I’m playing catch-up … back to Saturday.
I knew the day would be a challenge: play well at the cello concert, catch the train to Lille, roar into my Airbnb to get basic instructions, roar out of my Airbnb for a bus to Stade Pierre Mauroy, do whatever gymnastics are necessary to go through security and find my seat and …
Sit down
On Saturday morning, I decided not to do my recently usual two hours of cello practice. I was thrilled with the effort I had put in on the days before. Concert day meant trusting my fingers would remember the pieces.
I wore my newly favourite shirt … a white one. And lo and behold, so did Max, who sat beside me onstage.
There stood Lieven before the 35 of us: our conductor and cello teacher, smiling away, exhorting us to give all we had for the half-hour concert.
I had my moments of union … with the music and with the other members of the orchestra. We played nine short pieces. Each one had four different cello parts. Occasionally my group had the melody. My favourite time was when we were playing a piece from “Finlandia” by the composer Jean Sibelius. I could feel my playing blending with other melodies onstage.
My moments of ecstasy were few, even though passion often came through my fingers and bow. Often the notes were wrong, the rhythm was wrong, the sound was scratchy … or I was lost. (Sigh)
However: I’m playing the cello again! And Saturday it was in an orchestra. Good for me.
After our bow to the audience at the end, I rushed off the stage, packed up my cello in its case, brought it over to the cello teacher Vincent for safekeeping, grabbed my suitcase and walked as fast as a human being could to the tram stop ten minutes away.
I caught the 16:15 tram to the Gent Sint-Pieters station, caught the 16:37 train to Lille, and caught my breath.
The mission continued to be accomplished. The train transfer supposedly needed at Kortrijk wasn’t necessary. “Stay on this train for Lille, sir.” Thank you, I’ll do that.
Lille at 17:50. Springsteen concert at 19:30. Piece of cake, I thought. Ten minute walk to the Airbnb. Get fast and basic instructions from Sel, my host. He recommended I take the subway (métro) to the stadium rather than my planned bus.
Out of there, shuffling down the street towards the bus. Seeing the métro sign, I made an executive decision: subway, not bus. “Figure out how to pay. Figure out which line to take and what stop to get off at. I can do this!”
“The best laid plans of mice and men” is a line from the poet Robert Burns. Sometimes so true. A kind man who spoke English helped me with the ticket-dispensing machine. The map told me “Line 1 to Pierre Mauroy”. And there was a stairway down to the track.
Only one problem: about fifty people were crammed together at the top of the stairs, with a female transit employee speaking loudly to them (in French, of course).
It took a minute or two, but I figured it out – the subway was shut down! Difficultés techniques. (Sigh again)
Because I’d made the subway choice, I missed the bus to the stadium. The next bus was … late. As in half-an-hour late.
I stood at the stop with about thirty of my favourite concertgoers. Finally, here comes the bus. The word “full” would be an exaggeration, but only slightly.
Thus ensued the most crammed bus ride of my life. I had a lovely talk with a woman shorter than me. I needed to grab the pole just above the top of her head. Her hair felt nice. At one point, the bus rounded a corner at speed. “I’m goin’ down!” I thought. I lifted my other hand to grab the pole too … and smacked a fellow in the jaw with my elbow! “Pardon, monsieur.” He smiled.
At 19:32, the bus regurgitated approximately half the population of Lille onto the sidewalk near Stade Pierre Mauroy. I could feel my hand again.
Surely Bruce wouldn’t be starting till 20:00 or later …
To be continued
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