I'm going to skip over most of the next twenty-four hours, as it involves the reliably tedious activity of sitting on a bus in much the same fashion as I have already described. If you really wish to get an idea of what this is like, imagine the monotony of driving at night but without most of the comfort/entertainment value of whatever car you usually inhabit. A few incidental memories include my considerable annoyance in having to give a €2 coin to provide the c.€0.50 needed for the toilet somewhere in Germany, due to my inability to ask for change; and the delicious alacrity of changing drivers in the very same lay-by in Aschaffenburg where we had spent so many agonising hours on the way out. I suppose we may even have started a tradition of using this spot as a convenient changeover point, such that in the future the town may acquire a large bus station due to the actions of some nameless idiot of a mechanic who failed to check that an alternator wasn't about to be 'slightly on fire'. I think, although I can't be sure, that I slept a little because I don't remember the transition from darkness to early morning, although I do remember that shortly after waking I noticed that the cars now had yellow license plates and there were a lot of cyclists on the urban roads, meaning that we had entered the Netherlands. we were only in the country for about fifteen minutes, crossing the very southern salient of the country around Maastricht and Genk. Breakfast was at a dull service station somewhere short of Brussels, after a heroic five-hour night shift by our new driver had taken us all the way across Germany. I had coffee, some pastries and a waffle, although to honest you could have given me the packaging as I couldn't really taste much. Still no messages from home, although many false alarms due to the over-fastidiousness of my phone provider, thinking fit to notify me by text whenever I crossed into a new network area.
I remember looking at a faded map on a wall of Benelux highways with a friend and trying to work out where we were and how much further we were going. I do like to actually have an idea of where I am in relation to the rest of the planet's geography rather than being content with 'somewhere in Germany'. The obvious thought is to estimate how long remains: based on the outward journey and some dividers-and-compass navigation I try to work out what mileage remains through the Low Countries. Perhaps another four hours to Calais? It turns out to be about right: we hit queues going round Brussels (the absence of which prevented us being even later on the way out) and I remember having a long conversation with the fixer about my travel guide to Hungary. He remarked after reading certain passages that it was generally very accurate but that there were a few glaring errors, which brought him to the surprising conclusion that the author had some kind of pro-Jewish axe to grind. In general he seemed to note mine and Companion's level of perception. 'You are sometimes too negative' he remarked to me ' but you are the ones on this tour who know the most.' I'm not sure I shall ever forget these words.
Belgium became a barely distinguishable part of France and in another hour we rolled up at the Eurotunnel terminal in Coquelles. Almost nothing now stood between us and home - that is, apart from the UK Border Agency, possibly amongst the most objectionable people in existence. Their recently erected fortifications at every point of entry to the UK are largely the result of panicky political rear-guard action (fend off tabloid hysteria about millions of asylum seekers hanging off the bottom of trains et al) and they serve little useful purpose other than that the passport control building usually incorporates a public urinal. And no, I don't mean the inspection desk, although one could be forgiven for mistaking the contents of the two. Get in line, minions.
Lest this seem like disgruntled arch-libertarianism, there are two very good reasons why musicians should loathe border guards and state agents of all types: firstly the criminal actions of the soldier who shot Anton Webern and the US immigration official who ordered Britten to destroy his music for fear it was an enemy coded message - these types deserve every kind of slow painful death possible - and, secondly, that on a more general level their job (which of course they are 'only doing') is utterly incompatible with the remit of music and art. In a shameful display of knee-jerk reactionism, the acclaimed Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami was first refused a US visa to visit the 2002 New York Film Festival, then resigned a commission to direct at English National Opera after refusing to put up with the 'disgraceful' bureaucracy he was subjected to by the UK Border Agency (they were implying that he might disappear or try to claim asylum once here, withdrew his visa for no reason and forced him to give two sets of fingerprints to get another. The border police, presumably steered by the hand of politics, arrogantly refused to apologise for their procedures and trotted out the party line that this was necessary to catch criminals). 'It is the job of border guards and authorities to put up barriers, and it is our job to break them down'. It is the latter organisation I am forced to jump through hoops for now - and to whom I cheerfully wish all kinds of terminal illnesses upon - having to queue up and present a passport to a humourless drone, who seizes upon the chance to tell us what to do with some nonsense about not crossing a faint line on the floor, in order to enter my own country. This is all the more remarkable given that I have been able to cross what was the Iron Curtain without so much as leaving the vehicle. The cretins search the bus and berate the driver for not properly locking some minor luggage hatch - as if an illegal would have anywhere to hide inside the fully loaded compartment! I suspect they say the same to everyone, savouring their moment of power over others and the chance to get even with society just because their parents wouldn't let then stay up and watch Top Gear when they were small. (I think that's just speculation - ed).
Anyway, despite the best efforts of Kafka's field staff, we made the next train. Another half-hour in a tunnel, then another motorway except this was one I recognised, even felt familiar with, and so I knew how little of the journey we had left. It was only a few minutes before we pulled over at a dreary service area outside of Folkstone where I bought a sandwich, checked the nation was still at rights - oh no, wait, the Coalition are still on the throne - and felt a little depressed by the percentage of other customers who were of pensionable age. The next stop was Clacket Lane services where our fixer and his daughter were met a by a friend with a taxi, and went off to London for (presumably) tea at the Ritz with His Jenkinsness and some other fixer-y types. I knew the next forty miles off by heart and was once again cheered to recognise the bits of the North Downs Way going past.
We made as unceremonious a return as our departure. The bus smacked over a speed bump (hopefully shortening its life expectancy a bit) and glided into a shaded car park. I'd done the usual thing of stuffing al the possessions I'd spent the last day spreading about the cabin back into one bag, made a last check round and got off to retrieve my things. I called Best Mate and asked him to bring the Meg over, as I knew how to fit all the cases in it. He was a little surprised I was actually letting him drive it, but he safely navigated the black Renault into a vacant space, got out and declared, simply, 'Brilliant'. I said goodbyes to friends old and new, got the back seats down and loaded everything we'd brought on the way out as well as various unused drinks from the bus. In fact it wasn't really a farewell at all as quite a few people were coming back to the house where I was staying.
And that was pretty much that. My sister gave birth to a little boy at about seven in the evening, just as I was sitting down to enjoy a chicken tikka masala with my companions, and I drove home the next day to be at somebody's birthday party and see the newborn child when I returned. Then I sat down at my computer, clicked to open Blogger on my favourites tab, and - well, you know the rest...
Loose ends
The previous posts in this series can all be found here: Day One; Day Two; Day Three parts One and Two; Day Four; Day Five; Day Six and Day Seven
I've put together an approximate chart of this adventure which you can view below. (Google Maps Maker is a marvellously adept bit of technology - I'd not used it before - and will automatically generate a path along roads from just a start and end point, even to the extent of recognising one-way streets, roundabouts and motorway ramps). I have endeavoured to include placemarks for most of the locations mentioned in this account, whilst the rest should be obvious from where the lines start and end (zoom into Budapest, Eger and the Lake Balaton area).
View Hungary 2011 in a larger map
Other burning questions:
- Was it really that bad sitting on the bus for so long? I mean, surely it would've been far more tiring to drive it yourself, even in some hired Teutonic barge with a humongous diesel engine up front? You know, I couldn't have put the question more succinctly myself. I suppose taking a private bus is non-stressful and reasonably comfortable. However, I can't really recommend coach travel for more than a day-long journey. There are many advantages to it, notably: no baggage weight restrictions; no extra costs for carriage of large instruments; having a vehicle for use once at your destination; still cheaper than all but the most budget airlines provided the group can fill the bus. However, there are a number of significant disadvantages - it takes much, much longer than flying and a considerable amount longer than same distance by car or train; usually necessary to drive through the night as a hotel stop will wipe out any cost advantage over flying; large right-hand-drive coaches (especially those with ski boxes) are less than ideal for negotiating narrow streets in foreign countries/Eurotunnel trains; coach toilets can fill up very quickly (particularly when members of your party spend much of the journey in very determined drinking), start to smell and cannot be emptied easily, meaning regular potty breaks are a must (as well as keeping to driving time regulations) which lengthens journey times still further; breakdowns are considerably more lengthy and costly than on modes of public transport. In addition, it got very cold and uncomfortable once we were stuck for the night. On balance I would advocate that it is probably worth paying a little more to facilitate the 'jet and Transit' approach, whereby a van sets off with everyone's instruments to the destination a day or two early and the players then fly out to meet it there. It isn't a perfect solution by any means, but I have found it from past experience to be the best compromise.
- Wasn't it a bit unreasonable to expect acres of sightseeing time on a concert tour, particularly one only a few days long? Yes, I was probably a bit ambitious with my projected 'tourist' schedule. In Hong Kong, we had three concerts in over a week; Berlin the same in eight days. I should therefore have probably not been disappointed by the amount of time I didn't have to see Eger, towns near Balaton and many areas of Budapest, simply because it wasn't possible doing three gigs in four-and-a-half days. The business of unloading a coach, setting up, rehearsing, changing, doing the gig and packing up again naturally takes up a considerable proportion of time in a day - and that's before factoring in driving two hours or more to the location itself. However I still want to re-visit everywhere again without an instrument in tow and my wristwatch weighing heavy on me, and actually have the time to appreciate everything.
- Was the effort of learning (admittedly basic) Hungarian worth it? Let me be clear I didn't do it just to show off (ok, at least not to start with) and whatever the motive it was thoroughly vindicated. I suspect my accent was moderately terrible. But every Hungarian I spoke even a few words to - shop vendors, toilet attendants, hotel staff, ticket windows - seemed delighted and gratified that I'd tried to learn their language. English visitors seem more and more to take the lazy and even contemptuous approach of not even bothering to learn any of the vernacular tongue when abroad. Of course we're not expecting fluency for a short visit, but Hungarian is not that difficult compared to, say, Cantonese or Bo, and even a few basic phrases will do wonders for goodwill and convenience. Anyway, when members of your party come up and offer to pay for your drink if you'll order for them, you know you've done something right.
- You went to Hungary before, didn't you? What did you think of it the second time around? My fears that the destination would fail to live up to expectations were, happily, unfounded. Hungary is one of the places that actually fulfils much of the myth-making I tend to do before actually visiting somewhere and did not disappoint. Budapest is as beautiful as you can imagine. The lake we visited really did have milky pink waters at sunset. The food and wine were superb and plentiful. What I was really concerned by was the notion that since my last visit Hungary would have become too much like Old Europe, and become filled with generic multinational-corporation adverts, fast-food and fast-coffee shops, cars and glass towers. Naturally I would not begrudge the old Warsaw Pact countries that which we enjoy under democracy, but neither would I like to see the individuality of a nation subsumed by outside influences. Happily, the balance between modernity and preservation seems to be about right. The EU flag sits aside the red, white and green tricolour on the town hall, yet the hall itself otherwise looks exactly as it did in 1900. Outside, a new Ford is parked in between a still-running Trabant and Wartburg. The refurbished Metro 2 still runs old Russian-built stock (almost all clean as a whistle) with globular light fittings and chrome bars on the carriage sides. Of course, I did learn via our fixer several less proud aspects of the country - every nation has its embarrassing bits - corruption; heavy-handed authority; the government's treatment of ethnic minorities, in particular the Roma. But this is all outweighed firstly by the splendid treasure-house of cultural artefacts that Hungary, in all its various geographical stages, has left to the world, and secondly by those of today: food, wine and, still, music. It's a good country, as they go.
- I'm getting the impression that you're starting to prefer holidays to tours. And quite right you are. This is, for me, significant. In the old days, I used to think that playing concerts put us above the regular tourists, as we were actually contributing something to the host country above buying stuff with foreign wealth. Now I'm not so sure. Having had the financial and cultural means to take both normal holidays and participate in tours, I am starting to feel that if I visit somewhere new, it should be for the purpose of actually seeing the place and appreciating it properly. Beside, I get enough playing done at home that the attraction of doing it in front of a foreign audience has diminished somewhat - although the fact that most other countries do not share the UK's philistine attitude towards concert music is still a draw.
- I can't help thinking that all your mithering over others' drinking was somewhat over the top. Look, I consider myself pretty liberal and certainly don't delight in moralising at others. I have no problem with people getting completely cream-crackered as long as it doesn't bother me. When somebody whom you have never exchanged even a greeting with suddenly explodes into your personal space at an ungodly hour of the night, however, I consider it quite reasonable to tell him in no uncertain terms where he can stick it and what is going to happen if he doesn't. In addition, I was rudely awakened to the fact that even a group with a cultural purpose can still behave like louts, somehow flirting with two apparently contradictory worlds. Probably the most apt metaphor for this less admirable aspect of our visit was the (nameless) individual who opened the bus' emergency door to vomit on a World Heritage Site. Another, who is otherwise a fine tenor, thought fit to walk over a car and apparently narrowly avoided arrest for it. I've said before that the English in particular have a literally fearsome reputation abroad. Other countries get merry and (usually) manage to refrain from causing carnage. Why can't we?
- How have you been able to remember all this? Other than having a reasonably exceptional memory and a penchant for noticing things in general, I was writing notes-cum-prose most of the way which totalled about 40 pages in all (my handwriting isn't particularly miniscule). I tend to keep such a document quiet, as on announcing one is writing a diary people tend to assume it's full of gossip-y personal stuff (rarely the case but not unknown) and then get rather disappointed when it's a description of an interesting coloured duck on a bridge or what I had for dinner. Which brings us to...
- This blog has been going on for ages and the posts are massive! One does one's best. Not including this coda - no, in fact, let's include it - the word count is a healthy 29,000 words over nine posts, give or take. Obviously I've not written this all in one go, although sections were already formed in my mind even before we returned, but I've stuck at completing it and thus it's probably about the most complete account suitable for the medium. I could have written even more detail, given the time, although I think without a real plot it would have been a little unsuited to this breakthrough into novella territory. Still, I judge it all to have been worthwhile via the message from a composer in the US who '...immensely enjoyed [the] blog, by the way. It is engaging and very readable.'
- Did your wine get home safely? Yes, thank you; indeed it did, largely due to the absence of dealings with any jobsworth baggage handlers. I sampled the white as an accompaniment to a chicken-based meal some time ago and found it as agreeable as the first time. But, as I stated at the time of purchase, the '08 Merlot is being saved for a very special occasion...
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