"I didn’t know I was this geeky until I discovered the online world through my office’s 2400 baud modem back in ’93." Goo goo g’ joob
I’m back from an emotional, tiring, infuriating, gezellig, sometimes boring, other times amazing, invigorating and brilliant week seeing U2 three times in my hometown, Amsterdam.
We queued, ran, waited, jumped, ate, drank, were merry, queued, hated, laughed, queued, sang, shouted, clapped, cried, queued, queued, queued and fucking queued some more and finally got our reward on night III, with a fabulous show that will be remembered and go into the books as ‘historic’. I know, because I’ll be the one writing it.
On Tuesday we (Dutch, Aussie and EnZed) paid our respects to our old friend at Zorgvlied cemetary. (Picture, ‘friends/family’ only) Typically, having taken a different entrance than usual, we ran around like headless chickens for a while before we found him. In the evening, we had dinner at Moshi Moshi, who serve the most amazing sushi. Tempura shrimp & avocado maki, Rainbow maki… fantastic.
I don’t remember much about Wednesday except the heat and a good show.
On Thursday morning, I woke up and found a message from G. on my mobile. His father passed away that night. I felt helpless and a little removed from it — with my head stuck in U2-land. Hoppy and I we were good kids that day and went shopping while the others got their autographs and stuff at U2′s hotel. In the evening, we walked down to De Pijp for some so-so lamb.
Friday was my low point — I was grumpy and irritable all day and hated everybody and the show and its tedious set list. And I felt so bad for G. and unrealistically wanted B. to at least acknowledge what happened, even if none of the 50,000 present would understand. Selfish, maybe, but selfish on someone else’s behalf.
By Saturday, I was hallucinating from exhaustion, having waking dreams and coming out the weirdest stuff. The show that night made up for the night before and then some. Besides the musical moments, B. gave me exactly what I wanted, dedicating ‘Sometimes’ to G.’s dad and doing a little impression of him. And the 50,000 had no clue what he was on about, but I sang along and grieved and cried. For G. and for those we have lost. I am he and he is she and we are all together.
On Sunday morning, my friend had his mobile robbed at Central Station, on his way to the airport. Back to reality.
I hope to never be in another queue again.
