Schmoant Fat Punch / Killing Bono

Bruce's Schmoat Fat Punch: In a large punch bowl, pout one 750 mL bottle of Baby Duck Sparkling Wine, one 750 mL bottle of Strawberry Angel Sparkling Wine, add four raw eggs from free range Amish chickens, then fill 'er up with schmoant fat, add plenty of ice, sprinkle with shelled sunflower seeds, serve in a highball glass and add a little paper / bamboo umbrella... just might become the drink of choice at many a Mennonite beach party where the women wear one-piece turtleneck bathing suits and the mean wear Bermuda shorts and black socks inside their sandals.

September 23^rd: I sleep late and check out, walk with my suitcase to rue Madeleine where I thought I saw The Old Brussels Lace Shop yesterday. I’ve busted a wheel on the cobblestones so my suitcase pulls hard, but I try to stay positive - at least my arms are getting a work-out. The lace shop has been converted to a café. I buy a cappuccino and a package of cookies which I consume at an outdoor table, then wander towards La Grand Place, which the taxi driver last night recommended that I see, and on the way I notice a small crowd gathering, waiting for something. For what? They are outside the posh Hotel Amigo, blocked by barricades. “Qu’est qu’il se passé?” I ask a man and he replies, “On attend U2.” - “Quand?” - “Je ne sais pas.”

U2’s hotel. Well. Five years ago after Vertigo in Las Vegas I spent half the day wandering the city searching for them, guessing where they might be staying; I walked myself sick over it, begging the heavens for a glimpse of Bono - and now, by fluke or fate, here I am, in the crowd. I grab a spot, second from the front, beside a Greek man and his elderly mother. Much marijuana is in the air. In front of me, I discover, are Wim, an olive-skinned, kind-hearted cop from Brussels aged 41 with an 11-year-old son, who has brought a “Rattle and Hum” album cover to have signed, and a pathetic obsessed pair of groupies from Cork, Ireland; Martin and his girlfriend, Anya. “Wim, like Wim Wendell.” - “Oh, that’s better; I thought you said Vim, like the cleaning product.” - “It is a cleaning product, isn’t it? And a good one.” - “Yes,” says Martin, “they’ve been making it for years. It used to come only as a powder.” - “Oh?” Martin has been, literally, following the band around the world since 1979; he is going next to Spain, then to Australia and New Zealand. He is the epitomy of un-cool in his Bono-worship, a sloppy middle-aged red-head with far too much knowledge who pants and exclaims that he will leap the barrier when the great man arrives. Anya is firmly fat, which I mention only because she wears tight jeans, belted, and a short shirt, and bounces her leg so that her back fat bounces, constantly, inches in front of me - so I notice, really, really notice. We wait for four hours. My train for Paris leaves at 3, but I gladly miss it. Martin and Anya and Wim admire my dedication. I let Anya sit on my suitcase to rest her feet, and they give me a newspaper to have signed; I thought at first I’d just ask Bono to sign my hand if he came near, but realize afterwards that would have been futile. Four hours and it feels like nothing. Security guards, policemen, the hotel manager. Taxi after taxi. Five hundred or so people have gathered; people are hanging off the windowsills and door frames. There is Darren Murphy, Edge’s bodyguard, and Brian Murphy, Bono’s bodyguard, and his beautiful tall wife, and their baby in a sleek black stroller. They scope out the scene and talk on cell phones. The word is that they will come, maybe at two o’clock, maybe at three, in an orderly fashion; everyone but Larry, who hates crowds and is staying at another hotel.

Then finally, finally, Adam emerges, bright blue Adam Clayton with his cropped white hair, and he walks straight towards us, and we all yell, and he signs my newspaper; Wim in the first row holds it out. The Edge appears and bodies heave forwards and poor thin Wim is being crushed against the bars. “Pousse pas! Stay back!” the police yell, and the man behind me who earlier seemed so placid is swearing, “This fucking petit valise,” referring to my suitcase. “Somebody’s going to fall over it.” - “I’m sorry, I can’t do anything,” I say, and a woman is standing on my foot, her high heel, and I have to pick her up by the hips to get her off. Then oh my God there is Bono, there he is in the flesh, and he veers left and it is raining a little, Brian holds up an umbrella, and he is working his way along the line, Edge working his way along the line from the right under his red umbrella, and people start trying to calculate who will arrive in front of us first, and it’s almost simultaneous, Edge first, hands thrust out. “Edge! Please! Edge!” is all anyone is saying. I want to say something meaningful, he’s right in front of me with his thin facial hair and black toque and chunky gold earring. “Nice earring,” I manage; how dumb. And then there is Bono, Bono is here, his freckled forehead, his deep dimples, his too-long hair, his face pinched. He is tired, he is sad. Depressed, maybe? - had it with this game, his recent surgery, suddenly feeling an old man, looking like a little boy, escorted around by his team, impeccably groomed, king of the world. I do not want him to be sad. I want him to play “Where the Streets Have No Name” on a rooftop, a surprise to everyone. He wears a silver earring. “Bono! Please! Bono!” and Wim helps guide my newspaper and the king of the world is signing it; he even flips it over to find a good spot, near the photo. “I love you Bono,” I yell into the roar and he glances up, vacuous.

A girl is sobbing and the police assume that she is hurt and lift her over the barricade but she just huddles and cries and I’m sure she is fine, but holds a blank postcard; she did not get it signed, and he is gone, he is past her in the line.

Wim also got all three autographs and we cheer for each other and separate, I buy Elaine’s wedding lace handkerchief and find a pub in the square where I drink beer and eat a Croque Hawaiian. I am pleased to have those three signatures in my bag, pleased to have had those mythical creatures so close in the flesh, but I can move on, I am not discouraged! Five years ago I would have felt that now that moment was over and unlikely ever to recur I could not go on, for what could ever happen that could top it? Now I know what could top it.

I could fall in love, and have it reciprocated.

I think - how awesome is this, all these people I’ve met and connected with, and how wonderful it is to bond with strangers over a shared experience, particularly when under duress, like the sinking of the Titanic, or queuing for a U2 concert. They make me feel important, these people; they validate me, make me want to live. But then how self-centered is that, how adolescent? - that people seem wonderful to me because they connect with me, because we have something in common, because they buy me beer or tease me or grab me around the waist; because they notice me, I admire them. I realized this first in grade 5, when Russell Watts whom I’d never given a moment’s thought to passed me a love note in class and suddenly he was fascinating - I wanted him because he wanted me. If he’s smart enough to have admired me, then he must be worth something. It was the beginning of our footsie affair.

I must grow up now, though, and show a bit more discretion.

The metro trip to Gare Midi goes smoothly. I am two hours late for the train, though. I inquire at first one ticket booth then another then find the correct counter for Thalys, and the girl says, “It’s your lucky day, there’s a strike, so you can take any train you like.” I was expecting to have to pay 50 Euros for another ticket.

My lucky day.

I cannot find a WC, but do discover some very intensely cola-flavored jelly candies, and the train is nearly empty and I fall asleep instead of taking in the scenery. In no time at all we are in Paris, metro to Hotel de Ville with only one change, and coming up the stairs there is a concert in the square, the sky deep blue, fountains and lights and song. I head up rue du Temple looking for #12, but pass #12 and it is not my hotel. I find a café with free wi-fi and manage to search Google Maps on my ipod and figure out that it’s rue du Vieux Temple that I need, and it’s not far, and after a glass of wine I walk there, past café crowds, small theatres, no tourists at all here in Marais. The Hotel Caron de Beaumarchais is impossibly romantic, made up like seventeenth century France with chandeliers and swaths of fabric. The internet does not work, so I write letters on the fat creamy letterhead, and watch some French commercials on TV, and eat chocolate cookies, and go to bed.

At three I wake up and call home, 8 p.m. in Canada. Caleb and Jule, my babies. They are watching The Simpsons and do not even seem to miss me.