I wake up at 4:45. What an ungodly hour to get up. At least my clothes are nearly dry again, so I pack my stuff and go downstairs. In the elevator I ask a young woman if she’s from Panama like her suitcase pendant suggests. Yes, but she’s not one of the people whose flights got annulled. Something with a bus, but I don’t understand it with my overtired brain.
There are lots of suitcases in the lobby. And a line. Two lines to be exact, one for the buffet, one for the coffee. I have to decide, I can only do one thing since my tram leaves at 6.15. I choose coffee. But the line does not move. The lady in front of me goes to look for another coffee station, but this is the only one. I look around and suddenly it dawns on me what was the connection between Panama, the bus outside I saw from my window and the long lines at breakfast: This must be a group who’s taking a round trip of Switzerland or more of Europe, stopping at a hotel every other night and then leaving at dawn for the next stop of their tour! What a horrible organisation! Having three busses of tourists who have to leave early PLUS a few dozens of people who have to catch a plane first thing in the morning and only two coffee makers.
At 6:13 I ask the receptionist if I could redeem my breakfast voucher elsewhere, but he doesn’t know. So I leave without breakfast or coffee in my system and jump on the train which is just arriving with me. A few minutes later I realise that I am on the wrong train. I already passed 4 stops in the wrong direction. I get out on the next stop and thank goodness, the next one which explicitly says „Airport“ leaves 2 minutes later. At about 6:35 I finally arrive at the airport and have to cross this monstrosity of a building again. Security check is no problem, I just have to get some things out of the bag. I wonder if the airlines give me back the money if I buy a coffee here. But I am not in the mood for a 15€ coffee I don’t even like. So I decide to head to my gate. It’s already cramped. I find a seat and only minutes later one of the boarding ladies appears in front of me and asks in this stiff upper class manner, if the bag next to me was also mine. Yes, it is. „So then you have two bags?“ Yes, I do. „That backpack is very huge.“ Yes, I know and I also know it’s perfect cabin luggage, I never had problems with it, except apparently on a Monday morning in piping mad Zurich! „Please follow me to the desk.“ But of course, they now have to board the First Class, Hon Circle, Gold pooping Champagne sipping folks first. (Those who judge you when you pass them in the front rows of the plane because you can’t pay for the good seats, you unworthy piece of shite?! I think that’s part of the package with those ridiculously overprized front seats – pay more, feel superior and let others feel it.) After that is done, they inform me that the flight is completely booked and I have to check in my backpack because there will not be any space for luggage. I protest since I have to repack everything now. „But you can board now and do that before you go inside.“ Yes, Lady, I will stand in the gangway while people are rushing worse than at the concerts to get in the front row and unpack and pack my dirty underwear. Of course. Not. I put my backpack on the bench and unpack and pack my dirty underwear and electronic stuff while I mutter under my breath like a mad woman who didn’t get her coffee in the morning. Oh wait.
Once I’m done I get a label for my luggage and may board in the third group. At the plane door, I hesitate. Surely it’s a brilliant idea to leave my black backpack unattended near a plane. I wait until someone else puts their suitcase with a label at the place they told me and hope that I’ll ever see it again.
I have a seat in the penultimate row. And I am too nice for this world. I see that there’s a small compartment over my seat and I decide to put my bag in there, but I need one or two things from it first. Since I hate when people hold up everything while standing in the aisle and rummaging in their bags, I put my bag on my seat and step aside. Next thing I know is that one of the business men I have to share this flying tin can today, puts his suitcase into the compartment which is now – FULL. I sit down, put my bag on my knees and curse him and his following three generations. Of course the last two people boarding are my neighbors, at least they arrive together so I just have to get up once. The captain informs us that we might start a little later because they didn’t finish loading all the luggage. I take a little nap because I’m exhausted and coffee-deprived, but when I wake up, we haven’t even moved away from the gate. One short nap later, we made it at least to the runway and another nap later we finally take off. I sleep nearly the whole time, I wake up when we touch ground in Hannover.
One eternity later, all the busy business project people have left the 35 rows before me and we can finally get out of here. One last Grueziwoll or whatever they are saying and I can step on holy Hanoverian ground. To my surprise did my backpack made it here unscathed and my parents arrive to pick me up the second I step outside the building. They brought me a thermos cup of coffee and it is the best caffeine-containing thing I had since the iced latte in Barcelona on Thursday afternoon.
An hour later we arrive at my house. I check my watch: 26 hours from closing the hotel room in Zaragoza until opening my front door. After I reconciled with France over their Arde fan account a while ago, I decide to grant Switzerland the title of „La puta Suiza“. God knows they deserve it after this trip.
During the night, the temperatures are dropping so much that I need to get out a blanket from the closet because I am freezing so much. I wake up in the morning and feel kind of hung-over. But I also like the thought of being home again.
I gather the rest of my stuff, prepare my backpack for checking it in – with a bottle of water and 1.5 litres Aquarius and some presents for the family – and close the door to my luxurious hotel room at about 9 in the morning. The bakery is open, I get a coffee to go and head towards Plaza España. It’s cold, I need my jacket and scarf, like Zaragoza is already preparing me for Alemania. The tram is on time and I have to catch a train at the Goya station. What I didn’t know is that the trains there are from another operator, so my tarjeta bus is useless here. Luckily, the service counter is manned and I ask the guy there what ticket I need. When I asked him, he said he doesn’t speak English, but when I tried in Spanish, he suddenly remembers that he in fact did at least a bit. So we get along with one third Spanish, one third English and the rest with hand and feet. Turns out, I don’t need a ticket, I just put my credit card on the entrance scanner. This is just so easy, we should do that in Alemania as well. The next train arrives only a few minutes later, there are just a handful of others getting on board. I think I remembered that it was two or three stops so I get startled a bit when an older couple approaches me and asks if this stop was Delicias. I check, but it’s the next one. And let it be known – this conversation was completely done in Spanish! I wish I could stay longer, there’s so much progress with my language skills here … Understanding and reading is fine, I just need to speak it more. And lose the fear of people asking me something back for which I was not prepared.
We arrive at Delicias, I have to walk around the whole complex to find the entrance to the platform. The train is five minutes late (that’s a first), but it’s still more than enough time to get to the airport in Barcelona. I find my seat and it’s on the same table with a group of Barça fans. They have a game at home tonight, the internet tells me. Luckily they are not in chat with a stranger mode, so I can watch out of the window and suddenly the emotional hangover kicks. Tears are flowing, I am completely overwhelmed when the train leaves the outskirts of this beautiful city and the landscape changes from desert into something more green.
It feels like a very short ride this time and when I arrive at Barcelona-Sants I suddenly have the confidence to take a train to the airport. I’m pretty sure I found the correct ticket, but I prefer to ask an employee who speaks English with the couple next to me. It’s 5 Euro and a bit, a taxi would have cost me at least 40 according to last year’s experience, so I am happy about my choice. But it doesn’t last too long. They announce like 3 or 4 trains on the same platform, we don’t have that in Alemania. So I ask a woman next to me if this was the right train to the airport, but she assures me that it’s not. We talk a bit when she’s asking where I’m from. I ask if she’s from Barcelona and she makes a weird face, saying, „I’m not Catalan. I’m from Zaragoza!“ I have a feeling like someone pulled the carpet from under my feet. How are the odds you run into someone from the city you just left and that you’re about to miss so terribly? In Barcelona at the main train station, not some village 10 minutes away? On the train we talk some more. She tells me about the history of the cintas and we talk a bit about travelling and work. Before we leave, I give her a Bogofans sticker where I scribbled a little „thank you“ on the back.
We arrive somewhere at the airport which looks completely unfamiliar to me. I kind of struggle where to go now. But then the guardian angel from Zaragoza appears by my side again: „We have to take a bus to the other terminal. Follow me.“ The literal magic of this town is a hill I’m going to die on.
The ride to the terminal is horror. We are cramped into the bus, every roundabout causes a mess because people don’t have enough space to counter the movement. But everyone seems to be used to it and so it’s no hard feelings anywhere. The terminal looks much more familiar to me, this is the right place. We check our gates and check-ins and my guardian angel is in a rush to catch her flight to Italy. Or back to heaven, who knows in this case. I already got a message from Lufthansa that my flight is late and when I go to the check-in, the lady tells me that I better not check-in my bag because it’s not clear if I can make the connection in Zurich. You remember that 1.5 litre bottle Aquarius? Yeah, I did, too. I wanted to take it home with me, but now I have to drink it because my bag is still cabin luggage. Cheers!
In front of the security check there is a woman waiting. I ask her if she wants to have the bottle of water I also have in my bag since I would hate to throw it away. She takes it and even if she gave it to the next homeless outside or to her plants at home, I didn’t have to throw it away.
The security line is not as long as last year, we proceed rather quickly. Two young woman ask me if we need to take off the shoes and we talk about every airport having its own rules. I add that I nearly always have to get scanned thoroughly and I don’t know why. We laugh. Seconds later, the walkthrough scanner beeps. The guy tells me it’s probably my watch, so I take it off. But it beeps again and I am asked to step to the side. I have to get on a little podium while his colleague starts talking to me. I don’t get a word. Lady, could you please speak Castilian or English or at least MORE SLOWLY! But she’s just gesturing, I get on that podium so everyone in the security check could watch her touching my bra (the wire probably made the alarm go off), checking my underwear and every single item of my clothes. It’s incredibly uncomfortable. I’ve been to a lot of security checks and I’ve been checked a lot. But I have never beenstanding so much in the spotlight like this time. I know other airports have like a little changing room which is at least hiding your body from plain sight when getting checked, but this is hell. If there had been dollar bills and some music involved, it would at least give a perspective if a change of professions was a possibility, but like this – nope.
I think about getting something to eat, but everything here has either meat in it or they probably accept an organ donation as a payment. I find my gate and also a bag of chips in my luggage which taste heavenly. The airline app informs me that the flight is further delayed. Now we have trouble with the connection – there are 10 minutes left to get on the other flight in Zurich. Impossible I guess. It’s not helping either that the connection flight also says it’s late; there’s still to little time to make it.
It feels like hours when we finally can board the flight, I am one of the last persons to enter. The woman at the gate tells me I have to check in my bagpack and I try to tell her that it was not possible because of the delay. She puts a label on it and tells me I had to ask the cabin crew. The hell I’m doing. This bagpack is not leaving my side, dear friends.
The flight is not the best. We have some turbulences and it comforts me a lot that the woman next to me is having a seahorse tattoo on her forearm. Maybe she’s a colleague from Zaragoza’s guardian angel; I believe I am in good hands. When we are near Zurich, the monitors show that there are only two connections that made it. A list of like 10 flights is shown and passengers are asked to contact the service desk upon arrival. Of course, mine is mentioned there.
When I turn on my phone again, I get a mail that they booked a hotel for me. I don’t want to believe it. When I said, I didn’t want to go home, I meant I wanted to stay longer in Spain! Not Switzerland. I cross the endless halls of Zurich Airport to get to the service desk. There are already lots of people waiting, several flights got annulled, I hear it’s because of weather and a cyber attack on some European airports. When it’s my turn, the lady gives me a new boarding pass and a train ticket. There is no chance to go home today. There is a voucher for 20 CHF dinner at the hotel restaurant and breakfast the next morning. I am tired and hungover emotionally, I just want to sleep. So I cross the other half of Zurich’s endless airport halls and find a tram in the pouring rain. I have no idea where to validate my ticket, so I leave without doing so. If anyone wants a piece of my mind about it, they can have it.
10 minutes later we arrive at the hotel, I step into a puddle and am soaked through when I reach the reception. They tell me where to go for the restaurant. Turns out it’s a seating area with a buffet. It’s a farce. 4 warming pots, at least two contain something meaty, and some salad next to it. No description of anything anywhere. Apparently the declaration of contents or possible allergens is a EU thing, not a Switzerland thing. I am asking a guy who is cleaning tables what the food is. Some chicken in sauce, some minced meat in sauce, some Bolognese and rutabaga in a cream sauce. I hate everything. Not just in this moment, I always hate cooked rutabaga. „Do you have anything vegetarian?“ I ask him. He gives me a disapproving look from my head to my soaked shoes and back again, points to a warming pot with noodles and then to some cucumber and tomatoe slices, „There. Vegetarian.“ Ah, yes, the good old game of „Vegetarians only eat raw vegetables and therefore rob cute little rabbits and that’s why we must hate them“. I give him a look back and he points to the Bolognese: „Also vegetarian.“ Well, ask any person in the world OUTSIDE Switzerland and they will tell you that BOLOGNESE is the freaking godparent of any meat dish, but you do you. Apparently in Switzerland it’s a TOMATO sauce. Since I am not in the mood for cucumber slices and can’t tell what the salads consist of (get yourself food allergies, it’s an endless game of riddles and excitement …), I give the „Bolognese“ and the noodles a try. The sauce is surprisingly fine, but the noodles are worse than every canteen food. They are overcooked like in „overcooked for hours“ overcooked and from the warming dish they started to dry out. It’s Schrödinger’s pasta, mushy and al dente at the same time. I just eat a bit because I only had a leftover bit of the chocolate palmera and some chips today. At least there is bread, but it would have been so much better with some butter and cheese … After this culinary disappointment I go to my room and find that they only have soap there. I don’t have anything left, no cream, no toothbrush, I did bring stuff for exactly Thursday to Sunday morning. I try the hotel app, but nothing happens so I go back to the reception and collect a toothbrush and a „cosmetics set“ (which is a cotton pad, a nail file and a q-tip). So it’s only clean teeth tonight, at least something. I fall into my bed and go to sleep immediately.
Saturday arrives just too soon. I still have some things on my list I want to do on this trip. So I get up quite early, find a café where they serve croquetas and have some breakfast. The churros are not as tasty as the ones from the other place near Aljaferia, but according to Maps that one has closed. I ask for croquetas, but they only open the kitchen at 1. So I decide to come back. I just happen to be near the starting point of the bus turístico and decide to take another tour of the city. Without hat (which I left in Alemania anyway), sunglasses or sunscreen or food or water I get on the bus and see the beautiful places again, but the audio commentary is as wrecked as it was in summer. What a shame, I would have loved to listen to more details.
After the tour I buy a lottery ticket and did the whole conversation in Spanish which makes me incredibly proud. I feel I am not afraid of talking and understanding per se, but more of being asked something I didn’t prepare in my head over and over again. So now I know that’s something I can work on. I take a bus to get to one more place on my list, but the connection bus is late. I get a delicious chocolate covered palmera from a nearby bakery for the wait and get scolded by an older man for eating it in public. I think. I didn’t understand him and he didn’t answer when I asked him. Maybe he was just admiring my t*ts and got angry that the days of men being able to touch whatever they want are over? They are very strict here in Spain about stuff like this, I love it.
The bus finally arrives, and some stops later, I find myself in kind of a pilgrimage. It’s the Héroes del Silencio monument and there are quite a few fans here taking pictures. They are asking me if I wanted them to take a photo of me, but I hesitate to give others my phone. Only the sun is shining so bright and I can’t take a selfie because I don’t see anything on the screen and I ask the girls who are next in line for help. Since there are so many people waiting, I cut the trip short, and instead have a chat with the group who asked first. They went to all the concerts in Spain and are clearly excited about the one tonight. They seem a bit older than me and are pretty chilled like so many others I met here.
Next stop is the nearby supermarket where I get coffee capsules and rodeo mix and some Reiseproviant for later. I don’t want to carry the stuff on the bus, so I call a cab. The driver is drawing circles in the nearby neighbourhood and stops at some point. After a while I text him and he says, the car was wrecked, I should cancel and order another ride. I do so. The driver also does a crazy route and stops at some point. Asked, he answers something with a police incident and I should call another ride. I switch to another service, but their driver is an hour away. So after I already waited for half an hour, I install another app and order a ride with a third cab company. They say, a guy named Alvaro in a Volkswagen will be here shortly. He is, but on the other side of the road than the app showed me. But he is giving signals and I get on his cab. It’s a short ride, the driver is very relaxed, it’s the most pleasant taxi ride I had on this trip.
I decide to have another siesta before leaving for the venue, but I am way too wired. So I just relax a bit and get ready for the night. Before calling another ride, I return to the café from this morning and want to take some croquetas to go, but by now the kitchen is already closed again. Luckily, they have some croquetas left and heat them up in the microwave. At least some dinner to go. Outside I decide to not experiment again with the two cab companies and go straight to the third option, and guess who is picking me up? Right, Alvaro and the VW! I ask him (again, in a whole Spanish sentence!) if he was the only taxidriver in this town today. And he laughs very heartily and says, „looks like it!“ When he pulls up at Pabellón Príncipe Felipe, I tell him that we probably meet once more later – he nods and laughs again. On the way to the venue a guy with CDs in his hand asks me if I speak English. They are a Metal band from Estland and selling their new album, on kind of a „pay what you like“ basis to cover their costs to get back home. They are thrilled about me being from near Hannover, some of them instantly yell „SCORPIONS“ and yes, they totally win me over with this. I buy their two albums for my husband, just to find out at home that he already has three albums of this band and their earlier formations. Some paths you cross with people are just weird.
After I part ways with the Estonians, someone is greeting me. I say hello back and am confused – who knows me here? I look again and it turns out it’s the group from the monument earlier! We walk a bit together, they tell me they’re from Galicia and are thrilled that I know where it is. Well, that’s Bogomagic – you meet people, learn from which places they go to concerts and suddenly you know all kind of regions in this beautiful country. The queue is already crazy and I walk up to the front to see if I find the girls from last year or some of the Bogofans. I run into some of them – and learn that they were organizing the queue! But since I got here so late, there is no chance to squeeze me into the list without agitating people. I’m totally fine with it. People who camp outside the door deserve the spots front and center, plus I had seen the show in Barcelona already and was pretty sure he wouldn’t go into the audience. Our place last year, first row, but to the side, was just fine, I’d be happy to repeat it. I find the girls from last year. We talk a bit, but suddenly a woman next to them is asking me where I am from and I end up in a conversation with her and her friend. She’s from Mexico, but living in Europe and thrilled about my tattoo. She takes pictures of my arm and brings over other people to show them. I am not sure, but this might be the woman who was very rude last year when I was only looking for the correct entrance with no intention of cutting the queue. But well, times change and people do, too. They are asking me about my favorite song, but while I can answer that over a heartbeat regarding HdS, I am still thinking about my favorite Bunbury solo song while I am writing this. There are just too many and one for every mood. Canto gives me a lot of emotions, I love the power of Contar contigo, Nuestros mundos was the one that struck me like lightning when I fell into this rabbit hole after so many years, Salomé is definitely one I can listen to over and over again, or Alicia, or Actitud correcta, or En bandeja de plata … the new album wants you to sit down in a bar with a glass of heavy red vine and a thick cigar, even if you don’t drink or smoke or both, and there are so many live versions that turn the original song into something completely different – this list would never end. This man has created so many musical masterpieces; I simply can’t choose. There, I’ve said it: I have preferences, but I don’t have one single favorite Bunbury solo song (so far). Sue me. Or not.
The Mexicans seem to drink a lot of beer while waiting, but they are fun. Suddenly they start singing La Chispa Adecuada – and the Aleman chick next to them (who had only water, but is breathing the Spanish air which makes her very party peoply, you already know that) forgets the world around her and joins them. Standing downtown Zaragoza and singing one of the most famous and most beautiful Héroes songs from the top of my lungs – there are miracles happening in this city and you can’t convince me otherwise. Shortly after that the line starts moving; they open up a fourth line for people to get in. But the doors are still not open. I try to find my place in the queue and join the Galicians which whom I arrived. The weather is changing, there are dark clouds moving towards us from two different directions, there’s lightning and a very strange light. We hope to get in before it starts pouring and as if someone heard us, they open the doors. People start running as soon as they reach the ramp into the building, some cutting others, but I decide not to run. I will take whatever spot I can get. Turns out, there’s some space in the front on the left (where else …), pretty much as last year, maybe even closer to the center. I settle down next to a couple and a family with a kid. Some time later I ask the couple if they could save me the spot since I need to find the bathroom. It’s a horror trip, up the stairs which are very high, and no rail. The bathrooms just have an emergency light on and I just hope not having to pee again for the rest of the evening. The way downstairs is worse than up. I don’t understand why there is no accessible bathroom, I can’t be the only one around a few thousand people who has trouble with steep stairs in a stadium? My spot is still there, I thank my „neighbors“ and join the mother and kid on the floor. Once again, I am in so much pain, I am not really sure how to make it through the night.
When 21:00 draws nearer, we get up, the family asks me to switch places so their kid can stand closer to the barriers which is fine by me. I really love those conversations – someone is asking something, I tell them I don’t speak very much Spanish, but understand quite a bit, they say, they don’t speak English, but somehow we manage to understand the other just perfectly. And I can’t even say in which language this dialogue was done afterwards.
The show starts and in the front rows it’s much more magic than in a seat far away. But I’m happy anyway that I went to Barcelona because I already took some very cool pictures and videos and now I can just enjoy the concert. It’s incredible again – they haven’t been playing together for 20 years before this tour, but that’s the thing with professionals, you don’t notice it. They have an amazing chemistry and each one is fantastic on his own. But again, I don’t have such a strong connection with these songs, so I have an amazing time and god knows I love this man and his voice so much, but I feel like something is missing. Or it’s just the annoying people in the front who keep shoving and fighting over inches of space. Before the beginning there was even some kind of fight. A woman next to me whom I noticed outside in the front of the queue and think I even saw her in Barcelona and last year in Zaragoza got shoved by a lady who arrived late. After a few rounds of passive-aggressively pushing, the first women gave her a good smack with her hip which of course led to the other one complaining. But I have to tell you, I am completely siding with the first lady here, she must have been waiting in line for hours and ran to the front and then someone is arriving late, getting aggressive and then complaining? No way, you can’t do that. She even started crying which apparently made my „Spanish soul trapped in a chubby Aleman body“ appear because I couldn’t help it and gave her a encouraging pat on the shoulder. I am from northern Germany, I usually don’t touch or hug people, I prefer greeting my friends from a mile away. But anyhow, I felt so, so sorry for her. Good thing the security guy apparently also noticed that she wasn’t the aggressor in this case but just defending herself. The other woman gets on my nerve in the following hours, several times she’s stepping on my toes (I HAVE FIVE F*ING BLISTERS ON THAT FOOT, LADY!!!), keeps pushing and bullying. Also, there are people running back and forth from the middle to the side and back again. Some argue with the family because they always try to run through their group. Later, someone is bathing my leg in beer or lemonade, who knows.
What confuses me deeply is the fact that I recognize people from last year. Not Bogofans or faces from social media fan channels, no, there are people I literally saw last year at La Romareda. I don’t know if they also recognize me, I guess not. But speaking of recognition, there’s a weird moment in all this madness. I’ve been saying this since last year’s concert – after a Bunbury concert you have the feeling he made eye-contact with every single person in the audience during the show, no matter if there are 3000 or 30.000, everyone is silently greeted and appreciated which I think is a fantastic skill. While he’s on our side of the stage and taking a look at everyone, he’s looking in my direction and seems to be confused for the fraction of a second. I don’t know if anyone else noticed it. But I have the feeling like he has a thought like „didn’t I see you here last year in Zaragoza at exactly that spot?“ or maybe „hey, you with the mask, weren’t you also in Barcelona two days ago?“ – I just hope it’s not, „green hair and a mask – you’re the one with that intense e-mail!“ (I’ll spare you with further details.). Now I’m scared it’s the third option.
Anyway, the rest of the evening is magic. I love the fact that the master himself seems to be stepping in a time machine during his concerts – I already noticed this last year. He starts the show like one of these last century’s showmasters (if you know what I mean you know) and seems to turn younger by the minute. It has nothing to do with the clothes and changing them during the night, it’s the whole package, the movements, the gestures, the face, the smile. There was a headline some time ago, „concerts prolong your life“, and it just comes to mind now – like he’s absorbing his fans‘ energy, but giving it back a thousandfold to everyone. You feel different after these shows, I cannot describe it. It’s pure magic, you can’t explain the trick even if you think you know. Even the two fighting women make up and are at some point hugging and kissing on the cheeks. The great magician and his cabaret on the stage won’t let go anyone home with only so much as a hint of negative feelings. I already prepare for getting overwhelmed when they play Canto in the end, but surprise – it’s El viento a favor which is of course more suited for this town where they even gave the wind its own name. Another great song and since I didn’t expect it, I forget to cry. I am just feeling happy and content and that my mental battery is recharged to the fullest. It also outweighs the fact that this is already the last night of my trip and I have to say goodbye to beautiful Zaragoza in the morning.
But when the lights go on again, it’s not the end of the evening. My friends from Zaragoza find me and I leave with their group and we want to go for a drink. I have trouble with the large stairs, but this seems to be the only exit. Someone is making fun of me taking one step after the other, but I have trouble lifting my leg and I feel already dizzy from the height and the people and everything. So I ignore it and just focus on the climbing.
Outside we find a bar and it’s the perfect last night on the town. They also take me to my hotel and on the way we listen to La Torre Picasso. They even turn up the volume „to hear Pepe better!“ and I love everything about it. So on this day in the most amazing town of Zaragoza I did not only get to sing La Chispa Adecuada with strangers, but also to sing La Torre Picasso with friends. This is the most beautiful place in the world.
At the hotel I pack most of my things so I won’t have to do everything in the morning. And then I decide to enjoy one last evening on my balcony. Zaragoza is giving me a spectacular light show as a farewell gift. I can see sheet lightning in the darkblue sky over the illuminated basilica, it’s breathtaking.
The alarm clock goes off too early. I am tired as hell, but I need to catch a train to see my favorite place in the world. I am happy that I got the better ticket and am now able to take a later train, but it is still feeling like middle of the night.
I gather my stuff together, check out and go to the bakery where I had a coffee yesterday. I find a bus to the train station and am right on time to get in line for boarding. Like last year, I am amazed that they charge you 6 Euros for a little bottle of orange juice here and people are okay with that. And I am also amazed that the two main food groups in Spain seem to be dead animal and sugar. You can get sandwiches with all kinds of ham and meat and everything or croissants dipped in every kind of chocolate plus an additional sugar coating, but something as simple as a cheese sandwich? Just bread and cheese? No way. I have to find Spanish vegetarians and vegans and ask them how they do it.
The train is as I remembered it. Space without end, air condition, luxury seats, clean. If I tell people at home that I paid about 15 Euros for this, including changing to the later train without additional charge and that it is the highspeed train which is also on time, they’ll accuse me of lying straight to their faces. I offer the couple who just got in to change seats with them so they can sit next to each other and cuddle, while I sit in the single seat and we are all happy about it. Time flies by so fast that I nearly forget to get off the train in Zaragoza, but of course I don’t. It’s why I am here. On the platform I need a second to process. It’s already beautiful here.
I get on the bus because I am already a pro and own a „tarjeta bus“ as you know and decide to take a little shopping tour before I can check in at my hotel. What I didn’t expect was that I already have five blisters on my feet. I brought a pair of shoes for travel and one pair for the concerts so they can dry up between. But this plan just went to hell. I try to find another cheap pair, but everything here is outside my budget. Instead I get some blister patches and decide to switch to the concert sneakers as soon as I arrive at the hotel. Before that I do the planned round – the basilica (I have been there now like four or five times and there has always been a mass. Are they doing it 24/7?) and some of the stores my kids loved so much in July. Lunch are some croquetas at the place we went to eight weeks ago (was this only eight weeks ago???) and they are still delicious. The hotel lets me check in half an hour early and I find myself in the most luxurious place – it has a balcony from where I can see the whole town. This is something else than the hostal with the steep stairs and the irritating night cough. And still cheaper than the room in Barcelona … I decide to have a little siesta after I called home and then get ready for the night. The nap is great and I am already looking forward to the night, the bed is extraordinary comfortable.
In the evening we go to see a Héroes del Silencio tribute band called „Bendecida“. I don’t have dinner because I can’t keep up with the Spanish restaurant schedules. It’s either open for a short period around lunch and then again at 9 at night or it’s open until noon and then closed for the rest for the day. Or only at night. Or open all day, but most of the time you can only get drinks. I plan on croquetas after the concert and get something from the bakery to eat on the balcony before we meet.
My friend and her husband pick me up and we walk to the bar which is only a few metres away. It’s a cool place, like Hardrock Café style, but much more local and with more heart and soul to it. We find a corner with oldschool cinema seats in front of the stage. Left side of the stage, needless to say. I found out earlier that the guitarrist is a friend of one of our fellow Bogofans and he tells us to say hello. There are some people at the bar, some of them wearing band shirts, but I can’t really tell if they are musicians or fans or part of their crew. Except for one – it’s painfully obvious that this must be the singer. Quite a young chap, curly dark hear, cute face, astonishing resemblance to a young Bunbury. I can’t help but to smile. How is it possible that so many tribute bands seem to have a clone of him? They are definitely not old enough to be some kind of souvenir from the band’s wild days, if you get the hint. Maybe it’s just the good Spanish genes, I’m not sure.
I don’t know what to expect, I just glanced at their Insta, and since I already kind of bonded with the guys from the other tribute band who thought they had met me last year, I don’t know what the policy is here. Are you allowed to like more than one of them? Is this like the other polytheistic cult I am part of? We just love them all, no matter what? And if you have stronger feelings for one of them on one day and the next day for another one, it’s still fine because we’re just spreading our affection evenly? I am a bit confused. But not for long, because our drinks arrive. I finally get to taste Tinto de Verano and it’s just magic in a glass. I don’t ever want to leave this city again!
We finally find out which of the two guitarrists is the other Bogofan’s friend and it just happens to be the one who plays right in front of us. We have the chance to talk to him and he’s very nice. The place is packed and I decide to put on the mask again. Better safe than sorry, took me long enough to recover from last time and I still am not at 100%. Then the show is about to start and I think I notice that they kind of do some extra cheering for their lead guitarrist before they go on stage and wonder what it might be about (apparently he wasn’t the band’s regular guitarrist, so maybe he was nervous to jump in, but he did an incredible job!). Just a few minutes later it is clear that I stumbled into some kind of time machine. This is not 2025 Zaragoza and a semi-professional tribute band. This is 1995 Héroes del Silencio, you can’t convince me otherwise. I have to blink several times. It’s crazy, about an armlength away on the stage I can see the young Bunbury, even with the shiny pants from their Avalancha era. I can also hear them. Only if I look very closely, I think I can see that the other band members look different than the original, but with eyes closed or focused on the front man, the illusion is perfect. Now this is how it must have felt back then. It’s amazing.
For the rest of the night I am two people at once. My 14-year old me finally enjoying her favorite band live and my 44-year old me being proud having it made this far – thanks to exactly this music. And constantly aware that it is a f*ing privilege to have a family having my back on this and the possibility to afford such a trip. I don’t go to the movies or restaurants, I wear my clothes until they are broken, I live on a tight budget the whole year to experience moments like this. It might not be for everyone, but it is for me. This trip is recharging my mental battery more quickly than I would have hoped. Others sometimes accuse me of not being a people person, being anti-social or even a party pooper, but maybe there is a reason if I don’t feel comfortable around you, just think about it. All I can say that in Spain I apparently am a very peoply people person around the people who share my obsessions.
Speaking of obsessions, this concert is fabulous. Those with the band shirts seem to be part of the show, they do like a little crowdsurfing skit – the singer leans over and they tear on his body like the crowd must have done with the original back in the days. During Avalancha the crowdsurfing actually happens and the people are thrilled. While I recognise most of the movements and gesturing, I am not sure about a certain one and I think I have to blindfold the 14-year old me when I research this. It has something to do with him shoving his hand down his pants … I’m trying to close my eyes every time and remembering the mantra, „I am a honorable married woman and also about twice your age“ to keep me away from trouble with law and decency tonight, but this feeling might also have something to do with the Tinto de Verano which obviously also contributes to me being a party person and foremost unlocking my ability to speak and understand Spanish.
After the impeccable show, we try to find the guitarrist to maybe take a picture with him and the rest of the band, but he kind of disappeared. So I get on the stage and take a picture with the singer and I am not really sure if this is the kid with the cute face from before the show or the beast from the stage. They wear the same pants though. It’s like meeting Arde in July, cute and shy kids backstage, but the greatest rock stars once they hold their instruments. It’s just amazing.
It feels like I bought these concert tickets in another lifetime, since so much changed in the past 8 months. But they were there, the flight was already booked and non-refundable. Plus, I needed another Spain vacation me-time. So I went to Barcelona on Thursday to see Bunbury again.
After last year’s concert I knew I had to be there again when they announced another tour. And with the famous Huracan Ambulante, I just couldn’t resist. Then something not very good happened in my life at the beginning of the year and I needed to have some positive thing to look forward to – so I bought another ticket for Barcelona. Cheap seat, right under the roof, just to see the show. The partying was reserved for Zaragoza.
In Zurich I have to go on another plane. I hate that airport, it just has no end … The flights are packed and I think the seat did something to my back, I am in pain when I arrive. Barcelona is just too big for me, it’s hot, it’s loud, it’s crowded. I can’t find the cab I ordered, I run circles around the airport for half an hour (which they made me pay extra, because the driver had to wait for me). At least the driver gives me some free water, but we don’t talk much on the way. The hotel is very, very nice, my room is more than perfect for one night and I am happy that I chose to pay 20 Euros more than a 12 bed dormitory would have cost. Barcelona is also expensive like hell.
I get some drinks and food for the time in the queue, and a coffee, but also want have dinner before the concert. And since I have trouble finding some local restaurant which is open at this time, I opt for a well-known pizza chain. They used to have a restaurant next to the house where we lived a few years ago and when I tell my husband where I am we both have to laugh – that’s hell of a detour to get some pizza. But the food is nice, and well-fed I order another cab to take me to the venue. The driver is a bit more chatty than the first one and also has a better taste in music. He takes me as close as he can to the entry which I think was a very nice thing to do. I just didn’t know that there were several entrances and so I miss my friend from Zaragoza whom I wanted to meet here. But we text and decide to meet up later.
The venue is beautiful from the outside, but not at all accessible. The bathrooms are in the basement, like four flights of stairs down and up again. I can’t barely walk, I ask if there was an elevator. There is one, but it’s guarded. I have to argue with the guy if I was allowed to use it, but apparently he is one of these people who don’t believe you have a disability or sickness when they can’t see it. Luckily I seem to have quite an intimidating attitude when I have a full bladder, so he understands it’s either him helping me or spending the rest of the evening in wet shoes. (Remind me to some day tell you the story how I went to the cubicle next to famous German soccer player Birgit Prinz during the World Cup in Wolfsburg, and later finding out this was also the bathroom where they took the urine samples for doping tests …)
When it’s time to get to my seat, I learn that they upgraded me to a lower block, apparently it’s not completely sold out and they moved everyone down. It’s perfect, now it’s opposite to the middle of the stage, only quite far away. But I can see everything and enjoy the show. There are some veeeery enthusiastic fans surrounding me, the kind that knows every word to every song, but doesn’t bother to stand in line for hours or even days and fight with people over square centimetres in front of the stage. Also, the seats are cheaper than the floor, so I totally get it.
There are less people than I thought, but they celebrate a lot. I feel strange, I am not as emotional as I was last year, when I was standing in the front row, bawling my eyes out at Entre dos Tierras and some other songs. I missed all this solo career stuff when it happened, and have a complete different connection to these songs it seems. I like a lot of them, he is playing quite a mixture of everything he did and I have a very good time. Plus, Bunbury is always flawless (the sound however … I didn’t know feedback was still a thing these days.). Every movement is planned, every little gesture – he’s unbuttoning his jacket after the first songs and the crowd turns into something resembling the completely gone mad people during the finest days of the Beatles. He’s the greatest master of puppets and he knows. And the people know that he knows and they simply love it.
Just when the show is about to end, the magician in his cabaret show (I just love the setup of the stage and how they connected these heavy blood red theatrical curtains with a screen) is finally working his magic on me. They play Canto … el mismo dolor. It is one of the songs that helped me through the mentioned bad times. (The other one being La Torre Picasso, by the way …) I record the whole thing while two or three tears leave my eyes. But I wear a mask, so probably no one noticed.
After the show, I find my friend from Zaragoza (the one with the autograph) and her group and we try to find a place to get a drink. Barcelona however doesn’t seem to be a big party spot around Plaça d’Espanya and we have actually some trouble to find an open bar at about midnight after a bis concert. But in the end we are successful and can toast to a great weekend which has only just begun.
