Nick, Michael and I wander off to get the car, which we’ve left parked
at the club overnight so that we could go to places like Mr. B’s. Since
we’re already going to be in the tourist area of Munich, we want to buy
some souvenirs. Plus we realize we’ve bought nothing on this trip.
First we hit a football store, picking up some birthday gifts for our
littlest brother Mikey, then I discover a store that could best be
described as marzipan wonderland. I adore marzipan, and this place has
marzipan shaped into all sorts of other food—pretzels, sausages, beer
steins, turnips. I consider buying a new suitcase to accommodate all
this marzipan, but settle for two small “pretzels”.
We get the car, go pick up Yoshi at the hotel, and hit the road for Dresden.
We have one more show, and the whole drive, I’m thinking about how
to approach it psychologically. Should I say to myself, hey, you–tour
has exceeded all of your expectations, so don’t worry about this. Or
should I secretly hope for the astounding finale? I can’t decide. I’m
very nervous.
For the first time this whole tour, we arrive at our destination
early enough to check into the hotel and explore. Dresden is such an
intense experience, because everywhere you look, you imagine the rubble
that was left from the firebombing. And then here and there, there is
actually rubble, or charred bricks way up on a tower. The texture of
the cityscape reminds me of an old growth forest, with all of these
generations of structures co-existing–some dead and fallen and some
just beginning, telling the story of the place.
The club Osto-pol is a space that has been dutifully restored to
East German-ness, down to the glasses, the light fixtures, and even the
wallpaper. It is truly one of the most compelling bars I’ve ever been
in. Sitting in there is like being transported.
The proprietors have made us vegetarian pasta, and we sit in the low
light of the empty club and eat like a family, the four of us seated
around a weathered farmhouse table. We are quiet, conserving energy and
avoiding the temptation of sentimentality about our last meal together.
By the time we play, the club is packed with the most glorious indie
kids. They are radiating happiness and love, or maybe it’s just me, but
I don’t care because the room is full of the kind of noise that only we
make and all these people are smiling. When we finish, the crowd spills
onto the giant patio out front, where everyone sticks around, hanging
out and talking like old friends into the wee hours of the night.
We walk slowly back to our hotel where we pack our bags for the last
time and set the alarm for far too early and then we are asleep and
then awake again and it’s not until I’m on the plane that I absorb that
it’s over. I pull a notebook from my bag and scrawl pages of notes so
that maybe when I get home, I can write at least some of it down for
real. Then I fall asleep again, because finally, I can.
[heather]