drew kennedy,

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.

I’ll be writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is part 4.

Clouds and Fog

The Huns were making their way across Italy, leaving behind them a trail of death and destruction. No town in their path was left untouched, no defender left alive. As word of their gruesome acts spread out across the land, thousands of people fled from their ancestral homes in hopes of escaping the horrible fate that surely awaited them at the hands of these merciless invaders. They passed through Modena on their way to seek haven in the higher elevations of the Apennine Mountains, bringing with them their harrowing tales. Once it became clear that the Huns were indeed headed for Modena, a meeting was held to discuss several plans of action: should they stay and fight, join the others in exodus, or pray for protection? After days of debates, a decision was made, and the people of Modena began to gather in the towns’ churches and monasteries. They would pray to God for guidance, and they would pray to Saint Germinianus for protection.

Germinianus had long been the patron saint of Modena, and for generations local people had honored him in prayer and action. In return, Germinianus had blessed the region with fertile fields and protected its people from harm.

And so, they prayed.

As the Huns neared Modena, a blanket of dense fog began to wash over the area. It was so thick that it reportedly seeped under doors and through loose windows. Hands could not be seen in front of faces, and travel became utterly impossible. The Huns, seeing this cloud of fog before them, maneuvered around its edges, and pressed onward, searching for their next conquest. Two days later, with the town safe from its certain destruction and the Huns miles away, the fog dissipated as quickly as it appeared.

It had been a miracle, and Modena had been spared. Saint Germinianus had again extended his favor over the town and it’s people. To this day, he remains the patron saint of Modena.

“Man, that’s an incredible story!”

“Yes, it’s one that I’ve heard for a very long time.”

Countless stories like this had been shared throughout the early morning hours over our small feast on the top of the mountain, each one of them entertaining. We were sitting in the lap of hospitality, surrounded by new friends, fantastic food, and incredible wine. The memories of the 785 were quickly fading into oblivion. This was the formal introduction to Italy I had been searching for. The nearly full moon had cast its pale light across the land surrounding Christians’ home, making the terrain seem more mystical than real. Candlelight danced across the tabletop, flickering wildly with each chorus of laughter and standing motionless and bright during each solitary tale. It was like the set of a movie… except it was real.

The sky to the east began to show familiar signs of life, and we watched as the blanket of stars above our head began to march its way westward. We said our goodnights, and headed back down the mountain towards the hotel to turn in before we had lost what little was left of the darkness.

In the morning, Holly and I walked to the grocery store across the street to pick up a few things. We talked about the incredible wine we shared last night, and how strange it was to be in a familiar store (in layout and goods) in so unfamiliar a land. We returned to the hotel and prepared for our day. It would take a 20-minute drive through the Italian countryside, and a 45-minute drive high into the mountains to the reach the site of our show that night. We loaded our gear into Christian’s car and hit the road, windows rolled down, panoramic views stretched out before us. As we climbed our way up the rocky terrain, we neared closer to the clouds. Any closer, I thought, and we’d be directly in them. We ended our drive at the site of our show, which sat high atop a mountain, but well below the clouds.

There would be no need for clouds or fog today… we weren’t here to pillage.

Just to play.

I’ll be writing about our recent tour of Europe in several parts. This is part 3.

Up In The Air, And Back Down Again

It appeared in the sky every half hour, and it was so regular you could set your watch by it. The giant, perfectly spherical zeppelin, with its round basket of sightseers, was an easy landmark to spot from just about anywhere in the city. If we were feeling lost, all we had to do was wait for, at most, 29 minutes and like clockwork it would appear. I supposed that it would have been an interesting way to view the city, but the three of us had chosen a more pedestrian method of observation during our time in Hamburg. I decided that if I ever made it back to this interesting city, I’d give it a shot.

The cab pulled away from our hotel and drove past the massive balloon, which was making its first ascent of the day. When we arrived at the airport, we were four hours early for our flight to Milan. Unloading our baggage at the check in desk, we made our way to a vacant corner table a few hundred feet away from gate 31 and settled in to wait. Killing time is something most working musicians can do with the best of them. While we may be professionals in the field, it’s not a proficiency any of us have mastered by choice. The cycle of travel, two hours downtime, sound check, four hours downtime, show, downtime, sleep, repeat, is one that we’re all very well versed in. There are a million things one can do to pass the time. On this particular day, Rodney chose to pass his time by donning his headphones and dancing to Michael Jackson. He’s actually quite good, and his first and only performance was met with spontaneous applause from the several dozen travelers who were within eyeshot of him.

An hour later we were taxiing down the runway and hurtling up and over the Alps.

We arrived in Milan as the sun was setting. Out of my window I marveled at the tiny farms that dotted the area around the airport. I imagined that they were growing fine grapes, which would mature and produce even finer wine… but I’m reasonably sure they were just wheat farms. Nonetheless, I was ready for a new country and a new culture. We collected our bags and jumped on a bus for the Milan central train station as the city was closing itself down for the day. Upon arrival, Rodney went off to buy tickets for our train ride to Modena, and Holly and I guarded the baggage, watching people shuffle from train to terminal and back again.

The introduction to Italy we were about to receive was, as I later discovered, an unfair one.

Our train was leaving the station at 11:35 PM and as we walked to the platform beside train 785 I began to panic. Each car we entered was full—the inhabitants of the six-person compartments were overflowing into the aisles. We checked car after car for empty seats, but none could be found. The first whistle signaling the “all aboard” call sounded, and we knew we were out of time. Today, we were later told, was the first day of the traditional summer holiday, and the people of Milan were heading south for their vacation. This particular train was the last one of the day heading in that direction, and we reluctantly stepped through the door of car number 23.

Car 23 could not have been less than four decades old, and we quickly discovered that it wasn’t equipped with air conditioning. The tops of the windows along the aisle were bolted shut and it was easily 90 degrees inside. The air was stale and heavy. The aisle itself was no wider than two feet across, and we were forced to line our bags along the outer wall, leaving only enough space between them for a place to stand. As the train jolted into motion, people pushed their way by us, forcing our chests and backs against the window to allow them the room needed to pass. 30 minutes into the trip, we arrived at the first stop. I hoped that the crowd would thin out, but more people boarded the train, adding to the suffocating mix. Two more stops came and went, unfortunately offering no relief. An hour and a half into the trip, the ticket collector arrived to punch our cards, and thankfully open a few windows with her key. A slight, but valuable breeze made its way into the car giving us a precious bit of circulation. It cooled the car by perhaps a few degrees, and at this point, we would take what we could get. The rest of the trip found the three of us hanging our noses out of the four inches of open window, praying that each stop would bear the sign “Modena” above it’s benches and timetables. Eventually our prayers were answered, and we left the rest of our weary car mates to their uncomfortable and unknown destinations.

One of our two Italian hosts, Max, was waiting for us at the train station. We piled into his car and set off into the night, happy to be saved from the curse that was train 785 (a number that, from that point going forward, will forever serve as my unlucky number). 30 minutes later, we found ourselves driving up a mountainside, turning left and right, doubling back against the steepness of the one lane road. We arrived at a quaint house perched on the very top of the mountain. It was owned by our second host, Christian, and after introductions, he led us to an outdoor area overlooking the valley below. Food and wine were spread out across a long wooden table, and as I dropped my bags in the green grass, Holly and I walked past the offering to look at the flickering lights of a distant town. The view was breathtaking. As we settled in to eat and drink away the unpleasant memories of an ancient train car, I made a note in my book:

For future reference: next time skip the train and

travel to Italy via hot air balloon.