Because I promised, I will give you another of Bruce's cocktail recipes, then will move on to what I really want to say, which relates to U2 in Brussels!
So here it is, the Plumi Moos Martini: In a chilled martini glass, add your favorite gin (not sloe gin - apparently a bad experience with that and Dr. Pepper once) to six ounces of plumi moos, then stir, don't shake (excessive shaking could lead to dancing), garnish with a sprig of mint.
Now to detail the events of the lovely September 20th, 21st, and 22nd, during which I definitely found myself dancing:
Flying from Toronto to Frankfurt on Lufthansa, I watch “You’ve Got Mail”, a Nora Ephron movie and therefore charming though for some reason I’ve always skipped it, before. I can’t believe Lufthansa - complimentary movies and alcohol! - as well as a good meal, and a substantial blanket. Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks are competing bookstore owners who, dissatisfied with their somewhat shallow partners though they haven’t actually admitted it to themselves, fall in love via e-mail. Neither knows who the other is in the real world, but eventually they recognize each other and Meg Ryan says, “I was hoping that it would be you.” So I start sobbing but oh, just a little; I control myself. The elderly German man beside me seems concerned but we cannot communicate… at least, I assume that is the case because he speaks German with the stewardess and looks a bit disheveled and his hearing aids… but shortly thereafter he asks me a question in English, and we start to talk, and it turns out that he is a retired dermatologist from Latvia who emigrated to Canada via Germany as a young man. He speaks German, Latvian, English, and Russian. He trained as a doctor in Canada, took up dermatology in his 30’s, researching the pathology of acne at the Mayo Clinic, published dermatology textbooks in Latvian, and was an associate professor at MacMaster University in Hamilton for many years. He says, “I am a doctor and a writer,” and I say, “Oh! I am also a doctor and a writer,” and he says, “What a funny world, that we find ourselves sitting together like this,” and we have a long conversation about literature and medicine and love. He split up with his first wife, a sculptor and painter (“but that’s not why we split up”) in his 30’s, after they had two children, who now are soldiers in Afghanistan. He is disappointed that neither attended university. He married his second wife later in life, and she recently died of ALS. She was a poet, and he has compiled her poetry in six volumes, and now is working on a collection of literary essays and his memoirs - though he is embarrassed to tell me about that, and I am the one who says “memoirs”. We discuss Al Purdy and Anais Nin.
We are 40 minutes late arriving in Frankfurt leaving me only 30 minutes to get to my next plane which I assume will be no big deal, but it turns out the airport in Frankfurt is enormous, and recently they began requiring security checks even for transfers. I start out jogging and end up sprinting, through endless hallways, up and down staircases and elevators, removing my Doc’s not once but twice, laptop in and out of my suitcase, and when I finally arrive at Gate 42 I am a sweaty mess; I am the last one to board; I am desperate to wash and change my clothes and would like to apologize to the sleek French couple beside me for being so stinky but that would only make it worse, my pathetic French, so I close my eyes and pretend that I am not there until the seatbelt sign is finally off. I spend far too long in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and so on, and miss the drink service which means that I cannot take my medications which I’m already six hours late with but then we are landing and here I am, sleepless in Brussels.
I realize that I have strained my right Achilles, and can hardly walk.
I drink a coffee at a stand, then take the train to the city. A man asks me for directions at the train station, as if I belong there. I emerge from La Gare Central, into Europe. It is familiar, though I’ve been here (and not to Brussels) only once, and eleven years ago. I have no idea which way to go to my hotel - my Event Travel map is hopelessly inadequate. The sidewalks are cobblestone and pulling my suitcase along I bust a wheel. There is a beautiful square, and another, and an ancient church. At last I find a store that sells maps, and sort myself out, turn back in the opposite direction. Enfin j’arrive. I am embarrassed to check in looking and smelling so bad. However. It is 2 p.m.
A heavenly soak in the tub and a gin and tonic, followed by a 3-hour sleep. At 6 I go out to eat, salade bergere and a cappuccino on the corner, the waitress tres efficient. The salad is magnificent - goat cheese on toast on top of greens and tomatoes and cucumbers and almonds and julienned carrots and lots of thick fatty / crispy bacon, with the tiniest bit of mayonnaise and some sweet oily dressing, just enough. I write until my laptop dies. Then I am tired and return to the hotel, and e-mail in the lobby, and have a cup of tea and debate: shall I sleep the night and line up for the concert like a sane person, mid-morning? But I am here, and will not be here again, and oh it would be lovely to be up against the rail, and won’t I be sorry if I don’t go for it now that I’ve come all this way? But it is beginning to be night, and do I really want to leave my comfortable hotel room to sleep on pavement? I check the Metro schedule - maybe I’ll go when it opens, at 5:30 in the morning. Yes, that is my plan. I set my alarm for 3:30, and fall asleep.
At midnight, though, I’m wide awake and restless. What the fuck am I doing here, warm in my boring bed, when I’ve come all this way to see Bono? I get ready, and venture out. The sky is clear, the moon huge and bright over the cathedral in front of my hotel. I find a taxi stand and hop in. The driver says, “Oh, you are going to the concert? But it’s not until tomorrow night. Oh, you are working there?” and I explain that some of us crazy fans line up the night before, to get a spot at the front. He doesn’t seem to get it, but in the end he helps me, looping around the stadium twice before we find the gates. Drunk Belgians give him directions. “Are you here for U2?” he asks them, and they say, “U2? Non! Ah, c’est une anglaise, la? Stupides, les anglaises!” At the gates there are campers, but not many, and now I am excited. A young blonde boy and girl are sitting drinking beer and they call me over. They have the list. I am number 42, and record my name, and they mark my hand, and then I park my sleeping bag near a fence across from the sleeping Dutch who have hung up a flag upon which is written, “The Dutch Will Follow”. I sip Coke and smoke a cigarette, then fold the corner of my sleeping bag under my head and lay on my stomach, my face to the pavement, the beautiful sidewalk, a few small stones and a branch with green oak leaves just beginning to rot, but otherwise a perfect clean sidewalk. I can see the corner of the Atomium, lit up, and the Olympic Center sign, and the moon and one star or planet or satellite, and the fence and the street and the occasional taxi, delivery trucks arriving at the stadium, security guards posted inside the gates, a few people gathered around talking in English and German and French, drinking beer and smoking, U2 conversation, Mike from St. Louis and Cees discussing after-parties and hot tubs and blow jobs. Mike, it turns out, number 43, is the only other North American among the first 50, and he is a bit of a loser, hopeless at political discussions, and Cees and the others tease him terribly. He doesn’t seem to notice.
After 5 a.m. roll call I walk a few blocks and find a spot behind the trees to pee, and a man finds me who has heard that I have an extra ticket to sell, and we go to his Winnebago where he has money. It feels like a drug deal. He asks why I have an extra ticket and I tell him that my husband was maybe going to come, but we split up in the summer. “So now I have the ticket of your husband,” he remarks. I reply, “Yes, but only for the concert.” His English is not good; he doesn’t get it and I’m glad; it was an uncalled-for lewd comment and he is not interesting to me at all.
Then I am sleeping and then a man is dancing inside his sleeping bag, hanging over the fence and saying to me, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, my Canadian lover,” and later he says, “I apologized to you earlier but you didn’t hear me; you were sleeping.” “I did hear you,” I say, “but I didn’t understand what you were apologizing for; I thought you were somebody else,” and it turns out it was about having mentioned, at roll call, the South Park episode that makes fun of Canadians, and after that whenever he sees me he sings the theme from South Park.
Finally the sky is turning blue and my sleeping bag is damp and somehow it seems colder now than it did at 2 a.m. I sit up and huddle. “Roll call, roll call, every two hours, miss one and it’s an X by your name, miss two and you’re out,” they yell periodically. After 7 a.m. I venture down the street again, sit in a restaurant briefly for coffee and a tiny macaroon, and buy fruit and orange juice and a cinnamon bun and stupidly nothing else, thinking there will be hot dogs or something later on. I eat and sleep and across from me the Dutch eat and sleep and we look at each other; more people are arriving and by 9 a.m. there are probably a hundred. It is 11 before they open the gates and let us in. Cees, who is number one and therefore the Line Nazi, does an admirable job of keeping everyone orderly, calling us in one at a time. He is big and boisterous, with a grin like a cat. Cheers for each of us, and they sing South Park again. Now we are up against the next set of gates, the gates that we will later rush from. There are port-a-potties and a curb and I find that if I arrange my scarf on the curb with the sleeping bag folded in three under my hips there is enough padding and the sun is up now and I am warm enough and can actually sleep, except when that blonde woman stands right in front of my sun, but finally I know I have been sleeping because I wake up and my face feels a little bit burnt.
I listen to Liz Phair and doze on my back. Some keeners from Ireland sing U2 songs, a mini-concert. Cees and the others joke loudly and look for line jumpers. I find one: a French girl who, I am certain, has no number on her hand, then emerges from the port-a-potty impeccably made up, pulling her leather jacket sleeves over her wrists guiltily. I tell Line Nazi Number 2 and he asks her but - shit - there is a 65 written there; God, I hate to be wrong, and she is awfully cute. She moves away, though, and later sits beside the other number 65 who notices and she is loudly booted to the back and everybody cheers.
His father died in Flin Flon, Cees tells me. "Flin Flon Manitoba Saskatchewan." He says it again and again, liking the sound of it. "Flin Flon's in Manitoba," I tell him. "There is a town that's half in Manitoba and half in Saskatchewan, but it's not Flin Flon." - "He was a miner," he says.
U2 warms up, bits of music from the stadium, guitar and drums. People sing along. Just dozing, just bored, boys playing cards, and then suddenly it’s time, a few jump up and then everyone rushes, pushes against the gates and I am in a fairly good position even though I was not ready. My sleeping bag is still wrapped around my shoulders and I throw it to the girl beside me, ask her just to throw it across the crowd to the sidewalk and she looks confused, but does it. Somebody would have tripped. I do not see it again. It’s like cattle at a rodeo, bucking broncos waiting to be let loose. Oh shit, the other slot is open already and they’re having trouble with the ticket scanner, and the girl in front of me has a huge backpack and it’s being searched - but then I am through, and run full out beside three or four others, security guards and vendors setting up watch us, laughing, and I cross the stadium to the outer circle and stop there for a minute confused, because more people are there than inside - but then realize, how stupid, I was here last time, this time I’m going for front and center, for proximity rather than sound quality - and take off again, around the back and into the center; Nick from Brussels is cheering with me while he runs because he is there too, and I arrive fifth from the center, against the rail, right smack between Bono’s mike and The Edge’s, oh my God, and Nick and the girl beside him are going insane, and I collapse in a coughing fit and cough and cough and think I’ll cough up blood; I can’t breathe; it’s the dehydration and lack of sleep and three cigarettes and anxiety and an all-out sprint, I guess, and I’m having an asthma attack and no inhaler, and just breathe, breathe, breathe. People are offering to search for water. Then they are coming around with drinks for sale and I stand and go pre-syncopal while Nick and his friend ask what I want and I gasp “Beer, beer,” so they buy me not one but two cups of beer, and that is my supper, and it rejuvenates me enough that I can jump during “Beautiful Day” and all the rest.
Just before Interpol, though, I have to pee and also really, really would like some food, so I dare to leave; people save places for each other and Cees five over from me knows that I belong there; but now the stadium’s overrun by minor fans, rude and ignorant fans, and the line-ups for food tickets never mind for food are fifty or sixty long, and I have to find 50 cents to use the toilet and finally return to the inner circle with no food, and then it’s nearly impossible to get back to the center, everyone pushing and dirty looks but fuck - I belong there! Look at my hand, you fuckers - number 42 - I’ve been here since two in the fucking morning and you will NOT STOP ME NOW! I reach Nick and the tall Greek man’s shoulders and fall between them, say “Oh my God, that was difficult,” and they ask if I'm okay and Cees gives me a thumbs up and there's Interpol’s guitarist in a full suit and tie, very skinny, shaking his leg, twitching his leg in an odd way, like somebody I know would probably dance if he could in fact dance. They play too many songs of course, and every one sounds the same, and they have five band members like every opening band for some reason that I don’t understand, and too many instruments. Finally they are finished and I sit down and eat pistachios, and briefly fall asleep; then the music is louder and we are all quivering and there’s a song about opening the curtains wide and one about starting again, being brave, and then “This is ground control to Major Tom” and I sing along and freak out and jump up and down, because they are coming!
And then there’s Larry, and The Edge, oh my God, emerging from the back of the stage, and Adam, and they’re playing that Stingray Guitar instrumental and then from somewhere behind us Bono’s voice, “Stingray, stingray,” and finally, finally, he comes around the corner and arrives, like, two feet in front of me, and they start into “Beautiful Day” oh my GOD.
He is chubbier than pre-back surgery, deep dimples in his cheeks, but he is lovely, and poses and bounces like always, and we can’t take our eyes off of him. Nick is bouncing too and has his arm around my waist and we are bouncing together. He must be twenty-five, a child. He grabs me and laughs with excitement. He has U2 written on his cheek in marker.
During “Get on Your Boots”, I swear to God, Bono points directly at me while he sings “You don’t know, you don’t get it, do you? - you don’t know how beautiful you are,” probably just by virtue of the fact that I happen to be standing right there, but still. I am sure he notices my red bracelet. During “Moment of Surrender” he definitely sees that I and the Dutch girl are crying. We cannot stop; we both say, “I cannot stop!” and there are hugs all around.
I have a moment with The Edge as well; I am staring at his face and he is staring at mine and it goes on for, I don’t know, maybe six seconds, until it’s starting to get awkward, and then I raise my eyebrows, and he does too, and laughs.
I did not realize, never having been so close, that the opening bars to “With or Without You” are just single sustained notes, vibrated in that unusual way.
I even have a good view of Larry, his thin face and white v-neck at the back of the stage; I was afraid that I wouldn’t be tall enough to see him from the very front given the tall stage.
A girl to the left of me faints and won’t wake up and they pass her over the rail to a security guard, who carries her off.
Again I think, Bono seems a bit dissatisfied, distracted, and he is no longer flirty, and I am convinced that Ali has insisted that he take young boys onto the stage instead of beautiful women, and in defiance he sings “Ultraviolet” followed by “With or Without You” - but he obeys.
“You want to kill me and I want to die…”
Larry is stony-faced serious as always; Edge is focused; Adam is relaxed. He has lost weight. He wears a denim vest and matching pants, with silver tassels.
The whole thing is perfectly executed, but perhaps too choreographed, too exactly like Las Vegas last fall, even Bono and the Edge touching hands across the bridge, even the little speeches.
This is the biggest they can possibly get.
After the concert we slowly part, long walk over water bottles and miscellaneous garbage, tripping over each other. To the street, where there is this pita stand and we eat pitas packed with chunks of pork and mayonnaise and sauerkraut - delicious. The best thing I’ve ever tasted. The metro station is closed. What the hell? I walk blocks and blocks, limping, unable to flex or extend my right ankle. Finally there is an open station and I catch a train with a thousand or so bodies already on it, absolutely suffocating, I’m dripping sweat again, and then we are to switch but there has been an accident on the line “involving a person” and it is closed indefinitely. Everyone sighs and goes off in different directions; I take another train a short way, then it is stalled, then starts up again, then dumps us off and I end up on a tram that gets me to two stations over from La Gare Centrale. I find the line to Gare Centrale and am suddenly alone in a huge hallway underground, 1:30 in the morning, waiting, only an old bearded man across from me who appears to be homeless; I have dreamed about this, and was afraid in my dream that he would rape me but he looks harmless and also is separated from me by the tracks. I make it to Gare Centrale and limp to my hotel; a Spanish waiter at a café on the way begs me to come in for a drink but obviously not tonight, no fucking way. I must consume a cold liquid in the privacy of my room, then sleep.
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.
