The Wurst That Could Happen
The tour of Germany started with a drive through the snowy mountain roads of the Massif Central. One of the things I like about France is the jumble of eras and styles, the rustic and the modern. One minute we’re poking around an ancient courtyard looking for the hotel entrance, the next we’re checking in via computerized desk clerk and automated gate. To top it all off there’s a Russ Meyer movie on TV, followed by some weird Japanese sci fi soft core art film. I love France!
Freiburg had been described to us as the “green” capital of Germany and it does seem to have more than its share of drum shops, art galleries and dreadlocks. It’s a lovely warm day for February. We find the hotel, then set off in search of the venue. We locate the address listed in the itinerary but it appears to be a small supermarket. We consider the possibility that our first German gig is in a frozen foods section, but could that really be so much worse than playing a fundraising banquet in rural North Carolina? Fortunately there’s been a mistake with the address and we don’t have to find out.
The gig at the Swamp (a proper small venue) is packed, sweaty and chaotic which is probably for the best because neither Eric or I have played since before Christmas. I have fun and forget to worry about whether anyone can understand me.
The next day is a drive through the picturesque Black Forest and my first visit to a bountiful German service plaza. Of course we have wurst and apple cake. It starts to sink in that I’m in a whole new country - I must be getting used to being in France. There I can at least stumble through transactions, read signs and newspapers. Here I learn to ask immediately if the person speaks English which, thankfully, many people do. I want to apologize for being a helpless American but can’t find the words. It doesn’t seem to matter, as the people I encounter are for the most part amazingly sweet and patient. Except of course when you’re only driving 100 mph in the passing lane.
