9/6/12 Calais, France
Cloudy, but the sun is trying.
11am
We spent yesterday in the wonderful city of Brugge. I love Belgium, and not just for the beer angle. Despite our sluggish start we decided to conquer the day and do some exploring. It was an off night for the tour. We found ourselves a cheap hostel right in the center of the city and went about our day. Alissa and I spent part of our honeymoon in Brugge, so we were particularly eager to see some of the old haunts that have so burned themselves into our memories. This place has a familiarity about it. We were much younger when we last walked these cobblestone streets together, but it feels like seeing an old friend. Hard to believe that I was lucky enough to marry my best friend, even harder to believe how fast the time whips right by. My memory tends to serve me back my life in photographs— some are fraying and hard to make out—some seem like they were taken yesterday—Brugge was yesterday.
Our day started at a local brewery (go figure) for a beer. I’m a huge Belgian beer fan, so despite my obvious hangover I wasn't willing to pass on indulging in the cheap excesses of this fine country. After hitting a few bars Christian decided to separate from us and get some rest. Damn him and his logical choices. While that was the right thing to do, I didn't want to miss a moment in this city—a moment with Alissa. As we walked around and talked about our honeymoon and the buildings that we recognized from years ago, it began to feel like a mini vacation. A vacation that's been tucked into our long tour-cation. Brugge has a calming effect on me. It feels a little like a home away from home. My smile feels permanent.
Alissa and I spent some time trying to find “the smallest museum in Brugge”, which turned out to be exactly that. Well, more a house of collectibles than a museum per say. The proprietor of said museum seemed to have developed an affinity for collecting both Nazi and Coca-Cola memorabilia along the way. It took a bit of tongue biting for me to not point out the obvious correlation between the two, but after 45 minutes of gawking at the sobering Guns, passports, old photo’s, and medic kits we decided to find ourselves some indian food before finding the bar where Alissa and I had spent our most memorable evening in Brugge.
Cloudy, but the sun is trying.
11am
We spent yesterday in the wonderful city of Brugge. I love Belgium, and not just for the beer angle. Despite our sluggish start we decided to conquer the day and do some exploring. It was an off night for the tour. We found ourselves a cheap hostel right in the center of the city and went about our day. Alissa and I spent part of our honeymoon in Brugge, so we were particularly eager to see some of the old haunts that have so burned themselves into our memories. This place has a familiarity about it. We were much younger when we last walked these cobblestone streets together, but it feels like seeing an old friend. Hard to believe that I was lucky enough to marry my best friend, even harder to believe how fast the time whips right by. My memory tends to serve me back my life in photographs— some are fraying and hard to make out—some seem like they were taken yesterday—Brugge was yesterday.
Our day started at a local brewery (go figure) for a beer. I’m a huge Belgian beer fan, so despite my obvious hangover I wasn't willing to pass on indulging in the cheap excesses of this fine country. After hitting a few bars Christian decided to separate from us and get some rest. Damn him and his logical choices. While that was the right thing to do, I didn't want to miss a moment in this city—a moment with Alissa. As we walked around and talked about our honeymoon and the buildings that we recognized from years ago, it began to feel like a mini vacation. A vacation that's been tucked into our long tour-cation. Brugge has a calming effect on me. It feels a little like a home away from home. My smile feels permanent.
Alissa and I spent some time trying to find “the smallest museum in Brugge”, which turned out to be exactly that. Well, more a house of collectibles than a museum per say. The proprietor of said museum seemed to have developed an affinity for collecting both Nazi and Coca-Cola memorabilia along the way. It took a bit of tongue biting for me to not point out the obvious correlation between the two, but after 45 minutes of gawking at the sobering Guns, passports, old photo’s, and medic kits we decided to find ourselves some indian food before finding the bar where Alissa and I had spent our most memorable evening in Brugge.
The bar was just as we'd remembered. If you were to look at it from the outside it would look like a hole in the wall dive bar. But once you step in you realize the brilliance. Someone loves this bar. There is a caring nature to the overall aesthetic. The bottle selection is enough to make you want to spend the night, but at the same time it poses a bit of a conundrum—so many good beers—so little time. I can only drink so much and chalk it up to over indulgence. When Alissa and I were last in this bar we got to talking to the bartender—upon finding out that we were on our honeymoon he gave us a bottle of one of our favorite beers, Saison Dupont . That bottle still sits on our bookshelf—a reminder of fond memories—like tonight. After drinking ourselves warm and fuzzy we made our way back to the hostile for a decent sleep. A perfect end to a perfect day/night off.
12:30pm English Channel
We’re aboard the Ferry on our way to the UK with Belgium in our rear view. The white cliffs of Dover are growing before our eyes. We had to take a later ferry than the one we’d planned on taking . Our dumb asses ran a bit too late, and immigration did little to help us. Fitting really, we’re in the UK rather reluctantly and the shit is already starting to be thrown in our direction. I’ve made some great friends here, but I’d be lying if I said that I enjoyed touring here. It’s like the US in that it often displays a certain insincerity pertaining to music in general. Ouch. I wouldn't trade the friends that we've made in the UK, but I was admittedly disappointed to be spending so much time in a country that generally tears our tours apart. I'd love to come here as an actual tourist, but as a "traveling musician"— this place eats us alive. I really wish that weren't the case.
The ferry is huge, and a welcome respite from the car. It has the allure of all transient environments that I’ve come to find comfort in. All the traveling in the past few years has taken my perception of comfort and shattered it into shiny little pieces. What I once considered socially awkward has fully become normal. My interactions with strangers have become fluent, often elevated to comic levels. Comfort is a mind set that can be found, and altered to fit just about any situation.
I was getting lost in the thought that my father did some traveling over here when he was stationed in Germany. I wonder what this part of the world looked like through his youthful blue eyes. My father and I were not the best at the whole "father/son" game. But every once in awhile I wish he were still around to talk to. Like right now I wish he were around to tell me what the White Cliffs of Dover looked like—through his eyes. What advice would he bestow upon me if he were still around? He was a tough read, but every once in a while he'd give me something to hold on to, something to keep with me. I guess what I have now will be all I'm going to get.
I spent a significant amount of my youth attempting to distance myself from my family and the city I grew up in. Funny, It seems my family and the city I grew up in tend to be the all encompassing motif of my songs. I guess you can run for as long as you like—in the end—hiding is useless. The truth is, I have a hell of a time writing about anything that I haven't experienced, or can deeply identify with.
7:30pm Truro, UK
On the drive to Truro we drove passed Stone Henge. This would mark the second time in my life that I’ve driven right by this hallowed, "magical " ground—by accident. I look at Stone Henge with a sort of bewilderment. A marvel of ancient engineering ? A spiritual place? Some folks having fun with rocks? Either way, it's quite the site, albeit overpriced. The drive to Truro was pretty average. Three foreign friends in a foreign country on their way to a foreign town to play a show for foreign kids. I think that sums it up. Even if it is the UK, we’re feeling pretty fucking lucky right now.
Truro is the quintessential Cornish town. The buildings and houses were built long before my country was even founded. The unfortunate thing is how my mind will jump to thinking that these places look just like the movies. Sometimes I have to just stop and take it all in. It's better than any movie, or any photograph I’ll ever see. Its all right there in front of me, staring back at my bloodshot, sleepless eyes. Wake up!
Last year the promoters in Truro put on a last minute show for us that saved our asses. Tonight’s venue is the same as last year. A small family owned bar nestled in the stone structures of quiet downtown Truro. We were treated to Cornish cheese pasties and friendly faces. I feel like I’m in a constant state of flinching—waiting for the UK to deliver its deathblow to our tour. This country finds new and unique waye to destroy us monetarily. I have some friends that really do great here, and can't wait to get back. I, unfortunately have only gotten the opposite experience. Good thoughts.
Random Note: My father always beamed with pride when talking about our family’s Irish heritage. He loved to ramble on about how Irish we were. He and I both have shamrocks tattoo’d on our left forearm. His stating “Erin go Bragh” (Ireland forever), and mine simply adorned with our last name. Well, its occurred to me of late that in all my travels through Ireland—I've never seen anyone that looks like me. However, when we’re in the UK you can’t throw a stone without skimming five people that look just like me.
12:30pm English Channel
We’re aboard the Ferry on our way to the UK with Belgium in our rear view. The white cliffs of Dover are growing before our eyes. We had to take a later ferry than the one we’d planned on taking . Our dumb asses ran a bit too late, and immigration did little to help us. Fitting really, we’re in the UK rather reluctantly and the shit is already starting to be thrown in our direction. I’ve made some great friends here, but I’d be lying if I said that I enjoyed touring here. It’s like the US in that it often displays a certain insincerity pertaining to music in general. Ouch. I wouldn't trade the friends that we've made in the UK, but I was admittedly disappointed to be spending so much time in a country that generally tears our tours apart. I'd love to come here as an actual tourist, but as a "traveling musician"— this place eats us alive. I really wish that weren't the case.
The ferry is huge, and a welcome respite from the car. It has the allure of all transient environments that I’ve come to find comfort in. All the traveling in the past few years has taken my perception of comfort and shattered it into shiny little pieces. What I once considered socially awkward has fully become normal. My interactions with strangers have become fluent, often elevated to comic levels. Comfort is a mind set that can be found, and altered to fit just about any situation.
I was getting lost in the thought that my father did some traveling over here when he was stationed in Germany. I wonder what this part of the world looked like through his youthful blue eyes. My father and I were not the best at the whole "father/son" game. But every once in awhile I wish he were still around to talk to. Like right now I wish he were around to tell me what the White Cliffs of Dover looked like—through his eyes. What advice would he bestow upon me if he were still around? He was a tough read, but every once in a while he'd give me something to hold on to, something to keep with me. I guess what I have now will be all I'm going to get.
I spent a significant amount of my youth attempting to distance myself from my family and the city I grew up in. Funny, It seems my family and the city I grew up in tend to be the all encompassing motif of my songs. I guess you can run for as long as you like—in the end—hiding is useless. The truth is, I have a hell of a time writing about anything that I haven't experienced, or can deeply identify with.
7:30pm Truro, UK
On the drive to Truro we drove passed Stone Henge. This would mark the second time in my life that I’ve driven right by this hallowed, "magical " ground—by accident. I look at Stone Henge with a sort of bewilderment. A marvel of ancient engineering ? A spiritual place? Some folks having fun with rocks? Either way, it's quite the site, albeit overpriced. The drive to Truro was pretty average. Three foreign friends in a foreign country on their way to a foreign town to play a show for foreign kids. I think that sums it up. Even if it is the UK, we’re feeling pretty fucking lucky right now.
Truro is the quintessential Cornish town. The buildings and houses were built long before my country was even founded. The unfortunate thing is how my mind will jump to thinking that these places look just like the movies. Sometimes I have to just stop and take it all in. It's better than any movie, or any photograph I’ll ever see. Its all right there in front of me, staring back at my bloodshot, sleepless eyes. Wake up!
Last year the promoters in Truro put on a last minute show for us that saved our asses. Tonight’s venue is the same as last year. A small family owned bar nestled in the stone structures of quiet downtown Truro. We were treated to Cornish cheese pasties and friendly faces. I feel like I’m in a constant state of flinching—waiting for the UK to deliver its deathblow to our tour. This country finds new and unique waye to destroy us monetarily. I have some friends that really do great here, and can't wait to get back. I, unfortunately have only gotten the opposite experience. Good thoughts.
Random Note: My father always beamed with pride when talking about our family’s Irish heritage. He loved to ramble on about how Irish we were. He and I both have shamrocks tattoo’d on our left forearm. His stating “Erin go Bragh” (Ireland forever), and mine simply adorned with our last name. Well, its occurred to me of late that in all my travels through Ireland—I've never seen anyone that looks like me. However, when we’re in the UK you can’t throw a stone without skimming five people that look just like me.
Lies, sweet lies.