s a completely landlocked nation, surrounded by the Italian countryside. I found it interesting that we crossed the boarder into this tiny country without notice—no checkpoints, no signs, no inspection of passport. I liked the notion of moving freely from country to country without being subjected to the endless formalities that international travel often requires.

Our hotel was within walking distance of the concert grounds, and as I waited for the others to unpack their things I sat on my bed leafing through the official tourist guide to the area. San Marino, I learned, is actually the oldest sovereign nation in the world (founded in 301 AD) and it had managed to avoid being swallowed up in one of the many military conflicts that have occurred since it’s inception. Napoleon once offered to extend San Marino’s territory during his conquest of Europe after befriending one of the countries regents, and Abraham Lincoln was made an honorary citizen after he issued his Emancipation Proclamation.

(As a history nerd, these kinds of things have always caught my interest, so forgive me for the recitation of facts. I can’t help it.)

The thought of being in an area that was smaller than my own current place of residence (a medium sized town in Texas), yet had managed to remain free and independent as a country for over 1,708 years was exciting to me. I subconsciously added an extra nod of respect to each native San Marinan I met. This was a place where the little guy had somehow survived for hundreds of years, and I couldn’t help but draw a parallel connection with my own independent music career (the difference in longevity, diplomacy, and civilization aside, of course).

The coastline was visible in the distance from the festival grounds—a line of hazy blue butting up against a golden row of beaches and buildings. Flags from San Marino, Italy, and America stood at attention in the warm breeze. To my left, high on a hilltop, stood the outlines of a castle. I joked with Holly that it was nice to be playing so close to our summer home, gesturing towards the stone silhouette in the distance, and she smiled and rolled her eyes.

Darkness arrived, and we geared up for our show. It was the first year for this particular festival, and the organizers had cautiously expected a crowd in the 100-200 person range. By the time we hit the stage, there were easily 500 people crammed into the little area, and when we had finished I guessed the number to be closer to 700. Playing music in front the crowds in both Italy and Germany was exhilarating. Each night had a sense of newness to it—as if it were the first gigs we had ever played. The kind of reception we received night after night was enough to recharge batteries left somewhat drained from the day in, day out grind of the music business. Recharged for a year.

People like Christian and Max had put in hours of planning and preparation for these shows. Gianluca and Francesca the same. Fans like Matt– a diehard, tattooed country music lover– had made the trip from Savoniero to San Marino with the enthusiasm of ten men. These people truly cared about our music, and the truly cared about us.

The show wrapped, and we spent the next hour talking with our new friends. On our way back to the hotel, we stopped at a café for drinks and a late night snack. The menu had a distinctly American flare to it, and even though I was in the land of pasta and wine, a little taste of home did my weary body well. With windows open wide and a costal breeze whipping in and out of our room, we turned in for the night.

The next morning our crew of rag tag musicians and promoters hopped into two cars and headed for the castle I had pointed to the day before. This was the very heart of San Marino, and we would spend our last afternoon in San Marino wandering it’s ancient cobblestone streets and marveling at the beautiful view from such a high elevation. The castle was only accessible by a system of gondolas, and the trip to and from the mountaintop was worth the 4 euro round trip fare. As we ascended, the tiny country laid itself out before our eyes. A minute later, the doors opened and we found ourselves in a bustling micro city. Stone buildings upon stone streets offered food and trinkets. Ornately dressed military guards stood in front of the small capitol building. A memorial fountain gushed strands of crystal clear water from which people drank and washed their face. Holly and I (with limited packing space during our trip) chose this spot to purchase a souvenir of our first jaunt to Europe, and we bought a small painting from a street side artist. It was as if we had stepped back in time without sacrificing the comforts of modern man. I loved it, and I didn’t want to leave.

Sadly, it was time to say goodbye to our new friends, and we did so reluctantly. We exchanged hugs and waives, and began to make our way back to the gondolas. Holly and I, now alone, promised each other that we would find a way to return and spend a night in this romantic place. I made her shake on it. We boarded the gondola and watched as San Marino rose to meet our feet. Stepping through the doors, we took one last look up at the castle above, and then made our way back to the train station in Rimini.